by Lisa Jackson
Rachelle was thunderstruck. She couldn’t speak, she could hardly believe the confession that was coming from Laura’s mouth.
“I…I ran back into the house and Carlie helped me clean up. Rachelle went to get my purse and that’s when Roy attacked her—”
“You don’t have to say anything more,” Brian said. “We can get an attorney—”
She laughed bitterly through her tears. “Why? To save your hide?” The animosity between them throbbed through the room. “Later, after Roy’s fight with Jackson, I left Carlie to find him, to try to patch things up. He was near the lake, and could barely stand up. He’d had too much to drink and the fight had taken a lot out of him. We argued. He called me horrible names,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper, her gaze focused on the floor, “then we began to fight. We struggled and I pushed him down. He hit his head on something under the water. I tried to pull him up, but he sank and he wouldn’t breathe and I got scared and…and…” She took a deep breath. “…And that’s when I ran into Brian. He checked Roy out, knew he was dead and promised that he’d take care of me, that I wouldn’t go to jail for killing him, that everything would be all right.”
Thomas was stunned. His skin was still a pasty gray. Jackson didn’t move. His anger seemed to have ebbed but his disgust at Laura’s story showed on his features. Laura appeared resigned, but Brian was still trying to set things right.
“It was an accident. Laura didn’t mean to—”
“You should have come forward—told the police,” Thomas said, his eyes filled with bitter disappointment.
“But Laura could’ve been charged with murder—”
“And instead, Jackson was,” Thomas said, his voice a low whisper.
“Dad, you’ve got to understand, Laura and I—we did what we thought was best.”
“What you thought was best,” Laura clarified. “I wanted to go to the police. But you wouldn’t let me and you held it over my head for twelve years. And why? Because you wanted to use me just like Roy did! It gave you a thrill that I’d been Roy’s lover—”
“That’s enough!” Brian raged.
But Laura wasn’t through. “Problem was, I got pregnant and you couldn’t just throw me away for someone else. You were stuck with me!” More tears streamed from her eyes, streaking her mascara as she sobbed, turned and walked out the door to stand on the veranda. Brian walked out and put his arm around her slim shoulders, but she shrugged his hand off and stepped away from him.
Thomas, a beaten man, fell onto the soft cushions of the couch. “I didn’t know,” he said, his eyes red, his prideful jaw still set as he stared up at his bastard child. “I didn’t know who killed Roy.”
“But you knew I was your son.”
“Yes.” He looked out the window, unseeing. “I loved your mother, you know.”
“But you married someone else. Someone with money. Someone with social status. Someone respectable.”
“I won’t apologize for my mistakes,” he said, “but I took care of your mother in my own way, and my own family suffered.”
“And I was almost hanged for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“I wouldn’t have let it come to that,” Thomas returned.
“Your lawyers, your money, your friends in the sheriff’s department—”
“Couldn’t build a case against you, could they? Nor did they rig the evidence and railroad you into a conviction, did they?” His clear eyes met his son’s. “If you believe nothing else, believe that I would never have let you go to jail for a crime you didn’t commit, but you have to remember, I, along with the rest of the town, didn’t know the facts.”
“And your wife wanted me wiped out of her perfect life.”
“Yes.”
“And what does she say about this?”
Thomas shook his head. “She accused me of not trying hard enough to send you to prison.”
“Well, now she has her answers. Her truth. And she has to live with it.”
“So do I,” Thomas said. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve already had a trust deed drawn up that assures you of your part of the estate. It’s in my office—”
With cold assessing eyes, Jackson scanned the man who had sired him.
“I know it doesn’t make up for everything,” Thomas said, his chin inching upward. “But you are my son—”
“Never! And as for your damned trust deed, you can take it with you to hell!” Jackson’s neck burned scarlet. “And just for the record, don’t ever, ever call me ‘son’ again and I won’t bother calling you ‘dad.’”
Jackson stormed out of the house and Rachelle followed him. His motorcycle was parked next to her car and he kicked at the bike’s tire. “Well, now we know the truth, don’t we?” he muttered, glaring up at the dark sky and letting the rain wash his face.
“You’re absolved of Roy’s murder.”
“And ended up being Thomas’s son. I wonder which is worse.”
“Come on,” she said. “Take me for a ride, Jackson.”
He hesitated.
“Please.” She touched his shoulder, felt the wet leather. “I love you.”
He smiled then, but the smile was filled with pain. “You mean you’d climb on a bike with a Fitzpatrick?”
“I don’t care if your name is Benedict Arnold, Counselor. You’re not a Fitzpatrick.”
“Amen.” He didn’t laugh, but some of the lines of strain left his features. He climbed on the bike and she settled into the seat behind him.
With a powerful kick, he started the bike. He ripped through the gears, leaving the Fitzpatricks and all their selfish deeds behind.
Rachelle held him tight. The wind screamed past, catching in her hair, bringing tears to her eyes. She buried her face in his jacket, smelling the leather and racing wind and knowing she belonged beside him forever.
* * *
THAT NIGHT, JACKSON MADE love to her with a desperation that nearly tore her heart in two.
“I love you,” he told her well into the night, holding her close and claiming her for his own. “Don’t ever leave me.”
“Never,” she promised, snuggling close to him.
Before dawn, he woke her up with soft kisses and told her to put on her clothes. In the cool morning, they drove to Whitefire Lake where they made love again.
As the sun climbed above the hills, streaking the sky with golden light, the mists of the lake rose like ghosts from the past. Rachelle smiled as she remembered the old Native American tale. Jackson dipped his hand into the water and held it to Rachelle’s lips. “Forever,” he whispered, kissing her cheek as the water drizzled through his fingers.
“Forever,” she agreed with a smile as she pledged her life, and her love, to the bad boy of Gold Creek.
* * * * *
He’s Just a Cowboy
Contents
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PROLOGUE
Gold Creek, California
The Present
PROLOGUE
SOME MEN YOU NEVER forget.
Heather Leonetti parked her Mercedes beneath a deep green canopy of pine branches. Her head pounded and her heart beat an icy tempo. Through the windshield, she stared at the calm waters of Whitefire Lake and wondered how she would find the strength to undo the string of lies that had started six years before—lies she hadn’t meant to utter, lies that weren’t supposed to hurt anyone, lies that had her so bound, she didn’t know if she could untangle them.
Her mother had said it all, years ago. “The trouble with lyin
’ is, once you start, you never can seem to stop. Your father, for example. Just one lie after another, one Jezebel of a woman after the next… .”
Heather closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. Soon her mother would know the truth, as would everyone in Gold Creek. As would Turner.
She had to tell him first. He deserved to know. Too late, she realized. He should have known six years before. She should have found a way to reach him, to let him know that he had become a father. Instead, after a few feeble attempts to reach him, she’d taken the easy way out. And now, Adam, her son, her reason for living, was paying. It just wasn’t fair.
Tears collected behind her eyes and clogged her throat, but she wouldn’t give in to the pain. Not yet. Not while there was hope. She squeezed her eyes shut for a minute and sent up a prayer for strength. Somehow she had to undo all the wrongs; somehow she had to give her boy a chance to live a normal life. And Turner might be the answer. Although the horrid disease was now in remission and the doctors seemed to think that Adam had as good a chance as any for beating leukemia, Heather was scared to death…as she had been for nearly two years. It was time to face Turner.
Gritting her teeth, she forced her eyes open and knew she had to face Turner again.
Some men you never forget. Turner Brooks was that kind of man—all bristle and gruffness with brown hair streaked with gold, a rugged profile too cynical for his years and eyes that saw far too much. A cowboy. A rodeo rider. A penniless no-good, as her mother would say.
Heather hadn’t seen him in six years. She couldn’t imagine his reaction when she showed up on his doorstep, trying to undo those cloying lies, and begging for his help. She knew that he hadn’t returned her calls, that her letter had gone unanswered. He obviously didn’t want her to be a part of his life. But he couldn’t reject his son.
Or could he?
Heather’s heart cracked, because she didn’t really know the man who was her son’s father, had barely known him six years before.
“Help me,” she whispered, refusing to break down. Pocketing her keys, she climbed out of the car and left the door ajar. A quiet bell reminded her that she should close and lock the Mercedes, but she didn’t care. Pine needles muted her footsteps as she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket and walked the short distance to the shore.
From the boughs overhead a hidden squirrel scolded brashly and a flock of quail rose in a thunder of feathers into the thin fog. The lake was quiet; there were only a few fishing boats in the misty dawn. Heather was reminded of the old legend about the waters of Whitefire Lake as she crouched down among the sun-bleached stones of the bank and ran her fingers through the cool depths. Her left hand mocked her. Naked, stripped of her diamonds when she and Dennis were divorced nearly two years before, it waved ghostlike beneath the clear surface.
She sent up a silent prayer for her son, then skimmed a handful of the lake water and drizzled it against her lips. She’d been greedy in the past and she’d taken too much from life—too much for granted. Her expensive car, her house in San Francisco, her studio and all her clothes and jewels meant nothing to her now. All that mattered was Adam.
She didn’t really believe in the legend of the lake, but she was willing to try anything, anything, to save her son’s life.
Even if it meant confronting Turner.
She shivered, feeling a tiny icicle of dread against her spine. As she stared into the clear waters of Whitefire Lake, she remembered the summer six years ago so clearly, it was almost as if she were still eighteen and working at the Lazy K Ranch… .
BOOK ONE
Lazy K Ranch, California
Six Years Earlier
CHAPTER ONE
THE AIR WAS THICK AND SULTRY, filled with horseflies and bees that buzzed around Heather’s head as she shook the old rag rug. Dinner was long over and the guests of the Lazy K had broken into groups. Some had retired early, others were learning to play the guitar in the main hall and still others were involved in games of checkers or poker in the dining room. Laughter and music spilled from the windows, floating on a thin evening breeze.
Every bone in Heather’s body ached from the twelve-hour days she worked in the kitchen. Her feet were swollen and she smelled as bad as some of the ranch hands. Deep down, she knew she wasn’t cut out for ranch life, and yet here she was, kitchen maid at an obscure dude ranch in the foothills of the Siskiyou Mountains. Well, things could be worse. She could be back in Gold Creek.
Shuddering at the thought of the sleepy little town where she’d been born and raised, she stared at the distant hills. There were too many painful memories in Gold Creek for her to ever want to stay there. Even though some families like the Fitzpatricks and Monroes seemed to spawn generation after generation of citizens of Gold Creek, Heather wasn’t planning on putting her roots down in a town so small…so full of gossip.
Her family, the Tremonts, had been the subject of the Gold Creek gossip mill for years. First there had been her father and his affair with a younger woman. Eventually her parents had divorced, her mother bitter and unhappy to this day, her father involved with his new young wife. And then there had been the incident involving Heather’s sister, Rachelle, and the boy she’d been involved with—
Jackson Moore.
Heather remembered all too vividly some of her mother’s “friends” and how they’d whispered just loud enough so that Heather could catch a few of the key words. “…Never believe…all their hopes on that one, you know…no scholarship now…so hard on Ellen. Poor woman. First that no-good skirt-chasing husband and now this…and the younger one doesn’t have a lick of sense…if there’s a God in heaven that one will marry the Leonetti boy and give her mother some peace!”
Heather’s cheeks had burned as she’d heard the wagging tongues in the checkout line at the Safeway store, in the dining area of the Buckeye Restaurant and Lounge, and even on the porch of the church after services. There was no way she was going to spend the rest of her life trapped in Gold Creek!
But ranch life? It wasn’t a lot better. Though she planned on staying only for the summer. Only until she had enough money to enroll in art school. Only so that she didn’t turn out to be one of those weak women who marry a man for his money, to get what she wanted. Only so she didn’t feel compelled to marry Dennis Leonetti, son of one of the wealthiest bankers in Northern California.
Heather tossed the old rag rug over the top rail of the fence and stared across the vast acres of the Lazy K. Horses gathered in the shade of one lone pine tree, their tails switching at bothersome flies, their coats dull from rolling in the dusty corral. Sorrels, bays, chestnuts and one single white gelding huddled together, picking at a few dry blades of grass or stomping clouds of dust.
A hazy sun hovered over the ridge of mountains to the west, and she spied a lone rider upon the ridge—one of the ranch hands, no doubt. Squinting and shading her eyes with her hand, she tried to figure out which of the hands had chosen a solitary ride along Devil’s Ridge. He was tall and wide-shouldered, though his broad chest angled to a slim waist. Against the blaze of a Western sunset, he sat comfortably in the saddle—as if he’d been born to ride a horse. She could see only his silhouette, and try as she would, she couldn’t recognize him. Her mind clicked off the cowboys she’d met, but none of them seemed as natural in the saddle as this man.
A breath of wind tugged at her hair and caused goose bumps to rise on her skin as the stranger twisted in the saddle and seemed to look straight down at her. But that was impossible. He was much too far away. Nonetheless, her heart leapt to her throat and she couldn’t help wondering who he was.
He kicked his mount and disappeared into the forest, leaving Heather with the impression that he hadn’t even existed, that he was just a figment of her healthy and romantic imagination.
Her palms had begun to sweat. Nervously she wiped her hands down the front of her apron.
“Heather—you about ready to help clean this kitchen?” Mazie’s crowlike
voice cawed through the open window of the ranch house.
Heather jumped. Guiltily she yanked the rug off the fence and shook the blasted thing frantically, as if the fabric were infested with snakes. Dust swirled upward and caught in her throat. She coughed and sputtered and beat the life out of the rug.
“You hear me, girl?”
“In a minute… .” Heather called over her shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”
“Well, mind that you git in here afore midnight, y’hear?” Mazie insisted, mumbling something about city girls more interested in cowboys than in hard work. She slammed the window shut so hard the panes rattled.
Swiping at her sweaty forehead, Heather hauled the dusty rug back to the ranch house. She hurried up the steps, through the long back porch and into the kitchen where other girls were scouring pots and pans, washing down the floor and scrubbing the counters with disinfectant. No dirt dared linger in Mazie Fenn’s kitchen!
“’Bout time you got back here. Why don’t you take care of the leftovers—take those pails onto the back porch for Seth’s pigs,” Mazie suggested. Seth Lassiter was one of the cowboys who worked at the Lazy K during the day, but lived on his own place where he raised pigs and his own small herd of cattle.
Jill, a redheaded waitress who was one of Heather’s roommates, smothered a smile as she glanced at the two heaping buckets of slop. Carrying out the heavy pails was one of the worst jobs on the ranch, and it tickled her that Heather seemed to always inherit the job. Jill bit her lip to keep from giggling, then threw her shoulders into her own work of mopping the yellowed linoleum until it gleamed.
Heather gathered the heavy buckets of milk, corn bread, potatoes and anything else that was edible but for one reason or the other hadn’t been consumed by the guests and staff of the ranch. Without spilling a drop, she hoisted both pails to the porch and told herself not to linger, though she couldn’t help staring at the ridge where she’d seen the lone rider.