by Lisa Jackson
“Our son,” he corrected quickly, and her throat tightened.
“Our son.”
“Which brings us back to square one. What’re we going to do about our son?”
“I guess that depends upon how he responds,” she said, the darkness in her soul growing at the thought of Adam’s illness. Turner’s bone marrow had to match, it just had to. If not…oh, Lord, she couldn’t think of the possibilities. Aching inside, she finished her drink in one swallow. “Until we know that he’s well, I can’t make any plans.”
“I won’t just walk out, Heather.” Turner left his empty glass on the hearth and strode to the window. Outside, the summer wind stirred the leaves in the trees and a few pedestrians walked briskly up the hilly streets. Cars moved slowly. Streetlamps pooled warm light on the sidewalk and cars parked along the curbs.
“And I can’t move to Gold Creek.”
“You’ll have to let him visit me.”
“He will—”
“Every other week.”
“No way.” Her head snapped up. “He can’t be uprooted half the time just so you can play father! He’ll be in school and—”
“I don’t play, Heather.”
“But he’ll need the security of a home and—”
“He’s my kid, damn it.”
“A kid you didn’t want!” The words tumbled out of their own accord, and she saw him wince, as if he’d been stung by the bite of a whip.
His face flexed and he sucked in his breath. With fingers of steel he grabbed her arms and lifted her off the seat with such force she gasped.
“A kid I didn’t know about.”
“Let go of me, Turner. It’s easy for you. Just turn your back and walk away. You’ve done it before!”
“I’ve been trying to let go of you for years, Heather.” His voice was as rough as scarred leather, his eyes as hot as a branding iron, and when his lips found hers, there was a force behind them as primeval as the range he rode.
She didn’t want to kiss him, didn’t expect to find his arms wrapped around her with a passion that sang from his body to hers. She told herself that she wouldn’t kiss him, would fight him tooth and nail, but as she pushed against his shoulders, her body yielded, as if it had a mind of its own. Memories, like a warm western wind, blew through her mind, and the taste of Turner, as fresh as yesterday, triggered hotter thoughts of that long-ago summer.
She tried to protest, but couldn’t, and the smell and feel of him drove out all thoughts of denial. For she knew they would make love. Again. As if destiny were charting its own preordained course, she felt her knees give way, her mouth yield, her sigh of contentment as his tongue teased her lips open.
This can’t be happening, she thought wildly, yet her arms, rather than shove him away, wound enticingly around his neck, and her face lifted for more of his sweet caress. Her skin quivered where he touched her, and as he lowered both their bodies to the floor, she clung to him.
She wanted to blame the alcohol, or the desperate emotions that had ravaged her since she’d learned of Adam’s illness and had known that Turner would try to take the boy from her. She wanted to accuse fate for tricking her into wanting Turner again, and yet, deep inside, she knew that the seeds of love she’d buried so long ago had never died, were planted shallowly enough to sprout again.
She closed her mind to the doubts that crowded in her brain and let herself go, kissing this man who smelled of rawhide and soap and tasted of bourbon. As he stripped her of her blouse, her fingers unfastened the buttons of his shirt and pushed the fabric over muscles as hard and lean as a Nevada winter.
His lips trailed across her skin, leaving a path prairie-fire hot and twice as deadly. She touched his abdomen and chest as he kissed her bare flesh. His fingers were callused and rough against her breasts as they traced the edge of her bra and quickly unfastened the clasp.
Unbound, nipples erect, her breasts spilled free and he kissed each mound with hungry lips that gave as much pleasure as they took. His arms surrounded her, his hands splayed upon the small of her back as he drew first one pink-tipped nipple into his mouth, then the other. She squirmed against him, her own hands tracing the line of corded muscles and a chest that was covered with downy brown hair that had turned dark and thick over the past six years.
One of his hands dipped beneath the band of her slacks and cupped her rump, pulling her hard against him. She felt his own desire against her abdomen and the bandage on his hip binding the wound where he’d given a part of himself for his child. As he gazed into her eyes, searching as if for the portal of her soul, she knew there was no turning back. He kissed her again, hard and long, and flung off their remaining clothes and there, on the thick handwoven carpet, with the crackle of flames and the hum of slow San Francisco traffic, Turner Brooks once again claimed the lady he’d never been able to forget.
CHAPTER TEN
HEATHER FELT LIKE A CAGED CAT. All morning she glanced at the clock and paced from the living room to the kitchen and back again. Turner, too, was tense. His jaw was tight, his lips thinned. Today they would find out about the tests.
“It’s gonna be all right,” he told her, but she saw the doubts in his eyes.
“What if you don’t match? What then?” she whispered, her voice cracking.
Turner’s eyes darkened. He folded her into his arms and his breath whispered across her hair. “Let’s not borrow trouble. Not just yet.”
They were still embracing, still holding each other, when the front door unlatched and Rachelle, hauling her briefcase, dashed up the stairs. “Hey, I’m here. Sorry I’m late—the crosstown traffic was murder—” She looked up at the last step, and her eyes landed on Turner, who by this time had released Heather, but looked guilty as sin.
Heather sent up a silent prayer as she felt heat climb steadily up the back of her neck. Rachelle wasn’t known for her tact or her ability to hold her tongue. Outspoken since she’d been a kid, she wasn’t one to mince words, and the look she gave Turner in his faded jeans, worn suede jacket, cream-colored rough-spun shirt and Stetson was harsh enough to send a rattlesnake scurrying back under a rock.
Heather started introductions. “This is—”
“Turner Brooks,” Rachelle guessed, her eyes flashing. “Adam’s father. The cowboy.”
Turner’s jaw tightened just a fraction.
“Turner, my sister, Rachelle. She’s going to watch Adam while we’re at the hospital.”
Immediately Rachelle’s expression changed to concern and she crossed her fingers. “I’m praying that this will work.”
“So am I.”
“Mom’s been lighting candles all week.”
“She’s not even Catholic—” Never had Heather heard of candlelighting in the Methodist church they’d attended in Gold Creek.
“I know, but some of her friends are and she figured it wouldn’t hurt.” Rachelle glanced around. “Where’s Adam?”
“Napping—”
“Auntie Rachelle!” Adam squealed from the upper landing. Legs pounding, he flew down the stairs, arms outstretched so that Rachelle could scoop him up and fling him high in the air before catching him again and holding him close.
“Howdy, kiddo,” she said, kissing his mussed hair. “How about a date with your favorite aunt? We could go to McDonald’s and the video arcade and then get ice cream—”
“All the culture of the city,” Turner drawled.
Rachelle cast him a superior glance. “Who needs culture? We’re just gonna have fun, aren’t we, sport?”
“Can we go to the toy store?”
“You bet. I’m gonna spoil you rotten today.”
Turner’s look darkened, but Heather touched his arm. “Don’t blame the city. You could do everything Rachelle’s talking about right in good old Gold Creek.”
At the mention of their hometown, Rachelle’s expression turned sober. “Gold Creek? What’s this?”
Heather couldn’t help herself. “Turner thinks Adam an
d I should move back.”
“Heather, no!” Protectively, Rachelle clutched her nephew closer to her breast. “Not after…well, now that you know, with Dennis not being Adam’s…and…” Her gaze flew to Turner. “Oh, Lord! The gossips in Gold Creek would have a field day!”
“So what?” Turner glanced at his watch, then tipped the brim of his hat slightly. “Nice meeting you,” he said with more than a trace of sarcasm.
“My pleasure.” Rachelle mimicked him without flinching. Then, as if deciding she’d been a little too harsh, she blew a strand of auburn hair from her eyes and balanced Adam on her hip. “Look, Turner, whatever’s happened between you two—” she motioned toward Heather “—it’s really none of my business. I’m just glad you’re here and I want to thank you for helping Heather and Adam.”
“No need for thanks.”
“Yes, there is.” Her intelligent hazel eyes held his for a second. Biting her lip, she shot out a hand and glanced at her sister. “Please, I didn’t mean to come on so strong and I know…well, that this mess isn’t all your fault.”
Heather watched as Turner’s big fingers surrounded her sister’s tiny hand. “Thanks.”
“And would you…I’m getting married in a few weeks. Jackson and I would love it if you came.”
Heather held her breath. This might be too much of a commitment for Turner. Just because he was going to help Adam didn’t mean he wanted to be entangled with Heather any further—at least not publicly. Their lovemaking was another matter—it had nothing to do with their future.
“The wedding will be held in Gold Creek, up at Whitefire Lake,” Rachelle said. “And we’re inviting some old friends…” She glanced back at her sister. “Even Carlie’s coming. From Alaska. She wrote me that she’s moving back to Gold Creek. Can you believe that?”
Carlie had been Rachelle’s best friend in high school, the one person in Gold Creek who had believed in Rachelle during the horrid period in Rachelle’s life when Jackson had been accused of murder. After high school, Carlie, with her striking black hair and blue-green eyes, had sought her fame and fortune modeling in New York. But something had happened, something no one in Carlie’s family would discuss, and the last Heather had heard was that Carlie was in Alaska, working on the other side of the lens as a photographer.
“I’ll be glad to see her again,” Heather said, still waiting for Turner’s response.
“So will I.” Rachelle looked directly at Turner. “Please…we’d love to have you.”
Turner rubbed the back of his neck. “All depends, I guess, on what we find out today.” He looked at Heather and cocked his head to the stairs leading to the garage. “We’d better git.”
Heather’s stomach twisted. Her eyes locked with Rachelle’s for just an instant and the fear they both felt congealed in their intermingled gaze. Turner placed an arm over Heather’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he advised, though his own expression was anxious.
Heather swallowed a lump in her throat, kissed Adam’s cheek and with Turner’s arm still securely around her, started for the stairs leading down to the garage. She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer—for the thousandth time that day.
* * *
THOMAS FITZPATRICK WAS A fastidious man who took care of himself. His body was honed by exercise—tennis, golf and regular workouts at a health club. He prided himself on his patrician good looks, his thick head of hair and his practiced smile. Therefore, he wasn’t impressed with the private investigator Brian had hired.
Mr. Robert “Bobby” Sands was seated in one of the living room chairs, his dusty boots propped on one of June’s white ottomans, his thick fingers webbed over a belly that was paunchy for a man not yet forty. His hair was greasy black and pulled into a ponytail and an earring winked from his right ear.
“…That’s right,” he was saying, as if he felt right at home. Thomas poured them each a drink. “Turner’s clean. A few barroom brawls when he was younger, but mainly those were caused by his old man. No major scrapes with the law. Kept his nose clean on the rodeo circuit—no booze or drugs or doped-up livestock.”
Thomas, disgusted, glanced in the mirrored bar. At least June wasn’t here to see their visitor. She’d decided to take Toni, their daughter, and spend some time in San Francisco with Thomas’s sister, Sylvia Monroe. Hopefully Sylvia could talk some sense into her. When she came back, they’d discuss their marriage or their divorce.
He’d never really loved June, but, damn it, this house seemed cold without her. A few years ago, the house was teeming with life and now, without the kids and his wife… Quickly he snapped to attention and pulled himself together. He would not, would not show any signs of weakness to this scum bag of an investigator!
In the reflection he noticed Sands pick up a lighter from the glass-topped table, eye the gold piece, flick the flint and watch the flame snap up. Quickly he set the lighter back. For a second Thomas was sure the man was going to pocket it.
“You’re telling me Turner Brooks has no secrets.” He crossed the room and handed Sands a drink. His skin crawled as he noticed the man’s chipped and dirty fingernails.
“Nope. I’m saying he looks clean. But he’s had his problems and they all started surfacing just recently. He’s started spending a lot of time with a woman… .” Sands’s reptilian eyes slitted a fraction, as if he was enjoying stretching out this moment.
“What woman?”
“Heather Leonetti.” Sands took a swallow from his bourbon and smiled as the liquor hit the back of his throat. “You know who I mean—Heather Tremont Leonetti, the girl who married that rich banker six years ago.”
Tremont. The name sent a jolt through him. Jackson’s fiancée was a Tremont. She had a younger sister…a pretty girl who had married well, above her station… .
“It seems as if Turner and Mrs. Leonetti knew each other a few years ago. Before she was married. Met up on a ranch owned by Turner’s uncle, Zeke Kilkenny. Now, Kilkenny won’t say much, won’t even return my calls, and his housekeeper, Mazie, usually a gossip, wouldn’t breathe a word about what went on between Brooks and Heather Tremont, who, by the way, was in an on-again, off-again engagement with Leonetti, but I did some digging. Came up with a few names. One of the ranch hands who used to work for Kilkenny, Billy Adams—he said Heather and this cowboy were damned thick, and another girl who worked up there during the summers—” He set down his drink, reached into the front pocket of his jacket—a shiny pinstripe—and pulled out a small notepad. Licking his fingers, he flipped through the pages. “Here it is. Yost. Sheryl Yost. Seems she had a thing for our boy Turner, as well. Anyway, she was more than happy to tell me anything I wanted to know. According to her, Brooks and the Tremont girl had an affair, kind of a summer fling. Eventually he rode off into the sunset and left her—this seems to have been his M.O. at the time—and she ended up marrying Leonetti.”
Thomas, who had been interested, wasn’t impressed. “Lots of people have one last fling before they get married.”
The fat man’s lip curled outward and he moved his head from side to side. “Maybe. The thing of it is Mrs. Leonetti had a baby. Not eight months later. And the kid don’t look all that Italian, if you get my drift.”
Thomas held his glass halfway to his lips. “Brooks’s?”
“Again, your guess is as good as mine,” Sands replied in his oily voice. “But I found out that Dennis Leonetti had some tests done a few years back and he can’t father children. His sperm count is near zero.” Sands picked up his drink and finished it in one long swallow, then snapped open his ratty leather briefcase and fumbled through some papers. “Now, all of a sudden, Heather Leonetti, who’s managed to ditch Leonetti and strip him of some of his money—she’s shown up on Brooks’s doorstep, at the very ranch you want to buy, and he practically does back flips. He’s in San Francisco now—has a friend of his, Fred McDonald, run the ranch while he’s gone.” Finding his report, he slid it across the glass expanse of the tabletop.
<
br /> Thomas picked up the typewritten pages. “In San Francisco…to meet the child?” he asked, reaching into his pocket for his reading glasses.
Sands leaned closer. He grinned in pleasure. “He’s there for tests. Been to a hospital. The staff is pretty mum, but my guess is it has something to do with the kid as the boy’s got leukemia. Heather’s kept it a secret, but she and Leonetti split up after the kid was diagnosed. My guess is Leonetti found out he wasn’t the boy’s dad and gave Heather the old heave-ho.”
Thomas set his unfinished drink on the table. He didn’t like this. Not when children, sick children, were involved. “The boy?”
“Is in remission, from what I get out of it. I don’t know why she told Turner about the kid now, but she did…or at least it looks that way. Maybe she wants to take up with him again now that Leonetti’s out of the picture. Again, your guess is as good as mine.”
Thomas’s voice was scratchy. Much as he wanted the Badlands Ranch, and the oil he suspected was pooled beneath the dried-out fields, a child complicated things. He’d always been a sucker for his own children, even Jackson, though he’d made too many mistakes where his firstborn, his bastard, had been concerned. He’d tried to atone, but Jackson hadn’t heard of it. He sipped his drink, didn’t taste the expensive blend. Hell, a kid. Brooks had a kid. A sick kid. This complicated things.
“You want me to keep digging?”
Thomas’s head snapped up and he felt beads of sweat on his brow. “Yes. Please. Let’s see if there’s anything else.” He folded the report neatly and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his jacket.
Sands grinned and plopped an ice cube into his broad mouth. “You’re the boss.”
* * *