Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (6 page)

“This way,” he said, hopping off the motorcycle and dragging her along. They ducked into the woods again, and Rachelle wanted to cry. She was terrified of Roy, and knew instinctively that she was safer with Jackson, yet the night was too awful to believe. Roy had intended to rape her and Jackson, her savior, wasn’t exactly a knight in shining armor. She only hoped her instincts about him were right, because she guessed by the way he touched her, by the glint in his eye, that beneath his bad-boy exterior, there was a trace of good. She clung to that notion like a drowning man holding fast to a life preserver.

Twigs and thorns tore at her skin and hair, but she took Jackson’s advice and began running, as fast as her legs would carry her, toward the rocky beach surrounding the lake. She tripped twice on berry vines, but Jackson helped her struggle up and keep plunging forward. She didn’t know if they were being chased, didn’t want to take the time to look around and find out.

Her throat was hot and thick and tears streamed from her eyes. Rain poured down her neck. She couldn’t forget the skin-crawling feel of Roy’s body against hers, the terror that he wouldn’t stop until he’d stripped her of her clothes, robbed her of her dignity and…oh, Lord, she couldn’t think of that! She wouldn’t.

The trees gave way and she was on the beach, running north, against the wind and rain that swept over the hills. Jackson’s breathing was labored, and he ran with a limp. Now it was she who was pulling him, half dragging him up the beach.
Help me,
she prayed as the rain pelted them both and her legs began to ache. She held back sobs of fear and just kept running, clinging to Jackson’s hand as if he were, indeed, the knight who was destined to save her from the evils of Roy Fitzpatrick.

CHAPTER THREE

J
ACKSON WAS WEAK FROM
the fight. By the time they turned from the beach and reentered the woods, he was limping badly and breathing hard. Even in the darkness, Rachelle could see the sweat standing on his face.

“We’ve got to get to the main road and hitchhike back to town,” Rachelle said as he pulled up and braced his back against the rough trunk of a pine tree. He drew in a ragged breath, then placed his hands on his knees and lowered his head. “Come on,” she urged.

“You want to take a chance on being picked up by Roy or one of his friends?” Jackson asked. He tilted his head to stare up at her in the darkness. His eyes were dark and unreadable—as black as the night that surrounded them. He swiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “Isn’t that what got you into this mess in the first place?”

“You can’t go much farther.”

His lips twisted ironically. “Don’t count me out yet. Come on, I’ve got an idea.” He took her hand and led her at a slower pace through the forest. Trees snapped underfoot, and rain dripped in a steady staccato on a carpet of needles.

The night was so dark, she could barely pick a path; she continually stepped in mud and puddles. Her hair was drenched and she shivered as the wind whistled through the trees. Clutching her ripped clothes with her free hand, she didn’t stop to think where they were going; she wanted only to keep moving and put as much distance between Roy Fitzpatrick and herself as she could.

She wondered about Jackson’s timing, how he’d found her with Roy in the gazebo. “Why were you at the party?” she asked.

“Fitzpatrick and I had some unfinished business.”

“Is it finished now?”

He snorted. “I don’t think it ever will be.”

“Why does he hate you so much?”

Jackson threw her a dark glance. “Maybe he doesn’t like me interrupting him when he thought he was going to score.”

Rachelle felt as if she’d been slapped. “What’re you talking about?”

“I didn’t see what started it. But somehow you ended up alone with Roy. The way I figure it, you flirted with him, he responded and when things got a little too hot to handle, you panicked.”

Rachelle’s mouth tightened in indignation. “I went out there to get my friend’s purse.”

“And somehow ended up making out with him.”

She stopped, breathing hard, her anger as bright as her tears. “You have no right to judge me.
No right.
I didn’t tease or lead Roy on, if that’s what you’re hinting at. And anyway it doesn’t matter. He attacked me. I said ‘no’ and he wouldn’t listen. Look, you don’t have to babysit me any longer. I can find my own way back to town.”

He glanced at her, muttered something under his breath and sighed. “I guess I made a mistake.”

“I guess you did.” They stood staring at each other, the rain drizzling around them, their gazes locked. The woods smelled steamy and wet, and far in the distance the sound of music hummed through the trees.

Jackson grimaced. “I got to the party, decided that I needed to cool off before I made an ass of myself with Roy, so I walked down toward the lake. I heard noises in the gazebo. When I got there, Roy was kissing you. I couldn’t tell you were fighting back until you screamed.”

He glanced away, his hands on his hips. “Look, I’m sorry. I just figured anyone who was with Roy and his crowd was asking for trouble.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Hadn’t she, too, decided the very same thing? “I’m not a part of Roy’s crowd.”

“Just who are you?”

“A friend of Laura’s, Rachelle Tremont.”

Eyeing her for a moment, he said, “We don’t have any time to lose. Come on, Rachelle.” He took her hand again and they began picking their way through the undergrowth.

“Where’re we going?” she whispered. She’d lost her sense of direction, but she felt as if they were circling back, heading toward Roy’s party.

“I know a shortcut,” he said. His grip tightened around hers and she felt as if the blood were all pooled in her hand. Jackson was wheezing a little, wincing each time he stepped on his right leg.

“You can’t go on—”

“Shh!” he warned so loudly that some unseen creature scurried through the undergrowth.

Rachelle’s heart was pounding in her ears, but she knew she was right. Closer than before, she heard the sound of voices and the gentle vibration of music. Jackson was leading them right back to Roy!

“You’ve got to be out of your mind!” she whispered.

“Maybe,” he admitted with a sarcastic edge to his words. “But I don’t think so.”

They skirted the Fitzpatrick estate, staying in the trees that surrounded the thick stone walls. When they came to the private lane, Jackson hesitated, his muscles taut, his gaze moving swiftly through the forest. “Okay. Now,” he whispered, half dragging her out of the cover of the woods to dash across the road and into the trees on the far side. They were heading east now, and the lake was visible through the trees. Dark and shimmering, the water rippled with the wind.

Rachelle’s throat was dry and her body ached all over. Rain ran down her neck and seeped through her jacket. It seemed that they’d been wandering through the dripping trees for hours.

Jackson stopped for a second and rubbed his leg. Even in the darkness, she noticed the corners of his mouth turn white. “You need a doctor.”

“I just need to rest awhile,” he argued, taking her hand again and hobbling toward the lake. She followed him blindly, her fate in the hands of the bad boy from Gold Creek.

“Here we go,” Jackson said as they used the beach to get past the fence that separated the estate and a huge house came into view.

“What’s this?”

“The Monroe place.”

She’d heard of it; a grand house that had stood empty during the winters when the Monroe family returned to San Francisco. “I don’t think we should stop here,” she said aloud, worrying, but Jackson had already run to the manor and was standing in a breezeway between the house and garage.

“No one will think we’d have the guts to stay so close to the party,” he reasoned aloud. “They saw us take off in the opposite direction.”

“But—”

“Stay here,” he ordered, then checked all the doors and windows on the first floor.

“You’re going to break in?”

“If they left it locked.”

“But that’s illegal.”

Jackson sent her a glance that called her naive. “We won’t get caught.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“No, it doesn’t. So you go ahead and stand here in the rain and figure out what else we’re gonna do. In the meantime, I’ll be looking for a way into this place.”

He disappeared around the corner, and Rachelle shivered. She thought of Roy, how he’d tried to force her, and her stomach turned over. She’d been stupid and foolish and now, here she was, in the middle of nowhere, with a boy whose reputation was tarnished, breaking into the summer home of a wealthy family!

She’d wanted adventure, she’d longed to test her wings, and those very wings were about as sturdy as Icarus’s had been against the heat of the sun. She’d plummeted in a downfall so great, she knew she’d crash and never find herself again.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she considered her options. Maybe Jackson was right. If they could just rest and warm up, then they could decide what to do. Inside the house, there could be a phone; she might be able to call her mother. Her stomach tightened at facing Ellen Tremont, or her friends again. What had happened to Carlie and Laura? What were they doing right now? Were they worried sick about her?

She heard a noise on the roof and her heart nearly stopped. Moving out of the cover of the breezeway, she looked up. Jackson had shimmied up the drainpipe and was working his way across the rain-slickened shakes to a window. She held her breath and crossed her fingers that he didn’t slip, fall and break his stubborn neck. He rattled one lock, swore and moved to the next window. It, too, seemed shut tight.

To Rachelle’s horror, he worked up the slope to the third story, where dormers protruded from the roof. At the second window, he stopped, withdrew something from his pocket, worked on the lock until with a sound of splintering wood, it gave way. A second later, he climbed through.

Great. Not only had they trespassed, but now they were breaking and entering. She waited impatiently, certain that someone from Roy’s party would wander by and discover her. A full five minutes passed and she started to worry again. Had Jackson hurt himself, fallen down the stairs in the dark?

A lock clicked softly. The back door swung inward and Jackson stood with his back propping the door open, obviously pleased with himself.

She didn’t wait for an invitation, but slipped inside, where some of the heat of the day had collected. They stood in the kitchen, dripping water onto the oak floor, listening to an old clock tick and the timbers creak. The furniture was covered in white sheets, and if she let herself, she could imagine that this particular house was haunted.

“Now what?” she asked him, suddenly aware that she was completely alone with him.

“We need a flashlight. The electricity’s been turned off and I wouldn’t want to use any lights anyway. Someone might see us and call the cops.”

“No one will see us,” she said, thinking how remote they were.

“Wrong. There’s a marina across the lake and the bait-and-tackle shop. Someone over there could glance this way, see a light that shouldn’t be on and get nervous.” He opened a cupboard and ran his fingers over the contents of the shelves, grunted, then started with the next cupboard. Before too long, he’d covered half the kitchen.

“This isn’t going to work—”

“Hold on. What’s this?” he asked, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “A candle. Primitive. But just the ticket.”

He struck a match. It sizzled in the night, and in the small flame she could see his face, streaked with mud, a hint of beard darkening his chin, and the reflection of the match’s flame as pinpoints of light in his dark eyes.

Carefully he lit the candle, then searched in the closet for more. Soon he had lit three candles and the kitchen seemed almost cheery in the flickering golden light.

“Aren’t you afraid someone might see the candlelight?” she asked, but he shook his head.

“There’s a den near the front of the house. It doesn’t face the lake or the Fitzpatrick place. The blinds are already drawn. I think we’ll be safe. If not—” He looked at her again and this time his gaze lingered a second longer than it should have. He shifted. “If not, we’ll just have to face the music.”

“We could call—”

“I tried. The phone’s shut off.”

“Wonderful,” she murmured sarcastically, trembling inside. Things were going from bad to worse. “So what do we do?”

Jackson leaned one hip against the kitchen island. His hair was wet, golden drops ran down his face and neck. “I guess we wait, try to dry out and then figure out a way to get back to town. I imagine that if you don’t show up somewhere at sometime, your folks will send out a search party.”

Rachelle lifted a shoulder. “My mom works nights and I’m supposed to be staying overnight with Laura. My sister is with a friend. So no one’s looking for me yet.”

“What about your dad?”

That old knot in her stomach squeezed tighter. “He, um, he won’t know. He and Mom are separated and he’s living in an apartment in Coleville.” She didn’t add that he was probably with his girlfriend, a woman only a few years older than Rachelle. Glenda. Her father had found Glenda in the middle of his life and had decided that Ellen could raise the girls. He had living to do. “No one will call him,” she said, trying to avoid thinking about her dad.

“But Laura’s mother might call yours.”

“I suppose.”

Again Jackson looked at her and one side of his mouth lifted a fraction. “It’s not so bad having someone who cares for you, you know. Believe me, it’s better than the alternative.”

Rachelle felt suddenly foolish. His mother probably had never cared when he came home and he’d never had a dad to worry over him or scold him or play catch with him or take him fishing.

He left the kitchen and, walking stiffly, holding on to the wall for support, headed for the den. Rachelle followed, carrying two candles and noticing how he favored his right leg. His jeans were soaked and streaked with mud, and the worn fabric clung to his thighs and buttocks as he limped down a short hallway. She forced her eyes away from his legs and found herself staring at the back of his battered old jacket, wide at the shoulders, tapered to the waist.