Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (2 page)

I owned one pair of jeans and a pair of overalls, but had been forbidden long ago from stepping outside the house in anything other than Sunday garb. Momma said I was the face of the business, and pedestrian attire was bad for business.

I was a superficial caricature of a southern stereotype, but our customers loved it. They even hired me for parties. I’d stand behind the dessert table and serve cake with a bright smile and shaking hands. Nobody ever noticed my hands.

“Okay, I’ll send her back.” Flo nodded again, her gaze cutting to mine as she hung up the phone and flicked her wrist toward the door to the main offices. “The sheriff is ready for you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She didn’t respond, instead turning her attention back to Hannah. “Did you see that news crew up at the Winston house?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did,” Hannah responded on a whisper easy to overhear. “It’s on account of Jethro Winston getting married to that movie star.”

Jethro Winston and Sienna Diaz, the Hollywood actress, had met at the beginning of the summer and subsequently become engaged two months ago. He was the oldest of the seven Winston siblings. After Jethro came Billy, next was Cletus, Ashley (the only girl), the twins—Beau and Duane—then Roscoe the youngest. Roscoe was my age and, if I’d attended school, we would have been in the same grade.

“Jethro already marry that lady?”

“No, not yet.” Hannah leaned farther over the desk and lowered her voice. “But the rumor is she’s already pregnant.”

My heart twisted with envy.

It’s not that I was jealous of Ms. Diaz. Not at all. I’d had no designs on Jethro Winston. Though he’d seemed nice enough to me, my father always said Jethro was the wrong sort and that I should avoid him.

And by
wrong sort
, my father meant Jethro wasn’t ever going to be wealthy. A man was nothing to my father if he wasn’t rich or had the potential for notoriety.

The truth was, I was jealous of Sienna
and
Jethro. If the rumors were true, despite meeting just five months ago, they were starting a family. They were having a baby, a little perfect person to love and take care of and cuddle and hold.

More than anything, I wanted that. I wanted a family of my own.

I crossed to the big door, my heels clicking on the linoleum, leaving the two women to their conversation while I fought to subdue my envy. I turned the knob and stepped through to the back office, scanning the space for Sheriff James. It was a busy place today, much busier than typical, and much bigger than what people might expect from a small town station.

The state of Tennessee mandates that each county elect a sheriff to serve for four years. Sheriffs are public servants with full police authority in a particular county. But if the cities have their own police departments, Tennessee sheriffs (and their deputies) usually keep their patrol limited to unincorporated areas of their counties.

Not so with Sheriff James. He and his deputies patrolled the entire county, were responsible for three incorporated cities within the boundaries of the county, plus had shared jurisdiction with the federal warden for the national park on the Tennessee side. He had a big job and a large team.

The administrative staff were huddled around one desk, whispering anxiously. Usually, the majority of the officers were out on the road, on patrol. Not today. I spotted at least five deputies milling about impatiently. The workplace held an unmistakable air of waiting.

“Jennifer Sylvester, always a pleasure.”

I turned from the peppering of uniforms and found the sheriff walking toward me, a friendly and fatherly grin on his features.

“Sheriff James. I brought you zucchini bread.” I held it out between us, pleased when his grin grew into a beaming smile.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, though he took the foil-wrapped offering readily enough. “Your momma said something about me recording a statement about your cakes?”

“Yes, sir. That’s right. She’d like me to record you talking about the cupcakes we sent over, if you don’t mind.”

“I see. Are you going to be in it, too?”

I shook my head, even though I knew my momma wanted me to be in the video. But I’d come up with an alternate plan. “No, sir. I’ll record an introduction later, but we’ll get your testimonial now. I won’t be in the shot with you.”

He nodded, bending closer as I spoke as though trying to hear me better. “Ah, okay. Sounds fine. But let’s go back to my office. It’ll be quieter.”

“Okay—”

At that moment, the door behind me burst open followed by a loud
whoop.
I turned just as Jackson James appeared, putting his hands on my hips and squeezing past.

“Excuse me, Jenn,” the deputy said with a wink, stepping between his father and me.

Jackson James was the only son of Sheriff James and his wife, Janet. They also had a daughter named Jessica who, until just recently, had been a mathematics teacher at the high school where my father was the principal.

See? Small town. Everybody knows everybody.

Jackson waved a large manila envelope excitedly. “We got it, sir. I have it right here.”

“That was fast.” The sheriff’s eyes lit and he traded his son the zucchini bread for the envelope, hastily opening it as the other members of the sheriff’s office crowded close. I took a step back and to the side, not wanting to be in the way.

“Judge Payton rushed it through.”

“We just got the evidence this morning.”

“He said the photographs painted a clear picture and he was honored to be the one to sign the warrant.” Jackson flicked the envelope with his fingers and swapped smiles with the other deputies. “So I guess the only question remaining is, who gets to arrest the bastard?”

The sheriff sighed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was reading. “Call for backup from Merryville before you set out.”

“I think the six of us can handle one scrawny biker,” Jackson scoffed, but kept his tone respectful. “Plus Dale and Evans are already en route.”

Dale and Evans were two other deputies, not currently at the station. At least, not as far as I could see. I took a moment to glance around at those present.

My heart stopped. Skipped. Stuttered.

I took a reflexive step backward. A twisting, uncomfortable heat crawled up my chest and bottomed out my stomach. I spotted a bearded man separate from the crowd, tinkering with a machine. It was a beard I’d recognize anywhere.

Cletus Winston, the third Winston brother.

As usual, he didn’t see me.

When folks in town dismissed me, it didn’t bother me much. Very few were actually petty, and most of the petty ones were girls my age that I’d grown up with, or their mothers. They’d affix fake smiles in front of my face and rolled their eyes at my back. I was used to this.

Cletus was different. He didn’t see me
at all
. It was as though I didn’t register on his radar, not even a blip, and this had been true my entire life. I was invisible to him.

But that was fine by me.

Cletus Winston was the sneakiest, most manipulative, most powerful, and—as far as I was concerned—the most dangerous man in East Tennessee. Problem was, virtually no else seemed to realize it. Everyone in town thought he was odd, but mostly harmless.

Meanwhile, he blackmailed them into doing what he wanted, all the while tricking people into thinking it was their idea.

I knew this because I was a people watcher
.

Don’t get me wrong, watching Cletus was no chore. Was he handsome? Yes, he most certainly was. Like all the Winston boys, he was a looker.

Maybe, to most people, he wasn’t nearly as favored as his other brothers with their tidy beards, lean builds, and classic good looks. At first glance you might overlook him because, with Cletus, it was necessary to probe beyond the surface to see the potential underneath.

He was shorter and stockier than his siblings, his frame thicker and more muscular. His beard was bushy and long, long enough to braid, like one of those Vikings. The man evidently didn’t subscribe to beard maintenance other than brushing it, oiling it, and letting it grow.

His streaked chestnut hair was long, curly in some spots, wavy in others. It stuck out in all directions, several strands bleached blond by the sun. The locks covered his ears but didn’t quite meet the back of his neck due to its constant state of skewedness. I thought, on anyone else, it would look adorable.

Before I’d realized how cold-blooded he was, I’d itched to tame his wild mane and trim his beard—just a little. Just enough to reveal the handsome man under all that chaos. I’d often wondered how much of his disorderly exterior was purposeful, meant to give him an innocuous, unkempt appearance. Obviously his misdirection worked because folks were fooled by it.

However, his eyes should have given him away. His eyes should have made it obvious to anyone
really looking
that he wasn’t odd. He was maniacally clever. They were green or hazel—I wasn’t sure which since he never met my gaze and hardly ever stood still for any period of time when I was close by—and were rimmed by ridiculously thick lashes. His lashes were so very pretty.

I think his pretty lashes confused people and made them overlook how his eyes were lit with an unnatural intelligence. He didn’t miss much. And he was able to mask his expression and thoughts, misdirect others, because of how he used his eyes.

Regardless, maniacal intelligence and scruffy misdirection notwithstanding, Cletus Winston was remarkably attractive.

Yep. Definitely a looker.

But I didn’t care much about that. I wasn’t interested in lookers. The King brothers were lookers, too. Just because a person was a looker doesn’t mean they’re not a psychopath.

At present, Cletus’s features were arranged in affable indifference, but his eyes told a different story. They were sharp and attentive. It was clear to me he was splitting his attention between the gathering of officers and the machine in front of him, eavesdropping though appearing oblivious.

While he watched them, I watched him. As my grandmother always used to say, “Best to keep an eye on the viper in a barn full of mice.”

Especially if you’re a mouse.

“Well, I guess y’all better get going,” the sheriff said with reluctance, worry in his voice.

The officers started to move, the air ripe with anticipation as they traded excited glances. Deputy Chris Williams turned, stepping right in front of me then reeling back a bit. He gave me a big smile.

“Oh. Hello, Jenn. Didn’t see you there."

I nodded at his greeting, my attention moving to Cletus. The third Winston wasn’t looking at Chris and me,
thank goodness.

Curious, I leaned forward and whispered, “Where y’all going?”

He puffed out his chest proudly. “Oh, no place special. Just off to arrest
Razor
, aka president of the Iron Wraiths MC.”

My lips parted in surprise and I straightened. “Oh my.”

If Cletus Winston was the most dangerous man in East Tennessee, Razor Blade St. Claire was the second. The main difference being Cletus kept clandestine control over his power, while Razor was brazen about most everything.

As the president of the Iron Wraiths motorcycle club, he’d skirted the law for years, always just out of reach. It was generally known and accepted that he was a murderer. And a drug trafficker. And a perpetuator of plenty other sordid crimes, each more unpleasant than the last.

Chris Williams’s grin widened as he walked past. “That’s right. The big dog.”

The big dog . . .
well, that was one way to put it.

A few of the deputies tipped their heads at me as they passed, but most appeared to be lost to the excitement of bringing in the head of the Iron Wraiths. Once they cleared, Sheriff James stepped forward and gave me a flat, distracted smile. He was still holding the envelope. His worry was completely understandable.

“Do you want to do this some other time?” I suggested, not wanting to impose when his mind was on more important matters.

“No, no. It’s fine. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.” He turned to Marion Davis, one of the administrative staff milling about, and waved her over. “Marion, will you take this to George in evidence for me?”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled brightly, regarding the unsealed envelope with reverence.

The sheriff hesitated for a beat, then passed it over to her waiting hands.

“Come this way.” He grabbed the foil-wrapped zucchini bread from where his son had left it and motioned me forward. I followed, casting furtive glances at Cletus Winston. Cletus’s attention was on the sheriff. And then it was on the mail machine. And then it was on Marion Davis. And then it was on the sheriff again.

He was up to something and I didn’t want to know what.

Once we were in the sheriff’s office, I pushed thoughts of Clandestine Cletus from my mind and prepped the sheriff for the video. I set up the shot, wanting to place his face on one side of the frame so the viewer would see the station beyond.