Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(78)

Ethan wished he’d had a chance to give the Browning a try, but there was no way. It was one thing to rummage through the basement with barely a sound and quite another to slam off a shot in the middle of the night. And, it was a given, if Grandma Olivia found out he had a shotgun stashed under his bed she’d surely take it away. She’d make him return the gun to Seth Porter, along with a hangdog apology and a promise not to go pilfering the storage room ever again. Nope, trying the shotgun was not worth considering, he’d have to trust to luck, hope for the best and pray to God no Cobbs showed up.

Once Ethan Allen settled his mind, he closed his eyes and tried again to sleep. He turned to the wall, then to the doorway, then flipped over on his back, but he was still wide awake; actually, as awake as awake could be. He’d heard of people counting sheep in order to drift off to sleep, so he pictured a meadow, then he fixed his thoughts on a stretched out rail fence, but before the first of his sheep took a jump he remembered something else. Size. Both Cobbs were big men, shotguns were made for killing small animals. What good was a scattering of buckshot gonna do when a mountain of a man was coming at you? Not much, he feared.

Once he started dwelling on the size of the Cobbs, sleep was nigh on to impossible. He tried thinking back on the names and batting averages for every member of the Baltimore Orioles, then he moved on to the New York Yankees, who, now, he’d probably never get to see. After that, he conjured up an imaginary baseball game, which worked better than most anything else because he could almost hear Chuck Thompson screaming Brooks Robinson had rounded third and was looking like he’d score on an inside the park home run.

The first light of dawn was creasing the sky when Ethan fell asleep and even then, the only reason he did was because he’d set his mind to ease with a new plan—a plan to take his errand money and go buy a box of cartridges for the Winchester. Tomorrow morning, he’d told himself as he drifted off—tomorrow morning. Of course, he hadn’t counted on the fact that he’d be so exhausted he’d sleep through until almost noon.





Emma Cobb

A lifetime of sorrow is what comes of marrying a man with a smile that draws women like flies to a spill of syrup. Such a man comes wrapped in the love of himself—here I am, he says, isn’t that enough?

You might look at my husband and see a man who’s old, fat and mean-spirited. Well, he wasn’t always. Thirty years ago, he was handsome and knew how to charm. He was a man with money to spend and a successful business. Why, there was not a girl in town who didn’t itch to wear my shoes. The minute Scooter Cobb crooked his finger in my direction I went running to him.Little did I dream that for most of our years together, he would lie beside me with the scent of other women still fastened to his skin.

What a fool I have been, to stand silently all these years and watch so selfish a man destroy my family. He has already driven one son from the house and now he is determined to corrupt the other. This I cannot bear, not now, when there is no love left and barely a shred of civility between us.

I swear to you, with God as my witness, I will never allow my Sam to follow in his daddy’s footsteps—never!





The Shirt

Mahoney left the house claiming he needed to clear his head. He bypassed the car standing in his driveway and started to walk; he told himself he was headed to nowhere in particular and walked for almost two hours, but in the end, he found himself standing at Emma Cobb’s front door. When he lifted his arm to knock, it felt heavy as a lead weight. His heart felt even heavier.

“Jack,” Emma said with her broad smile, “come on in.” She swung the door back and he followed her without a word. “I’ve some fresh-baked raspberry cake,” she went on, “it’s the end of the season, but right now the berries have the most delicious flavor. Or, if you’d rather I’ve got—”

“Emma,” Jack interrupted, “Let’s sit down. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

She stopped and turned; her face suddenly white. “Is it Sam?” she asked. “He’s not hurt, is he? Tell me he hasn’t been shot, please…”

“Sam hasn’t been injured,” Jack said, tenderly circling his arm around her shoulders. “He’s not hurt, but he is in jail.”

“Sam?” she gasped, “My Sam, in jail?”

Jack nodded.

“But it’s a mistake, isn’t it?” she asked, nervously tugging at a handkerchief she’d pulled from her pocket. “…Sam being in jail? He’s a police officer, what could he possibly…”

“It’s a long story,” Jack replied. He guided Emma over to the sofa and when she sat down, he positioned himself alongside of her. Emma,” he said, taking her hand into his, “I believe Sam has gotten himself in trouble, by trying to protect his daddy.”

“Scooter?”

Jack nodded, and went on, “It has to do with Ethan Allen Doyle, the boy I brought over here to spend the night; do you remember him?” She dipped her head ever so slightly and continued to listen. “Well,” Jack said, “a few days ago, the boy accused Scooter of being the one who murdered his daddy.”

“Scooter? Why would he murder a man he barely knew?”

“The boy said his mama was involved with Scooter; he claims they were planning to run off to New York together. Emma, I realize this is a real painful thing to hear, but try to remember, it’s just an allegation. We don’t even know for sure if the kid’s telling the truth or making the whole story up.” Jack stopped speaking for a moment and waited, thinking she might have questions about her husband being linked to another woman. But, Emma didn’t say a word; she just sat there looking as empty as a dried-up well.