Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (17 page)

“Is she around?”

“Nah.” He stuck a pinch of tobacco against his gum. “She don’t come home much.”

“Where’s she staying?”

“Been ever’where. New York, Paris, Rio de Janeiro—you name it. Big career, y’know. Modelin’. Made more in a day than I take home in a month. Now, I guess, she’s givin’ that up and becomin’ a photographer up in Alaska, I think. Her mother knows. I can’t keep up with that girl.”

“You must be proud of her.”

He shook his head and spat a thin stream of tobacco onto the ground. “Proud? Humph. Nope. She’s got no business gallivantin’ around the world dressed in underwear, all painted up like a cheap hussy. She shoulda stayed here, settled down and had me a couple of grandkids—that’s what she shoulda done.” He eyed Rachelle and a sadness seemed to radiate from him. “But she couldn’t wait to shake the dust of this town off her feet. After all that stink with the Fitzpatrick kid, and the trouble with the Powell boy, there wasn’t nothin’ good enough in Gold Creek for her. Nosiree. She became Missy Big Britches, that’s what she done.” He didn’t say it, but the stare he sent her accused Rachelle of making the same mistake. “That’s the trouble with kids today. They don’t stick around and take care of their kin. Well, it’s not the way we raised our girls, and sooner or later, Carlie’ll come to her senses and come home.”

It sounded like an old man’s final hope—a hope he didn’t dare believe himself.

“Do you have an address where I can reach her?”

He stared at her sullenly. “Yer not fixin’ to drag her into all this again, are ya? I heard yer writin’ about the town—what’s become of it—and I know that the Moore kid’s back, bringin’ a whole passel of trouble with him. I don’t want Carlie mixed up with any of that business. It’s no good, I tell ya. All it’ll cause is a lotta hurt feelin’s and Thomas and June Fitzpatrick have had more’n their share already.”

“I’d just like to talk to Carlie—catch up with her,” Rachelle replied.

He rubbed his chin and ruffled his hair before placing his hard hat back on his head. “Call the house. Thelma’s got it somewhere.” He spat another long stream of brown juice, then donned his gloves and headed back to the yard.

Rachelle was left standing alone, feeling a fool and wondering if this series of articles she’d felt so compelled to write were worth the trouble. Everyone in Gold Creek seemed to resent her—including Jackson himself.

“The price you pay,” she told herself as she settled behind the wheel of her little car and with one final glance over her shoulder at Fitzpatrick Logging, drove back through the open gates and headed to Gold Creek.

* * *

J
ACKSON AVOIDED
R
ACHELLE
for three days. He told himself he didn’t want her, that getting involved with her would only complicate his life, that she obviously hated him and that he should, if he had a decent cell in his body, leave her alone.

But he couldn’t. Not now, probably not for the next few weeks. He walked to the window of his motel room and stared outside. Twilight was descending over the town, purple shadows lengthening along the sidewalks and streets. The first few stars glimmered seductively and the moon began to rise.

Jackson curled his fists around the windowsill and rested his head against the cool glass, hoping the cold would seep through his skin and into his blood. He had no right to her. He’d given up all claims he might have had long ago. And yet…and yet the hardness in his jeans made him groan. He was over thirty, for God’s sake, and his blood was on fire. Why was he as anxious and hot as a nineteen-year-old?

He gritted his teeth, trying to force back the desire that thundered through his brain. Just the thought of her caused an unwilling reaction in his loins.

As long as he knew she was in the same town, he realized with fatalistic acceptance, he would be unable and unwilling to let go of her.

He’d tried. God, how he’d tried. After she’d thrown him out of her house, he’d wanted to turn his car around, pound on her door and when she opened it, grab her and kiss the shock and anger from her face. But he’d managed to talk himself out of going to visit her again and by sheer matter of will he refused to follow her all over Gold Creek. The times he’d run across her had jarred him to his very bones, especially when she’d half accused him of Roy’s murder!

And for years he’d thought she was the one person in town who had believed in him. “Damn it all to hell,” he whispered, because he knew now that she doubted him, as well. He should forget her. Leave her alone. Even find another woman to keep his mind off her. But that was impossible.

For the life of him, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. No way. No how.

Though he didn’t believe in the rubbish of physical chemistry, there was something about her that kept him awake nights and brought sweat onto his skin.

Lust.
Nothing more. He wanted her. There was a uniqueness in her spirit, a defiance that he felt compelled to tame. Like a randy stallion with a herd of mares, only one of which was unwilling, he wanted that single female he couldn’t have.

“Damn you,” he muttered, clenching his eyes shut and losing his resolve. The fact that she was so near was dangerous and like a magnet near iron, he couldn’t stop himself from giving into her incredible pull.

Before he realized what he was doing, he snagged his jacket off the back of the couch and grabbed his keys from the small table. He’d just go talk to her again, that was all. Find out what she’d learned. But he’d keep his hands off her. That much was certain.

Maybe she could help him. Though he’d at first disdained her aid, he now convinced himself he needed her insight. So far, he’d come up with dead ends on the Fitzpatrick murder. He’d spent a day in the library, going over old newspaper articles about Roy’s death. He’d even called in a few markers, asking for information from a man who worked in the governor’s office and had once been Jackson’s client. The man had promised to get hold of whatever information he could from the local D.A.’s office.

And he’d hired a private investigator in San Francisco, a man named Timms who was supposed to be, according to Jackson’s partner, the most thorough detective in California. So far, the man had come up with nothing.

Jackson was out the door and down the steps before he could think twice. He drove to Rachelle’s house and found it dark. When he knocked on the door, no footsteps hurried to greet him and the only sound he heard was the tinkle of wind chimes and the growl of her damned cat that was perched on the windowsill.

Well, what did you expect? That she would be waiting for you?
Angry with himself, he refused to acknowledge any sense of disappointment, but the thought did cross his mind that maybe the guy on the phone had shown up and he’d taken Rachelle out for a night of dining, dancing and romance.
You had your chance, Moore, and you blew it. Years ago. The woman’s entitled to her own life, her own boyfriend, her own lover. You’ve got no claims to her. None!

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and decided to wait.

* * *

T
HE DAY HAD BEEN A DISASTER.
Once again, Rachelle had been stood up by Thomas Fitzpatrick and this time the receptionist hadn’t been friendly. She hadn’t gotten much information from the library and later, at the sheriff’s office, when she’d wanted to interview some of the cops who’d been on the force for twelve years, she’d been asked politely to leave.

She was tired, hungry, and had no idea what the subject matter of her next column would be. She’d have to mail something by five o’clock tomorrow, or she’d miss her deadline for the first time in all her years as a reporter.

She turned the corner to her mother’s cottage and she nearly slammed on the brakes. She recognized Jackson’s rental car parked near her drive. Her hands grew clammy over the wheel. “You can handle this,” she told herself as she remembered their last harsh conversation. “You can.”

She pulled into the drive. Jackson was out of his car before she’d locked hers. Though she was still angry with his high-handed attitude, a small part of her heart warmed at the sight of him. “I’m warning you,” she said, finally twisting the key, “I’ve had a bad day.”

“Me, too,” he admitted. “Seems as if the citizens of Gold Creek don’t appreciate my presence.”

“Well, at least we have one thing in common,” she replied as they walked across the lawn to the front porch. The door stuck, and Rachelle, turning the lock, finally resorted to kicking the door open. “No one’s gone out of his or her way to make me feel welcome, either.”

He hesitated on the threshold, and Rachelle debated whether or not she should let him inside. There was something dangerous about having Jackson around, and the closer he got to her, the more menacing he seemed.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Seems like I just threw you out a couple of days ago.”

“I’ll be good,” he said, swallowing a smile and Rachelle couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped from her lips.

“You? Good? And destroy your image? I don’t think so.”

“Give me a chance,” he said softly, and Rachelle’s heart twisted.

“I gave you chances, Jackson. Lots of them. You threw them back in my face.”

He moved swiftly, gripping her arm. “I did what I had to, damn it.” All kindness had been erased from his features. His lips pulled back to display his teeth and he seemed bitter and hard. “I did what I thought was best for both of us.”

“You could have explained it to me.”

“I will. If you’ll listen.”

“I mean, you could have explained it to me then. I was only seventeen, Jackson.
Seventeen!
I trusted you.” He paled a little, but his grasp wasn’t less punishing. “I gave you everything, everything—my trust, my heart, my body and my reputation. And what did you do?”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t back away. “You didn’t trust me completely, now did you? You thought, because I left the house for a while, that I might have killed Roy.”

“I never thought you killed anyone,” she replied. “But I wondered why you didn’t tell me about it. Or why you never mentioned to the police that you’d taken a post-midnight stroll.”

“Probably for the same reasons you didn’t,” he snarled back.

She lifted her chin a fraction. “You walked out on me, Jackson. Walked out and never looked back. It didn’t matter to you that I had nearly an entire year left of high school, that I had to suffer for your guilt—or your innocence.”

His skin was stretched taut over his face and his eyes glittered at the injustice of her words.

“It’s hard for me to even talk to you,” she admitted.

“You hate me that much?”

She hesitated a second, paused on the brink of the abyss she was certain would swallow her if she admitted to having any feelings for him. All the scars of the past were slowly being opened, hurting again, aching. Her head began to throb, and she swallowed with difficulty.

“Oh, God, Rachelle. Don’t hate me,” he pleaded, his voice a low rasp. Desperation shadowed his eyes.

She thought her heart might break all over again. She had to remind herself that Jackson was the one who had broken it in the first place. Finally, after all those years, the pieces were healing. With a little love and tenderness, all the pain would soon disappear into vague memories that she would lock away forever.

“Talk to me,” he commanded in a voice as dry as a winter wind.

“I—I can’t.”

His fingers gripped her flesh. “What is it?”

Her throat ached with unshed tears, but she forced the words over her tongue, and once they started, she couldn’t call them back. “You asked me not to hate you,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, I have no choice. I hate you for what you put me through, I hate you for ruining my parents’ trust in me and I hate you for making me love you, because I did, you know. I thought I
loved
you.” She laughed and felt the sting of improbable tears at her confession. “I felt like Joan of Arc, or some other martyred saint, because I knew, deep in my heart, that you’d come back, that you’d explain that you cared for me, that you’d prove you were innocent and everything would be all right.” She blinked hard at her own foolishness. “I was stupid enough to believe that you’d come back for me, Jackson, and I clung, like the silly fool I was, to that hope for years.” She yanked her arm away from his rough hand and shook her head. “So excuse me if I don’t invite you in, okay? I’m just not up for any more heartache.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said simply.

“But you did. Every day that you didn’t call. Every time I walked to the mailbox hoping for a letter and finding nothing. Every night when I waited, patiently, praying that you’d come back. You hurt me. Maybe that’s not fair, maybe you could tell me that I was a fool and that I only hurt myself, and you may be right. But it’s easier, after all this time, to just blame you.”

His tortured gaze searched hers. “I never figured you for taking the easy way out.”

That hurt. Like the sting of a wasp. “Like you did?”

“I had no options,” he replied, but she noticed the doubts surfacing in his eyes, the regret and pain.

“Everyone I’ve seen in this town has given me only one piece of advice,” she said, “and for once, I think I’ll take it.”

“Let me guess—”

“They say that I should stay away from you, that you’ve always been trouble and always will be trouble.”

“They’re right.”

“Then you won’t mind if I say good-night.” She didn’t wait for a response, just reached for the door and started to swing it shut, but he pressed his palm against the peeled-paint surface and flung the door open with such pure physical force that the knob banged loudly against the wall. Java scurried down from the windowsill and, hissing, dashed into the night.

“I do mind,” Jackson told her. “I mind a lot.”

“Jackson, just get out of here—oh! What’re you doing?”

He grabbed her so quickly, she couldn’t escape. His arms were around her and constricting her body. She tried to push away, but he was so much stronger. Then his head lowered and he pressed his lips to hers.