Wed to the Witness (16 page)

Slowly, he lowered her to her feet, nuzzled her throat. “I think if we don't get out of this shower now, we'll both drown.”

“Save yourself,” she said as she slumped against the wet tiles. “I can't move. I'll never move again.”

“No way I'm leaving you,” he said, then pulled her from beneath the warm spray.

Fifteen minutes later, Cheyenne walked out of the bathroom, wearing one of the inn's heavy velour robes. She had towel-dried her long hair and gathered it over one shoulder. She smiled when she saw that Jackson had already lit the logs in the fireplace built into one of the paneled walls. She glanced out the window that led to their private balcony. An early evening fog had rolled in, obscuring the inn's grounds and the ocean beyond. The whole world seemed to have turned a cottony gray cloud.

“After you dry your hair, we should think about getting something to eat,” Jackson said as he stood before a small antique bookcase and uncorked the bottle of local wine he'd bought at a nearby store. He had pulled on casual slacks and a light sweater that was a shade darker gray than his eyes. His black hair was still damp, slicked straight back from his tanned face.

She slid him a look as she knelt in front of the fireplace and started finger-combing the tangles from her waist-length hair. “Food sounds good. I was beginning to think you didn't plan to do anything on this trip, except ravish me.”

His mouth curved. “Certain appetites take precedence over others. It's the law.” He moved across the room, crouched beside her and handed her a glass of red wine. “You thinking of suing me?”

“Could be. I have a really good attorney, you know.” The words weren't totally out when she realized what she'd said. “Jackson, I'm sorry.”

“You were just kidding.”

“Yes, but considering the reason I have that lawyer…” She dropped her gaze to her lap where she'd clenched her hands. It was a jolt to see the plain gold band that circled her left ring finger. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes. As though they had agreed silently not to, neither she nor Jackson had spoken today about his arrest, or the real reason she now wore the gold band.

Last night, when they'd conferred one last time with Rand, he had suggested they get married as soon as possible, then take the next twenty-four hours to just be together. In the meantime, he would deal with the necessary paperwork. That paperwork included advising Detective Law and the District Attorney that Cheyenne James was now Mrs. Jackson Colton. Further, she was claiming spousal privilege and, therefore, could not be compelled to make a statement or testify against her husband.

“Cheyenne.” Using a finger, Jackson nudged her chin up while he settled beside her in front of the fire. “I've got pretty thick skin. After all that's happened between us, I have to figure you're on my side.”

“Yes.” She raised the glass of wine, took a sip and felt her flesh warm. “I just wasn't thinking. And I didn't intend to remind you of everything.”

“I haven't exactly forgotten.” He glanced at his watch. “I'm planning on checking in with Rand before we leave to eat. By now he will have informed Law and the D.A. that they can't force you to give them a formal statement. I want to make sure no glitches have surfaced.” He reached for her left hand, entwined his fingers between hers. “You're my number-one supporter. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

She took another sip of wine, her brow furrowing as
she set the glass aside. “Speaking of supporters, I'd like to ask you a question.”

“So, ask.”

“I've been wondering about your parents.”

His eyes narrowed. “What about them?”

“Why didn't they join us last night to talk strategy?”

“I didn't ask them to join us.”

“They're both attorneys. Maybe one of them might have thought of something the rest of us didn't.”

“Don't count on it. Neither of my parents has ever given my sister or me much thought. I don't expect that to change just because I'm facing prison.” He paused. “At the police station, my father asked me if I tried to kill Uncle Joe.”

“Oh, Jackson—”

“My sister, Liza, and I grew up in a house where manners took precedence over love. In fact, there wasn't any love, not where our parents were concerned. They never gave much of a damn about us. They left our upbringing in the hands of nannies and housekeepers. Uncle Joe and Aunt Meredith were the ones who cared. Meredith intervened, told my parents that Liza and I would be spending most of our time at the ranch with them. We basically grew up at Hacienda de Alegria.”

Cheyenne's heart went out to the man who as a child must have thirsted for his parents' love. “On the weekends I spent there visiting River, your uncle always let me sit in his study and look through the photo albums. He always took time to tell me a joke and tweak my nose. Your aunt let me help her cut flowers from her gardens and showed me how to arrange them in crystal vases.”

“I doubt Meredith has even looked at a flower bed in the past ten years. She sure hasn't spent the time pro
moting family unity.” Jackson angled his head. “I'll stop before I'm tempted to tell you all of the sordid Colton secrets. I don't want to make you sorry that you married into the family.”

“I won't ever be sorry.”

“I hope not.” Jackson shifted, rested his back against the love seat upholstered in a soft raspberry-colored fabric. “Speaking of family, do you want to call River and Rafe and let them know they have a brother-in-law?”

Cheyenne shook her head. “I asked Rand to talk to both of them and to tell them I'll explain things when we get back.”

“I plan on talking to them, too. Considering the situation, I doubt either of them will be delighted.”

“My gift passed to me from our mother, from the blood to the blood. She taught my brothers to understand the power of her visions. They understand mine. River and Rafe will accept what we have done.”

“Accepting doesn't mean they have to like it.” Jackson rubbed his jaw. “Both might feel like going a few rounds with me, just for the principle of things.”

She arched a brow. “Think they'll drag you behind the barn and gang up on you?”

“It's possible. I keep thinking about your ancestors, how a river ran red with their blood before they surrendered to the white man. Your brothers have that same blood running through their veins.” Jackson flashed her a grin. “And I thought my family was scary.”

Laughing softly, Cheyenne resumed finger-combing her damp hair and shifted her gaze to the fireplace. Flames danced. A spark popped. Thin curls of smoke rose toward the chimney.

In the next instant, she no longer heard the greedy lapping of the flames against wood, no longer smelled
the heady scent of wood-smoke. All had been replaced in her mind's eye by a nearly blinding slash of light. Illuminated in the glare was a man's hand, clenched into a tight fist. Beneath the skin, the knuckles showed white. In her hazy, half-dreamed dream, Cheyenne could see—
feel
—the searing anger that had caused that hand to clench. Fear tripped in her heart, beat wings in her stomach.

“Cheyenne, what is it?”

“He's…” The air turned stale and hot, making it difficult for her to breathe. Her heart faltered; the fear she had felt transformed in an instant to cold, hard rage. “He wants…to kill him.”

“Steady.”

She knew the voice she heard was Jackson's, yet it seemed to come from far away. Everything around her was fuzzy and disjointed, except the man's fist, lit in that painfully bright slash of light. Something dark lay beyond the light, a form whose edges seemed to waver. She reached out her hand, desperate to touch. The form shifted, retreated. Straining, she leaned forward. If she could only touch. She
needed
to touch—

“Cheyenne!” Jackson's hand locked around her wrist, jerked it back. “You want to set yourself on fire?”

The images slid into one, fractured again before her eyes, then were gone.

“Cheyenne.”

Shuddering, sweating, she struggled up from the depths of the vision, following the sound of Jackson's concerned voice. “Jackson…”

“I'm here.” She hadn't known he'd put his arms around her, hadn't realized he'd pulled her onto his lap. All she knew was he was there, holding, comforting.

“Oh, God.” She blinked, trying to clear the blur.

“It's okay, I've got you.” His voice was soft, with a hint of steel beneath. “You had a vision, I take it.”

His eyes came into focus, gray and waiting. “Yes.”

He watched her, his face somber as he smoothed his palm down her damp hair. “That didn't quite have the same effect as the vision you had before Johnny got hurt.”

“No.” She forced a swallow past the dry knot in her throat, then looked for her wine. “I spilled it,” she said quietly when she saw the glass lying on its side beside the crimson liquid that had pooled on the wood floor in front of the fireplace.

“
I
knocked the glass over when I grabbed your wrist. You kept leaning closer to the fire, reaching.” He shook his head. “I was afraid you might stick your hand into the flames.”

She took a breath that wasn't quite steady. “I'm not sure what I was doing.”

“I'll clean that up and pour you more wine.”

“No.” Being held in his arms felt like she'd landed in a safety net. “Later. Just hold me.”

“All right.” He placed a soft kiss against her temple. “You want to tell me about what you saw?”

“It was more than just what I saw.” She frowned. “I've never had a vision like that. Never
felt
one like that.”

“How did it feel?”

“Horrible. There's a burning hatred. A fury.” Her voice hitched. “He wants to kill your uncle. He hates him and he wants to kill him.”

She felt Jackson's body stiffen beneath her. “You
saw
who tried to kill Uncle Joe?”

“No. I'm sorry.” She could almost feel the hope slide through Jackson's fingers like cold, dry sand. “I saw his
hand…and a slash of bright light. Something else was there, just beyond the light, something dark. Black, maybe. It was too bright and I couldn't see. That's what I reached for. I thought if I could just touch it…”

A chill racked her body. Feeling drained, she rested her head against his shoulder. “It's there, Jackson.”

“What is?”

“The answer we need to clear you. It's there, beyond the light.”

T
hree days later, Jackson stood on Hacienda de Alegria's sprawling back terrace, hands jammed into the pockets of his slacks. The noonday sun shone down with blazing intensity while he watched Cheyenne, her movements smooth and controlled, walk across the stretch of manicured lawn toward the sea.

A tug of worry had him narrowing his eyes. He wasn't sure if it was simply her trim black slacks and blouse that made her look impossibly thin, or if the stress of the past few days had resulted in her losing weight she couldn't afford to shed.

She paused when she reached the staircase that led down the face of the rocky cliff to the beach below. Standing motionless, she stared out at the wind-tormented sea where wave swallowed wave. Her long, black hair blew around her face like a veil, but she made no move to control the thick tresses.

Something was happening. Something was building inside her that Jackson didn't understand.
Needed
to understand.

She had slept only in fits and starts since the vision first came to her at the inn. Later that same night he had felt her slip from his arms, had watched her move soundlessly across the moonlit room to the love seat. She had sat curled there the remainder of the night, staring into the dark depths of the fireplace.

Each night since they had returned to his aunt and uncle's house, Cheyenne had repeated the process, only now she left not only their bed, but their room. Because he sensed she needed to be alone, he hadn't followed her. Where she went, he didn't know. All he knew was that each time she moved from the circle of his arms, a part of his heart went with her.

Each morning when she returned to their bedroom, her face was pale with fatigue, her eyes shadowed. Haunted.

She spoke little of the vision, except to tell him that the light had grown brighter, as had the man's hatred. “The answer is there, Jackson,” she had told him moments ago before she'd left to take a solitary walk on the beach. “It will come. You must have faith. You must believe. With time, the answer we need will come.”

Inside his pockets, his hands fisted as he watched her move to the staircase, then descend the first few steps. Seconds later, she disappeared from sight. He felt the loss as keenly as a punch in the gut.

He couldn't avoid it any longer. Could not continue to deny how he felt about her. He knew those feelings had probably started settling inside him the moment he laid eyes on her at his uncle's birthday party. Had intensified steadily every hour he'd spent with her. No
other woman, at any other time, had ever come close to taking root in his heart. Hell, he hadn't even thought it was possible. Not until Cheyenne had looked at him with simple, unquestioning faith in her eyes.

How could he not love her?

That no scrabble of panic accompanied the thought was a mild surprise. He dragged in a deep breath, bringing into his lungs the scent of salt spray, sunshine and the tea roses that bloomed in nearby planters. He had spent his life avoiding relationships, running from them because he hadn't understood what it was that made the rare ones work. Now he did. Vividly. The key was finding the unique woman, the one who could stir his heart where no other could.

Cheyenne, his wife, stirred his heart.

He loved her.

Even as the knowledge raced through his mind, he quelled it. He could not, would not, tell her how he felt.

He knew her intimately now, knew how her mind worked, had seen for himself the stubborn slant her jaw took when she'd made up her mind about something. Although she hadn't told him how she felt about him, he was almost certain her feelings mirrored his. If that were the case and he wound up in prison, she would refuse to file for divorce. Knowing that he loved her, she would fight for their marriage, sacrifice for him, perhaps waste her entire life. For him.

The absolute helplessness of his situation had his jaw locking. He couldn't change anything about the evidence the police had against him, but he could damn well do something about her. It was best, for both their sakes, that Cheyenne not know his true feelings. That she continued to believe he was a man ready, able and willing to walk away from any relationship. Even their marriage.

She
should
believe that, he thought. He wanted her to believe it. Because if he wound up in prison, that was exactly what he would do. Walk away. Legally and emotionally. For her sake.

The sound of footsteps approaching from behind had Jackson turning.

Rand, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and crimson tie, strode toward across the terrace. “You don't look like a man who's having pleasant thoughts,” his cousin commented.

“You got that right, counselor.”

“Detective Law sends his regards.” Rand settled into one of the padded, black wrought-iron chairs that dotted the spacious terrace. Reaching up, he loosened the knot on his tie and flicked open his shirt's top button. “So does the D.A.”

“I'll bet.” Jackson dropped into the chair nearest his cousin's. “They still making noise about Cheyenne claiming marital privilege?”

“Yes. The D.A. plans to file a challenge with the court. He'll probably do that this afternoon. Tomorrow at the latest.”

“You have an opinion on how that'll turn out?”

“I believe our position will be upheld.” Rand slid him a look. “It wouldn't hurt, though, for you to keep your fingers crossed. And your toes.”

“Yeah.” Jackson shoved a hand through his hair. “You and I need to get something settled between us. If it winds up that Cheyenne does have to testify for the prosecution, I don't want you going after her during cross-examination.”

“Jackson—”

“It's not negotiable.”

“It's suicide.”

“Maybe. Look, I won't—
can't
—let you go for her jugular while she's on the witness stand. I've seen you work, Rand. By the time you were done with Cheyenne, you'd have the jury on the edge of their seats, waiting to see what magical Indian potion she was going to stir up. That would destroy her.”

“Going to prison wouldn't have the same effect on you?”

“We're not talking about me.”

“Answer a question.” Leaning in, Rand rested his elbows on his knees. “Are Cheyenne's visions
real,
or just real to her?”

“I can't tell you I understand how they work. All I know is that I was there when one of her visions saved a boy's life. I'd say that's real enough.”

Rand pursed his lips. “This vision she says she's having now about a bright light and a man's fist and a dark object she can't quite make out. Do you believe her claim is true? That the vision will eventually lead us to the man who took the shots at Dad?”

A fist of fear squeezed at Jackson's gut that she wouldn't find the answer. “Cheyenne says it will. She keeps telling me to have faith.” He shifted his gaze to the staircase at the top of the ragged cliff where he'd last seen her. “With my butt on the line, I'd be lying if I said I'm content to sit back and wait for the answer. I'm not. I'd prefer to have some rock-solid evidence of my innocence to take to the police. All I can say is, Cheyenne knows a hell of a lot more about visions than I do.”

“Well, let's hope she knows what she's talking about on this one.” Rand raised a hand, let it drop. “You're an attorney, pal. I don't have to tell you that our case has its weak points.”

“You're right, you don't have to tell me.” Frustration pushed Jackson to his feet. “Any word from your experts yet on the results of the ballistic, fingerprint and handwriting tests?”

“Not yet.” Rand checked his watch, then rose. “I'll go make some calls now.” His hand settled on Jackson's shoulder, strong and firm. “Maybe one of them will come up with something solid we can use.”

“I hope to hell you're right,” Jackson muttered while he watched Rand stride across the terrace.

Just as his cousin reached the house, the door swung open. Jackson raised a brow when Johnny Collins, clad in baggy jeans, T-shirt and a red baseball cap, stepped out the door. Emmett Fallon followed behind him, sunlight glinting off his gray hair. After shaking hands with the twosome, Rand swept a hand Jackson's way, then disappeared into the house.

Jackson tucked away the frustration churning inside him and forced a smile.

“The patient is up and around, I see.” While he spoke, Jackson shook hands with Emmett. “Too bad Uncle Joe's in Prosperino on business. I know he'd have liked to have seen you.”

Emmett nodded. “I saw Joe at Hopechest Ranch on Memorial Day. He said to drop by anytime.” Emmett's gaze swept the trim, jewel-like grounds and color-laden flower beds that sprawled toward the sea. “I'd heard he hired a security company to patrol the grounds after someone took that second shot at him. I bet I had to answer twenty questions when they stopped my car coming up the drive. Good thing Meredith answered the phone when they called the house to check on me, or we'd never have gotten up here.”

“They take their job seriously,” Jackson commented.

“Yeah.” Emmett shrugged. “Anyway, Johnny here's going stir-crazy not being able to do any of his regular activities.” While he spoke, the older man dug a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches out of his wrinkled denim shirt. “He wanted to thank you again for saving him. Since Blake's tied up today with Hopechest Ranch business, I volunteered to drive Johnny over.”

“Glad you did.” Jackson offered the teenager a hand and arched a brow at the cast molding the boy's left arm. A bright red sling with the Hopechest Ranch's logo looped around Johnny's thin neck, cradling the injured arm tight against his chest. “Last time I saw you, that arm was pointing the wrong way.”

“Yeah, that Brahma sure packed a punch.” Johnny shifted the brim of his baseball cap. “Thanks again for getting me out of the corral before that bull hammered me into dog meat.”

Jackson hid a wince at the image. “You're welcome. How long do you have to wear the cast?”

“Doc Kent said at least a month,” Johnny responded. “He'll take more pictures of my elbow then.” He hesitated. “I was sort of wondering…are you and Cheyenne coming back to Hopechest?”

Jackson slid a hand into the pocket of his slacks. Because he wanted to clear the air, he said, “I don't know. I assume you've both heard I'm in trouble with the law.”

Johnny's gaze slid away. “Yeah. I guess most everybody's heard.”

Emmett exhaled a puff of gray smoke then swiped the side of one finger across his white mustache. “I can't figure that out, Jackson.”

“What part of it can't you figure out?”

“I heard on the radio the police found the gun used to shoot at Joe. They're saying your prints are on it.”

Jackson expelled a slow breath. Leaking information to the media about a suspect's alleged guilt was a standard law enforcement ploy. When it came time to pick a jury, almost everyone had their mind made up about the defendant's guilt, whether they admitted it or not.

“That's what the police say. Problem is,
I
didn't put my prints on that gun.”

“I've known you a long time, son,” Emmett said, his gaze going to the teeming ocean. “I've never known you to say anything that wasn't true.”

Johnny shifted from one foot to the other. “We heard that you and Cheyenne got married.”

“That you can believe.” Jackson angled his chin at the boy's serious expression. “You have a problem with that?”

“No. Unless it means she won't be coming back to work at Hopechest. By the looks of this house, I guess you've got a lot of money and she doesn't have to work, but what if she wants to? You won't stop her, will you?”

Jackson fought a smile. He doubted he could stop Cheyenne from doing anything. “Cheyenne talked to Blake and he approved her taking a leave of absence. As far as I know, that's just until things settle down.”

“I'd hate to see her not come back,” Johnny said, then looked toward the house. “Is she here?”

“She's walking on the beach. I'll take you down to see her if you feel up to some pretty steep stairs.”

“Sure, I'm game.”

Jackson turned to Emmett. “What about you? Want to go with us, or would you rather wait for us here? I can ask Inez to bring out some iced tea.”

Emmett dropped his cigarette, ground it beneath the
toe of his scuffed boot. “I wouldn't mind the walk. Haven't been on a beach in a while.”

“Let's go, then,” Jackson said.

 

After dinner, Cheyenne took refuge in Joe Colton's empty study. Over the past days, the vision had turned relentless, images sliding into one another, tormenting her thoughts, robbing her of sleep. The picture that came regularly now to her mind's eye had strengthened. Through the bright light she could now make out the man's shape. Though his face was a blur, she had a clear picture of his weathered hand fisted against his waist.

The black image just beyond the light would not sharpen into focus. It formed over and over in her fatigued mind like wax, melting, then reforming into hazy, muted shapes. The deep-seated instinct she'd always trusted told her that small, shadowy fragment held the answer she sought.

The answer that would prove Jackson's innocence.

With fatigue pressing down on her like a lead weight, she drifted half asleep in the chair where she'd curled. The study was barely lit by a single dim light, the air around her cool and quiet with the heavy hush of the advancing night. Her tensed muscles relaxed. As if a mental static had invaded her brain, images stirred, flitting in brilliant bursts of color across the back of her eyelids, exploding into the white light that illuminated the fisted hand. The shadowy fragment fled through the shifting light, and she followed it in her mind's eye until it plunged her into a black, dank pit.