Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (11 page)

By all accounts he was a rich man. Not a millionaire, but close enough. Pretty damn good for a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, he thought reflectively, a kid once considered the bad boy of a sleepy little Northern California town. Not that it mattered much. He tossed back his drink and felt the fiery warmth of the liquor mingle with the frigid ice as the liquid splashed against the back of his throat. A nice little zing. A zing he was beginning to enjoy too much.

He flipped through the mail. Bills, invoices and yet another big win in a clearing-house drawing where he would become an instant millionaire—all he had to do was take a chance. He snorted. He’d been taking chances all his life. The afternoon edition of the
New York Daily
was folded neatly under the stack of crisp envelopes and, as he had every Saturday since her syndicated column had appeared, he opened the paper to Section D, and there, under the small byline of Rachelle Tremont, was her article—if you could call it that. Her weekly exposés were little more than expressions of her own opinions about life in general—or her latest pet peeve of the week, usually on the side of someone she thought had been wronged. Not exactly hard-core journalism. Not exactly his cup of tea. Why he tortured himself by reading her column and reminding himself of her week after week, he didn’t bother to analyze; if he did he’d probably end up on the couch of an expensive shrink. But each Friday evening, when the Saturday edition was left near his door, he poured himself a drink and allowed himself the pleasure and pain of tripping down memory lane. “Idiot,” he muttered, and his voice bounced off the walls of his empty apartment.

He leaned a hip against the table and read the headline. Back to Gold Creek. Distractedly he read the editor’s note that followed, indicating that the column would be written from good ol’ Gold Creek, California, for the next ten weeks while Rachelle returned home to examine the small town where she’d grown up and compare that small-minded little village now to what it had been when she’d lived there.

Jackson sucked in a disbelieving breath. His gut jerked hard against his diaphragm. Was that woman out of her mind? She was always too inquisitive for her own good—too trusting to have much common sense, but he’d given her credit for more brains than this!

A small trickle of sweat collected at the base of his skull as he thought of Rachelle as he’d found her that night in the gazebo, drenched from the rain, her long hair wet and soaked against bare skin where her blouse had been torn. A metallic taste crawled up the back of his throat as he remembered how frightened she’d been, how desperate she’d felt in his arms and how he, himself, had unwittingly used her.

So now she was going back? To all that pain? He’d never thought her a fool—well, maybe once before. But this—this journey back in time was a fool’s mission—a mission he’d inadvertently caused all those years ago.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a minute and refused to dwell on all the pain that he’d created, how he’d single-handedly nearly destroyed her.

So what was this—some sort of catharsis? For her? Or for him?

The demons of his past had never been laid to rest; he’d known that, and he’d accepted it. But whenever they’d risen their grisly heads, he’d managed to tamp them back into a dark, cobwebby corner of his mind and lock them securely away. And time, thankfully, had been his ally.

But no longer. If Rachelle tried to turn back the clock and expose that hellhole of a town for what it really was, if she attempted to tear open the seams of the shroud that had hidden the town’s darkest secrets, the questions surrounding Roy Fitzpatrick’s death would surface again. Jackson’s name would surely come up and the real murderer—whoever the hell he was—might reappear.

What a mess!

He tossed his paper on the table and swore as he began pacing in front of the open window. His muscles tense, his mind working with the precision that had gained him a reputation at the courthouse, for he’d been known to become obsessed with his cases, living them day and night, he considered his options.

Until now, he’d managed to keep his past to himself. However, things had changed. It looked as if, through Rachelle’s column in the
Daily
and a dozen other newspapers across the country, that the whole world would find out how he’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks and left his hometown all but accused of murder.

“Great,” he muttered sarcastically, glancing at the half-full bottle of Scotch on the bar. He plowed both sets of fingers through his sweaty hair and his thoughts took another turn. Not that it really mattered. His life was open. He’d been raised by a poor mother, gotten into trouble in high school and had shipped out with the navy. Eventually he’d gone back to Gold Creek, made a little money and had been accused of murder.

That’s when he’d left. And along with the government’s help and the money he earned working nights as a security guard, he’d made it through college and law school. He’d been hell-bent to prove to that damned town that he wasn’t just their whipping boy, that he had what it took to become successful. And every time a news camera captured him on film, he hoped all the souls in Gold Creek who had condemned him, could see that the bad boy had made good. Damned good.

He’d never wanted to go back. Until now. Because of Rachelle. Damn her for sticking her pretty neck out.

If he returned to Gold Creek, he’d have some explaining to do. Rachelle, no doubt, hated him.

Not that he blamed her. She had every reason to be bitter. From her point of view he’d used her, then left her to fight the battles—his battles—alone. He snorted in self-derision.

Yanking on his tie and loosening the top button of his shirt, he thought about the town where he’d been sired.

Gold Creek. A small town filled with small minds. No wonder he ended up here, where a person could be as anonymous as he wanted, one man in seven million.

He scanned the article one last time and noted that she’d written it while she was still in San Francisco. The column explained why she felt it necessary to return to that godforsaken hamlet.

She seemed to think that she had to tell the whole nation about her past, which, given the circumstances, was cruelly knotted to his in a noose of lies and sex and death. He smiled grimly at the ironic twist of fate, because by purging herself, she would be dragging him back and, perhaps, putting herself in danger.

Only he wouldn’t let her get away with it. Whether she knew it or not, Rachelle and her series were like a siren call to a place he wanted to forget.

He burned inside, thinking that she was manipulating him, forcing him to take a roller-coaster ride back in time.

Tossing back his drink, he knew what he had to do. It was something he should have done long ago. Now it was time to return to Gold Creek, to straighten out a past that had twisted his life for so many years, a past that had threatened his life, his career and his relationship with women; a past that had given him cause to become one of the toughest defense lawyers in the nation, his reputation tarnished or shining brightly depending upon which side of the courtroom a person favored.

He poured another drink, which he figured he owed himself, then checked the top drawer of his nightstand. His .38 was right where he’d left it, untouched, for six years. He picked up the gun, his fingers resting against the smooth handle. The steel was cold even in the heat of the bedroom.

Seeing his reflection in the mirror over the bureau, he cringed. His face had taken on the expression of a man obsessed by a single purpose.

Bad boy. Son of the town whore. From the wrong side of the tracks. Bastard. Murdering son-of-a-bitch.

The taunts and ridicules of the citizens of Gold Creek ricocheted through his mind, and his hands were suddenly slick with sweat.

He dropped the gun and slammed the drawer shut. Twelve years was a long time. Whoever had set him up for Roy Fitzpatrick’s murder was probably confident that his secret was safe. And even if the culprit were dangerous, bringing a handgun along wouldn’t help. He couldn’t walk back into town packing a gun. The .38 would stay, but Jackson would return to Gold Creek.

And when he did step onto California soil again, come hell or high water, he was going to find out what had happened on the night that had changed the course of his life forever.

Rachelle Tremont and her series be damned. She had no business putting herself into any kind of danger.

He picked up the telephone on the nightstand and dialed the number of his travel agent, the first move toward returning to California.

And to Rachelle: the last person he’d seen as he’d shouldered his few belongings and hitchhiked out of Gold Creek twelve years ago, and the first person he intended to lay eyes upon when he returned.

CHAPTER SIX

R
ACHELLE’S FIRST DAY IN
Gold Creek wasn’t all that productive. She’d spent hours unpacking and settling into the cottage where she’d grown up, the cottage her mother and Heather still owned. At present no one was renting the little bungalow, so Rachelle and Java moved in, cleaned the place and fought back memories that seemed to hang like cobwebs in the corners.

It was night before she donned her jacket and drove into town. Her first stop was the high school. She parked in front of the building and ignored the race of her heart.

Red brick and mortar, washed with exterior lights, Tyler High rose two stories against a star-spangled backdrop. The sharp outline of a crescent moon seemed to float on a few gray wisps of clouds that had collected in the sky.

Memories, old and painful, crept into her mind and she wondered again about the wisdom of returning to a town where she’d been born, raised and humiliated.

Steady,
she told herself, and plunged her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. Muted music and laughter, seeping through the open doors of the Buckeye Restaurant and Lounge, rode upon an early summer breeze, diminishing the chorus of crickets and the soft hoot of an owl hidden high in the branches of the ancient old sequoias that guarded the entrance of the school.

She remembered the taunts of the other kids—the clique of girls who would giggle as she passed and the boys who would lift their brows in invitation. Her senior year had crawled by and when it was over, she’d worked the summer at a newspaper in Coleville and started college the following September. She’d refused to think about Jackson, for, after eight months of thinking he would return for her, she’d finally accepted the cold, hard fact that he didn’t care for her.

Harold Little, her mother’s second husband and a man she could hardly stomach, had lent her money to get through school. After four years at Berkeley, long hours working on a small, local paper and few dates, she’d graduated. With her journalism degree and her work references, she’d found a job at one small paper, and another, finally landing a job at the
Herald.
Her column had been well received and finally she felt as if she’d made it.

But not as big as had Jackson. Even now, standing in front of the school, she remembered the first time she’d seen him on television. His face was barely a flash on the screen as the camera panned for his famous client, a famous soap-opera actress whose real life paralleled the story line on her daytime drama.

Rachelle had dropped the coffee cup she’d been carrying from her kitchen to the den. The television set, usually on, was muted, but she couldn’t forget Jackson’s strong features, his flashing dark eyes, his rakish, confident smile, the expensive cut of his suit.

She’d heard that he’d become a lawyer and it hadn’t taken him long to move to New York and earn a reputation. But seeing his face on the television screen had stunned her, and in a mixture of awe and disgust, she’d watched the screen and mopped the coffee from the floor. From that point on, she’d kept up with his career and wondered at his chosen path.

He’d never contacted her in twelve years. He probably didn’t even remember her name, she thought now, alone in the dark. And yet she’d promised her editor she’d try to interview him by calling him in New York. What a joke!

* * *

G
OLD
C
REEK HADN’T
changed much.

Jackson drove his rental car through the night-darkened streets. Yes, the homes sprawled closer to the eastern hills than they had twelve years before and a new strip mall had been added to the north end of town. A recently built tritheater boasted the names of several second-run movies and, as expected, a lot of the real estate and businesses were tagged by the name Fitzpatrick.

“Some things never change,” he said, thinking aloud as he passed yet another home offered for sale by Fitzpatrick Realty.

Fitzpatricks had
always
run the town. The first Fitzpatrick had discovered gold here and his descendants, too, had made a profit from the natural resources the hills offered and from the strong backs of other able bodies in town. From the early 1900s, when Fitzpatrick Logging had opened up wide stands of fir and pine in the foothills surrounding Gold Creek until now, Fitzpatrick Logging had been a primary employer of Gold Creek. Millions of board feet of lumber had translated into hundreds of thousands of dollars for the first timber baron in the county’s history, and George Fitzpatrick had become a millionaire. His wealth had been passed on from generation to generation, spreading like some unstoppable disease until the majority of townspeople worked for Thomas Fitzpatrick, grandson of George and father of Roy, the boy Jackson had been accused of murdering twelve years before.

Fitzpatrick Logging. Fitzpatrick Realty. Fitzpatrick Hardware. Fitzpatrick Development. Fitzpatrick Building Supplies. Everything in the town seemed to be a shrine to the influence and wealth of the Fitzpatrick family.

Jackson’s hands tightened over the wheel of the Buick as he cruised past a local pizza parlor, thankfully named Lanza’s. As far as Jackson knew, Thomas Fitzpatrick and his ancestors didn’t have any Italian blood running through their veins.