Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (56 page)

“Or both.” Heather tried to join in the fun. She wasn’t going to ruin Rachelle’s big day. She wasn’t! And yet she had trouble thinking of anything other than Turner.

“Okay, so I’ve bared my soul,” her sister said, eyes narrowing on Heather. “Now out with it. Something’s bothering you.”

“Nothing—really.”

“Adam’s okay?”

Heather managed a smile. “Adam’s great! Now he thinks he’s a cowboy.”

“Because of Turner.” Rachelle fiddled with the fasteners at her back. “Something’s not right. Can you get that—?” She held her hair and veil out of the way.

“Here. No problem.” Quickly Carlie took charge, hooking the fastener at Rachelle’s nape into place. “These are always a pain,” she said.

“You know about wedding dresses? Come on, Carlie. Were you married?”

For a second Carlie blanched but she recovered. “While I was modeling, I did a lot of bridal stuff.”

“I’ll just be glad when this is over.” Rachelle let her hair fall down her back again. She sent her sister a sidelong glance. “So tell me about Turner.”

“I don’t know if he’ll show up,” Heather hedged.

“Don’t tell me you broke up.” The dismay on Rachelle’s face cut Heather to the bone. Carlie, who’d caught up with the Tremont girls’ lives in the past three days knew most of the story.

“Don’t worry about Turner. We just had a little argument,” Heather lied, and hated the fact that, once again, because of Turner Brooks, she was stretching the truth. Her mother, bless her soul, had been right: one lie did beget another. She shrugged. “Really, that’s all.”

“It had better be,” Rachelle said, her lips tightening a bit.

With a sharp rap, the door flew open and Ellen stormed inside. “I can’t believe it! What was he thinking! That father of yours brought—”

“I know, Mom, I invited her,” Rachelle admitted, wincing a little at the hurt in her mother’s eyes. “She’s his wife, whether you like it or not.”

For a second, Heather thought their mother might break down and cry, but Ellen, made of stronger stuff, squared her shoulders. Her hair was freshly done and she was wearing a gold suit. “You look great, Mom,” Heather told her, and kissed her cheek.

“Thanks, honey.” Ellen’s eyes glistened with pride as she looked at her two daughters.

“Places, everyone,” the minister’s wife called through the partially opened door.

Impulsively Rachelle hugged her younger sister. “You and Turner will work things out, I just know it.” The sound of music drifted into the little room, and Rachelle took a deep breath. “I guess this is it.”

“Good luck!” Heather said. She squeezed Rachelle’s hand.

They emerged from the small room near the back of the crowded little chapel. Near the altar, backdropped by long white candles, Jackson Moore fidgeted in his black tuxedo as he waited for his bride. His hair was shiny and black, his eyes anxious, and if he saw Thomas Fitzpatrick sitting in the fifth row, he didn’t show any sign of emotion other than love for the woman who planned to spend the rest of her life with him.

Heather’s throat was in knots. Taking the arm of Boothe Reece, Jackson’s partner in his New York law firm, she began her hesitation step to the music. Soon Rachelle would be starting her new life with Jackson, and Heather would have to begin again, as well—a life without Turner, a life with a new baby, a life of sharing her children with an absent father. Heather forced a smile, and the tears that shimmered in her eyes were tears of happiness for her sister. Nothing more. Or so she tried to convince herself.

* * *

S
TRAINS OF ROMANTIC MUSIC
drifted on the air, and the breeze, smelling of the fresh water of the lake, was cool against Heather’s face. The sun had dropped beneath the ridge of westerly mountains and the sky was ribboned with brilliant splashes of magenta and pink.

Twilight was coming. That time of night—dusk really—when her thoughts would always stray to Turner. Stars were beginning to wink, and the ghost of a crescent moon was rising. She wrapped her arms around herself and began walking along the sparsely graveled path toward the lake, the very same lake she’d sipped from only a few weeks earlier. Drat that darned legend! She’d been a fool to think there was any hint of truth in the Indian lore.

With a rustle, the wind picked up and the chilly breath of autumn touched her bare neck. Still wearing her raspberry-hued gown, she picked her way along the ferns and stones.

She’d stayed at the wedding and reception as long as she could, watched Jackson and Rachelle exchange vows, witnessed them place rings upon each other’s fingers, smiled as they toasted their new life together and laughed when they’d cut the cake and force-fed each other. All the old traditions. New again.

She’d even watched as Rachelle had tossed her bouquet into the crowd and a surprised Carlie Surrett had caught the nosegay of white ribbons, carnations and baby pink roses only to drop the bouquet as if it was as hot and searing as a branding iron. Rachelle, good-naturedly, had laughed and tossed the bouquet over her shoulder again and to everyone’s joy their mother, Ellen, had ended up with the flowers.

“Can you believe this?” she’d said. “Well, maybe the third time’s the charm!”

The big moment, when Thomas Fitzpatrick had shaken his bastard son’s hand and wished him well, had come afterward. Thomas had seemed sincere, and Jackson, his face stony, hadn’t made a scene. He’d even accepted the envelope Thomas had given him and had said a curt “thanks.” It hadn’t been a joyous father-son reunion, but it hadn’t turned into the worst disaster since the
Titanic,
either.

Now, as she glanced back over her shoulder, Heather noticed that a crowd had joined Rachelle and Jackson on the portable dance floor they’d had constructed for the ceremony. Tucked in the tall pine trees, with torches and colorful lanterns adding illumination, the old camp was a cozy site for a wedding. A great way to start their lives together.

Heather had her own set of plans. Tomorrow she’d return to San Francisco, the city she loved, and start her life over. Without Turner. Her heart wrenched and her throat thickened. Tears burned behind her eyes. Why couldn’t she find any comfort in the thought that she was going home? Why couldn’t she find any consolation that she wouldn’t have to move back to Gold Creek? Why wasn’t she happy? The answer was simple: Turner Brooks.

Gathering her skirts, she followed the path until the trees gave way to a stretch of rocky beach. The wedding was far behind her now, the music fading, the laughter no louder than the sound of crickets singing in the dusk.

Twilight had descended, and the stars reflected in the purple depths of the lake. “Oh, Turner,” she whispered, kicking a stone toward the water and watching as it rolled lazily into the ebb and flow of the lake.

Again she felt a tickle of a breeze lifting the hairs at her nape. She looked to the west and her breath caught in her throat, for there, just as he’d been six years earlier, was the lone rider, a tall cowboy on horseback, his rangy stallion sauntering slowly in her direction.

Her heart turned over and she wanted to hate him, to tell him to stay out of her life, but she couldn’t. Staring up at his rugged features, her heart tumbled and she knew she was destined to love him for the rest of her life.

She waited, unmoving, the wind billowing her skirts until he was close enough that she could see the features of his face. Strong and proud, he’d never change. Her throat closed in on itself, and it was all she could do not to let out a strangled sob.

She thought for a moment that he was coming for her, but she knew differently. He’d known where she would be and was probably here to tell her that he’d talked with a lawyer and was going to sue her for custody of their children. Oh, Lord, how had it come to this? Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt and she wished she could hate him, could fight him tooth and nail for her children, but a stubborn part of her wouldn’t give up on the silly, irrational fact that she loved him. As much as she had six years ago.

His jaw was set and hard, but his eyes were dark with an inner torment. Heather braced herself, refused to break down. He slid from the saddle and, without a word, wrapped strong arms around her. Pressing his face into the crook of her neck, he held her, and the smells of leather and horse, sweat and musk, brought back each glorious memory she’d ever shared with him.

She clung to him because she had no choice, and tears filled her eyes to run down her cheeks and streak the rough suede of his jacket. Her heart ached, and she wondered if she would ever get over him.

As the night whispered over the lake, Turner’s voice was low and thick with emotion. “I love you,” he said simply.

Heather’s heart shredded. “Y-you don’t have to—”

“Shh, darlin’. Don’t you know I’ve always loved you? I was just too much a fool to admit it.”

“Please, Turner, don’t—” she cried, unable to stand the pain.

He pulled back and placed a finger to her lips. Staring straight into her eyes, with the ghosts of Whitefire Lake as his witnesses, Turner repeated, “I love you. Believe me.”

“But—”

“Don’t fight it.”

Tears slid down her cheeks. Could it be true? She hardly dared believe him, and yet the gaze touching hers—caressing hers—claimed that she was and always had been his whole life. “Oh, God,” she whispered, and threw her arms around him. “I love you, too, Turner. I always have.”

“Then marry me,” he said simply. “Let’s not wait. It’s time we gave our son a family and time we built a life for our new little one.”

“But—”

“Now, marry me.”

Things were going so fast. Heather’s mind was spinning. “Now?” she repeated as he kissed away her tears.

“Isn’t there a preacher over there?” He cocked his head toward the old summer camp and the lights flickering through the trees.

“I don’t know… . Yes, I suppose, but do you think—?” Without another word, he lifted her onto his horse, then swung into the saddle behind her. Wrapping one solid arm around her middle, he urged the horse forward toward the bobbing colored lights and the music. “Where’s Adam?”

“With my mother—”

He grimaced at that. “Well, as soon as we find him and a preacher we’re getting married.”

“But Rachelle…Jackson…”

Turner laughed low in his throat. “Somehow, I don’t think they’ll mind. They seem to like to cause a stir.”

“But why—why now?” she asked.

“You’re as bad as Mazie with all your questions,” he said, but chuckled. “I finally got hold of Zeke, and the next time I see that old coot, I intend to fill his backside with buckshot.”

“Why?”

“He admitted you called, that you were frantic to reach me, but by the time I returned, you’d already married. As for the letters I sent you, I mailed them to the Lazy K with instructions to forward them ’cause I didn’t have your address. Zeke, thinking he was doing us a big favor, burned every last one.”

“Oh, no—”

“As I said, ‘buckshot.’” But he smiled and kissed her temple.

Then, as if he’d truly lost his mind, he reached into the inner pocket of his suede jacket, withdrew a crisp white envelope, and while Sampson broke into a lope, started shredding the neatly-typed pages.

“What—?”

“Confetti, for the bride and groom. Compliments of Thomas Fitzpatrick.”

“I don’t understand—”

He let the torn pages disperse on the wind, the ragged pieces drifting to the lake. “All you have to understand, lady, is that I love you.” With a kiss to her rounded lips, he spurred the horse forward. The wind tore at her hair, and the waters of Whitefire Lake lapped at the tree-studded shore. Turner’s arm tightened around her, his lips buried against her neck, and they galloped toward their future as husband and wife.

Together forever, she thought, as the lake flashed by in a blur, and she thought she heard laughter in the trees. Hers? Turner’s? Or the ghosts of the past who knew the powers of Whitefire Lake?

* * * * *

AUTHOR’S NOTE

A Short History of
Gold Creek, California

T
HE
N
ATIVE
A
MERICAN LEGEND
of Whitefire Lake was whispered to the white men who came from the east in search of gold in the mountains. Even in the missions, there was talk of the legend, though men of the Christian God professed to disbelieve any pagan myths.

None was less believing than Kelvin Fitzpatrick, a brawny Irishman who was rumored to have killed a man before he first thrust his pickax into the hills surrounding the lake. No body was ever found, and the claim jumper vanished, so a murder couldn’t be proved. But rumors around Fitzpatrick didn’t disappear.

He found the first gold in the hills on a morning when the lake was still shrouded in the white mist that was as beautiful as it was deceptive. Fitzpatrick staked his claim and drank lustily from the water. He’d found his home and his fortune in these hills.

He named the creek near his claim Gold Creek and decided to become the first founding father of a town by the same name. He took his pebbles southwest to the city of San Francisco, where he transformed gold to money and a scrubby forty-niner into what appeared to be a wealthy gentleman. With his money and looks, Kelvin wooed and married a socialite from the city, Marian Dubois.

News of Fitzpatrick’s gold strike traveled fast, and soon Gold Creek had grown into a small shantytown. With the prospectors came the merchants, the gamblers, the saloon keepers, the clergy and the whores. The Silver Horseshoe Saloon stood on the west end of town and the Presbyterian church was built on the east, and Gold Creek soon earned a reputation for fistfights, barroom brawls and hangings.

Kelvin’s wealth increased and he fathered four children—all girls. Two were from Marian, the third from a town whore and the fourth by a Native American woman. All children were disappointments as Kelvin Fitzpatrick needed an heir for his empire.

The community was growing from a boisterous mining camp to a full-fledged town, with Kelvin Fitzpatrick as Gold Creek’s first mayor and most prominent citizen. The persecuted Native Americans with their legends and pagan ways were soon forced into servitude or thrown from their land. They made their way into the hills, away from the white man’s troubles.