Karen Hughes - Wed to the Witness p.02

“The feet?”

“A stable stance is the foundation for a good shot,” she explained. “If you get into the same position each time you shoot, you’ll be more consistent.”

“Makes sense.” His voice was smooth as silk on the warm morning air.

“It’s a matter of concentration,” she said for her own benefit as much as his. “You have to concentrate on what you’re doing.”

With the ease of long practice, she shifted into position, the wind picking up strands from her loose braid as she moved. The rush of the stream faded from her consciousness while the target she’d chosen filled her vision. Slowly, she slotted the arrow’s nock into the bowstring, drew back the string, sighted, then released the arrow with a smooth roll off her fingertips. The arrow zinged through the air, impaling neatly into the target’s bull’s-eye.

Jackson let out a low whistle. “I’m impressed, Miss James. Mind if I try?”

She slid him a look. “What about breakfast? And roof repair?”

“On the agenda, too.”

“Fine.” She handed him the bow and arrow then shifted behind him. In a gesture that came automatically with teaching, she reached around him, guiding his arms into position.

“The bow should be held about forty-five degrees above the horizon,” she said across his shoulder as she used her fingertips to nudge up his right elbow.

“Hmm.”

“Place the arrow’s nock, or notch, on the bowstring then draw the string back slowly.” She stepped in closer so they could move as one while he pulled the string taut. It wasn’t until her breasts were pressed against his back and her hips against his that she realized what she’d done.

Her eyes went wide; the lesson suddenly lost its importance as her blood heated in instant response. Her pulse picked up speed. The gilded sunlight was suddenly too hot, her throat abruptly too dry.

“What’s next?” he asked softly.

“Release it. Just release it.” Her spine as taut as the bow’s string, she skittered back two steps as if she’d been scalded.

At the same instant, Jackson took the shot. Cheyenne watched the arrow slice the air then disappear into the stand of redwoods that edged the range.

“Missed.” He turned, took a step toward her. She saw desire in his eyes—a reckless desire that had her heart thudding painfully. “Guess that’s what you meant about concentration. I think both pupil and teacher had their minds on something else.”

“I…guess so.” She retreated two more steps, halting when the stone table jabbed into the small of her back.

Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he moved to where she stood. Reaching around her, he laid the bow on the table. “What are we going to do about this, Cheyenne?”

She closed her eyes. She’d never known her name could sound like that—soft and smooth and vaguely exotic.

“You should try another shot,” she said almost desperately. Only moments before she had resolved that nothing physical would again happen between them. So, how had she come to be backed against the table, his body brushing hers, his mouth so close, so temptingly close, that she could all but taste it?

“You need to concentrate this time,” she managed to add in a hoarse whisper.

“I did.” Reaching out, he slid off her sunglasses, laid them beside the bow. He trailed his fingers down her cheek to her chin, along her jaw, then down to where the pulse in her throat beat hard and erratic. “I concentrated on the woman who had her body pressed against mine.”

“I’m sorry. I…shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t think—”

“I’ve thought.” He drew her into his arms, touching his lips to hers. “For two nights and a day I’ve thought about the way you look. The way you smell, taste. The way you feel, pressed against me,” he murmured, then quick as lightning, he deepened the kiss.

The jolt, the heat, the yearning all melded together to swim in her head, through her whole body. As she whirled quickly into passion, she forgot to think about her resolve to protect her secrets, to keep him at arm’s length. How much easier it was to move into him, to press close and let all of her caution slide away.

Her heart pounded a primitive beat through her blood. Her palms slid up his arms; she felt the power in the smooth, muscled contours of his shoulders before she linked her fingers behind his neck.

His hands dove into her hair, loosening her braid as he arched her head farther back. His mouth moved from hers to ravage her throat. Against her belly she felt his hard arousal.

Somewhere deep inside her, enough sanity remained that she knew she should pull back, step away before she was lost.

The wild ruthless kisses that raced across her flesh only made her crave more.

One of his hands cupped her breast, kneading, tormenting. “I want you.” His mouth moved against her throat, coaxing, enticing, relentless. “Now. Let me have you now.”

She had heard those same words in another lifetime, had succumbed to the hot, aching desire. She had learned the hard way that the depth and suddenness of passion held its own special danger. That she was opening herself to emotions she’d learned to lock out had reason breaking through the smothering desire with sharp clarity.

“No.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded thin and far-off. “Jackson, no.”

“All right.” His voice was steel, with rough edges as his arms slid around her waist. He rested his forehead against hers. “You’re not ready.”

“We should…” How could a man’s lips grind her mind to mush so quickly? “We should…”

“Acknowledge the chemistry between us, then decide how far we want this to go?” he suggested, gazing down at her with eyes that had gone the color of smoke.

“No farther.”

“Cheyenne—”

“I don’t know you,” she blurted even as the fire he’d kindled inside her blazed red hot. “I don’t even know you. You don’t know me.”

“I know how I feel.”

“It’s all physical—”

“Damn right it is.”

“Emotions.” She pressed her palms against his chest. “They cloud your judgment, make you do things you wouldn’t normally do. I don’t trust emotions, Jackson.”

His eyes focused on her face, narrowed. “And you don’t trust me.”

“I don’t know you.” She took an unsteady step back, forcing him to drop his arms. “In college, I got involved with a man I thought I knew. Turns out, he wasn’t anything like I’d imagined.”

A crease formed between Jackson’s dark brows. “I take it you were in love with him.”

“Completely. Totally.” She pressed a shaking hand to her throat. “When we met I didn’t think, didn’t take time to get to know him. I went with my emotions and jumped into the relationship. He…didn’t share my feelings. When he walked away I felt as if I’d taken a flying leap off a cliff and landed on jagged rocks. I don’t ever want to feel that way again.”

“I don’t plan to hurt you, Cheyenne.”

“Neither did he. It happened anyway.”

Blowing out a breath, Jackson nodded. “So, we cool things off and take some time to get to know each other. Is that what you want?”

“Our getting to know each other might not change anything.” She looked away, staring down the length of the empty range while she willed herself to ignore the sharp twinge of regret that settled in her chest. “I like my life. I’m content. I don’t know if I want anything to change.”

Reaching out, he took her chin in his hand, forced her gaze back to his. “Wanting something and getting it are two different things.”

“Sometimes.”

“Most of the time.” He tightened his grip when she tried to pull away. “Let me tell you what I want, Cheyenne. I want to get you out of my head. I’ve tried like hell to do that for two nights and a day,” he continued, his intense gaze locked with hers. “Nothing I’ve done has worked. That’s never happened before with any other woman and I can’t say I like the feeling. But the fact is, it’s there. My entire life I’ve made a point to avoid any kind of serious relationship. I don’t like what they do to people.” As he spoke, his fingers gentled on her chin. “Despite that, I find myself wanting something with you. I’m not sure what that something is.”

“I…” She had to press her lips together to stop their trembling.

“You want me to keep my hands off you?” he continued. “Fine, I’ll deal with that,” he said before releasing her chin. “All I’m asking is to spend time with you. Just some time so we can get to know each other. Figure out where we go from here. If anywhere.”

She swallowed around the lump in her throat. With her senses still clouded by desire, she told herself there was no way she could be sure what she thought, what she wanted. Him, her traitorous heart whispered before she could steel her resolve.

In the space of the next dozen heartbeats, a brilliant burst of color flashed before her eyes, bringing with it an image of her and Jackson lying naked together, sweat slicking their flesh as candlelight flickered softly. Lovers. Her nerves vibrated even as the vision vanished like a ghost.

She understood now that what they had begun would not be broken. They were destined to be lovers. And she had no clue if that was what she wanted.

It was to be, she reminded herself. Her heritage had taught her she couldn’t change destiny any more than she could hold back her visions.

Accepting fate, she lifted her gaze to meet his waiting one. “All right, Jackson. I’ll give us some time to get to know each other.”



Hours later, Jackson still wasn’t sure how he was going to manage to keep his hands off Cheyenne.

He would figure out a way, he assured himself, using his forearm to swipe sweat out of his eyes while he knelt on the roof of Hopechest Ranch’s towering horse barn. Overhead, the late afternoon sun beat down with blazing intensity. Waves of heat rose off the cut sheets of metal he’d used to patch hail damage to the structure’s roof. Earlier he’d sweated through his shirt and stripped it off. Now he could feel the beginnings of a sunburn across the back of his neck and shoulders, but he didn’t give the discomfort much thought.

He was thinking about Cheyenne. About what had happened between them that morning on the archery range.

Dammit, he’d been close to getting on his knees and pleading his case. Would have done just that, if that had been what it took to get her to agree to continue seeing him. He shook his head. Never before had he begged a woman for anything, and he wasn’t comfortable with the knowledge he’d been close to that point.

Ready to beg, just so a woman he barely knew would spend time with him!

He thought without smugness of the females who regularly tossed offers at him to join them in bed. He sure as hell didn’t have to beg any of them to spend time with him.

He narrowed his eyes behind the sunglasses that fought a losing battle against the sun’s glare. The problem was, he didn’t want to spend time with just any woman. He wanted Cheyenne James.

The instant edge of desire that had hit him this morning when she pressed her body against his had been so sharp, so blinding that it had made him wonder if there was some outside force that had jumbled his system so thoroughly.

No, he told himself as he hammered a nail through metal into the roof’s wood frame. He couldn’t blame his reaction on some outside force. Whatever change had occurred had taken place inside of him, he needed to accept that. Just as he’d finally accepted the fact he wasn’t going to get the woman out of his head.

So, he had talked her into taking time to get to know him. And he would keep his hands off her. Somehow.

He dug nails out of the tool belt strapped to his waist, clamped them between his teeth. Laying another piece of metal over a sizable hail dent, he positioned a nail, swung his hammer.

That Cheyenne might not give him the chance to touch her again was a thought that hummed in his mind like an unrelenting gnat. He wasn’t a man who in good conscience could let her walk deeper into any kind of a relationship with him without knowing how things stood. During the hours he’d toiled beneath the sun’s searing rays he had made the decision to knock on her front door and lay everything on the table the minute he climbed down off the barn’s roof. What happened after that was up to her.

Once she knew the cops had questioned him about the two attempts on his uncle’s life—and considered him a suspect—she might tell him to get lost.

A fist tightened in his chest. Not until his trip yesterday to L.A. had he realized to what lengths someone had gone to frame him. He had no idea what other bombs sat quietly ticking in the murky shadows, but he suspected there were more. And that they were timed to go off at planned intervals.

As a lawyer, he knew how bad things already looked. Knew his situation would get even worse if the police questioned Cheyenne. Jackson was certain Thad Law would get around to doing that since the cop had given him the impression he was re-interviewing all those who’d attended Joe Colton’s birthday party. It wasn’t hard to envision the gleam that would settle in Law’s eyes when Cheyenne told him she’d seen his prime suspect drop out of sight in almost the same location where, moments later, the person who’d taken a shot at the Colton patriarch had stood.

The anger Jackson had held in since the previous day strained at his control. Dammit, he was innocent—it shouldn’t matter what Cheyenne told the cops. Just because he was at a certain place at a certain time didn’t mean he was guilty. Still, add that to the insurance policy he’d supposedly purchased on his uncle’s life and his knowledge of how to unseat an inept CEO in order for a son to take over a company and its assets, and the pile of circumstantial evidence against him took on an impressive appearance.

Things were going to get a hell of a lot worse—he felt the premonition like footsteps of the devil crawling up his spine.

“Damn miserable job.”

Jackson raised his head from his work, his gaze going to the man kneeling on the roof a few feet away. Sweat saturated Emmett Fallon’s white hair and mustache; his plaid shirt and tan work pants were soaked and clinging to his skin. Emmett had worked as Joe Colton’s right-hand man from the day Colton Enterprises had been founded until earlier that year when he’d retired. Jackson had heard rumors that Emmett’s drinking was the reason his uncle had nudged his longtime friend into early retirement. Emmett’s red-splotched face and bloodshot eyes sent the message that he was still involved with the bottle.

“The heat’s miserable,” Jackson agreed. He glanced around, decided they had a quarter of the roof left to patch. “Guess we’ll have to let Blake talk us into finishing this tomorrow.”

“Guess so.”

Emmett laid down the hammer he’d wielded for the better part of the afternoon and leaned slowly back, as if trying to unstiffen his spine. “Teach me to offer to help out my boy at his place of business.” Emmett pulled off his leather work gloves, then dug a wrinkled pack of cigarettes and lighter from his shirt pocket. “You see Blake up here helping us like he said he’d be?”

Jackson grinned. “I noticed he ran out on us over an hour ago. Didn’t he mention something about being right back when he left to take that phone call?”

“That’s what he said. He probably paid his secretary extra to invent that conference call she said he had.” Emmett lit his cigarette, jabbed the pack and lighter back into his pocket, then expelled a stream of smoke. “I’m not used to manual labor. My back’s aching like a bad tooth.”

“I know the feeling.” Jackson tugged off his leather gloves, stuffed the fingers into the back pockets of his jeans. While he rolled his shoulders to unkink his tired muscles, he gazed out at the view. In the years since he’d moved to San Diego he’d become accustomed to the sight of high-rises and choked highways. Now, he studied the rolling hills covered with emerald green grass where cattle were fattening in pasture, the fields of waving wheat and the occasional pond that gleamed a dazzling blue beneath the sun. In the distance, he could see the edge of the reservation where Cheyenne grew up. Farther off, towering redwoods speared, straight and strong, into the sky.

Jackson wondered if his recent discontent with his job was the reason that the space, the solitude, the land now called to him when it never had before.

He glanced at Emmett who sat quietly puffing on his cigarette. “The other night I was in my uncle’s study. He still has the brass paperweight shaped like an oil rig you gave him when the first wildcat well you dug in Wyoming came in.” Jackson cocked his head. “I bet you and Uncle Joe have some stories to tell.”

“Yeah. Problem is, not all of the facts in our stories jibe.” Emotion flickered in Emmett’s eyes, then disappeared. “Guess that’s to be expected after the passage of forty years. I say we call it a day.”

Just then, Blake Fallon’s head appeared over the eave of the barn’s roof, followed by the rest of him as he deftly scaled the metal ladder that leaned against one side of the barn.

“I was about to suggest that very thing,” Blake said, glancing at his watch. He had worked hours on the roof before he had left to take his call and the jeans and dark shirt that covered his tall, lean frame were close to the same state as the two other men’s. “Sorry I didn’t make it back. The Hopechest Foundation’s attorney decided to go over the annual budget line-item by line-item.”

“Damn lawyers,” Emmett muttered. “Can’t get nothing done because of them.”

Blake winced. “Your timing’s off, Dad. You might want to rethink that statement.”

Emmett glanced at Jackson, his eyes widening as if he’d suddenly remembered Jackson’s profession. Clearing his throat, Emmett crushed out his cigarette on a piece of metal, then rose. “Didn’t mean nothing personal, son.”

“No harm done.” Sliding his hammer through the loop in his tool belt, Jackson grabbed his wrinkled shirt, then stood. He met Blake’s gaze while he swept his hand toward the section of roof behind them. “In case you’re too shy to ask me to come back, I’ll be here tomorrow to help finish the job.”

Blake grinned. “Since I now know I don’t have to resort to blackmail to get that to happen, I’ll have Holly dig your Porsche’s distributor cap out of my desk drawer.”

Jackson chuckled. “You always did know how to work things so they’d go your way.”

“I’m proud to say I learned that from your Uncle Joe,” Blake commented.

“Guess I’ll be back, too, if you want me,” Emmett said, taking cautious steps toward the roof’s edge.

“Of course I do.” Blake turned, a frown furrowing his forehead as he watched his father step onto the ladder. “I appreciate the hard work, Dad. Holly has some fresh lemonade waiting in the office.”

“My tastes run more to cold beer,” the older man said before disappearing out of sight.

Expelling a breath, Blake shoved a hand through his dark hair, then turned to Jackson. “I’m sorry about the remark about lawyers. Dad’s never been one to think before he speaks. I expect you already know that.”

“Not a problem.” Jackson squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “My hide’s been toughened by hundreds of lawyer jokes.”

“A few of which I made up,” Blake added, then grinned. “Thanks for the help today, Jackson. I appreciate it.”

Jackson glanced at the roof where metal lay nailed on top of metal. Despite his aching muscles—and what now promised to be a blazing sunburn—he appreciated the fact he could actually see the results of a hard day’s work. That happened only seldom when he sat behind a desk. Suddenly, he craved more of the space, the openness he’d felt that day.

He looked back at Blake. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“What?”

“You keep your hands off my Porsche and I’ll show up here every day this week to help you with work.”

Blake’s eyes widened. “Do, and I’ll kiss you.”

“Do, and you’re a dead man.”

“You serious, pal?”

“Totally. The Memorial Day competition is something I used to look forward to every summer. I haven’t been to one in years, so I’m due to sweat a little to help you get ready for this one.”

Blake nodded, his expression sliding to somber. “Has something happened that has to do with your job?”

“I took a leave of absence.” Jackson lifted a shoulder. “I’m trying to decide if I want to stay at Colton Enterprises.” He gazed out at the rolling, peaceful landscape. “Hell, I don’t even know if I still want to practice law.”

“I don’t want to get on Joe Colton’s bad side and make him think I’m trying to steal you from behind his back. But if you decide you want to leave Colton Enterprises and still practice law, Hopechest Foundation just lost its attorney who acted as legal advocate for the kids it handles. They want to fill the vacancy within the month.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“That’s all I can ask. How about we get off this roof and have some lemonade?”

“I’m all for getting down from here,” Jackson said, edging his way toward the ladder. “What I’d like in addition to that glass of lemonade is to borrow your shower and a clean shirt. I need to drop by Cheyenne’s house before I head home.”

Blake raised his chin. “I didn’t know that was the way the wind blew around here these days.”

Jackson gripped the top of the ladder, swung a leg around. Pausing, he met his friend’s gaze. “I don’t know if the wind’s blowing that way or not, Blake. Cheyenne and I are trying to figure that out.”

“Well, Cheyenne might have her hands full when you get there.”

“Why’s that?”

“I saw your cousin Sophie pull up to Cheyenne’s house about fifteen minutes ago. I helped her unload a playpen, a diaper bag and a portable swing while Sophie carried Meggie. Seems Aunt Cheyenne is baby-sitting this evening while Sophie attends a meeting and River takes care of one of his mares that went into labor.”

Jackson nodded. He figured he might have to wait until Meggie settled down for one of her frequent naps before he and Cheyenne got to talk.

He would wait however long it took.

Five

Thirty minutes after Sophie Colton James drove her sleek Jaguar away from Cheyenne’s small frame house, three-month-old Meggie James began screeching like a storm-warning siren.

Cheyenne checked her niece’s diaper. Dry, and clean as a whistle. She tried to give Meggie the warmed bottle of breast milk Sophie had packed in the quilted diaper bag. Then the rattle shaped like a fluffy white sheep. All the while, Cheyenne sang a soothing lullaby in her native Mokee-kittuun. Nothing did the trick.

“It’s okay.” Feeling more and more frazzled by the minute, Cheyenne brushed her fingers over soft black curls and continued patting Meggie’s back while she wailed. “It’s okay, angel.”

Wishing fervently for a rocking chair and earplugs, Cheyenne paced her living room, her red-faced, howling niece hugged to her chest.

“She trying to break the sound barrier?”

Cheyenne whirled at the sound of Jackson’s voice coming through the screen door. “I think she’s already done that and is on her way to setting a new record.”

“The obvious question is, did you check her diaper?” Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled open the screen door and stepped inside.

“Yes,” Cheyenne said, then winced when Meggie’s fingers snared in the hair that rained down to her waist. Big mistake, she realized, to not have re-braided her hair after she showered. “Meggie’s diaper is as pristine now as when Sophie put it on her right before she left.”

“Is she hungry?”

“I don’t think so. She didn’t want the bottle I offered. Or the rattle. I sang her a lullaby, but I doubt she heard any of it.”

Gently, Jackson freed Meggie’s tiny fingers from Cheyenne’s hair and nudged the thick fall behind her shoulders. “She for sure has healthy lungs,” he observed. “Want to let me have a shot at her?”

Feeling a scrape at her pride, Cheyenne raised her chin. “Do you know anything about babies?”

He lifted a brow. “I’ve got a ton of younger cousins and foster cousins. At one time or another they all howled like crazed wolverines in my presence. I managed to get them quiet.”

“That makes you the expert here.” Cheyenne transferred the screaming infant into Jackson’s arms. “I wish I knew what was wrong so I could help her.”

“No fever,” he said, touching his fingertips to Meggie’s cheek.

“No, her skin feels cool.”

“Did you check her gums for swelling?”

Cheyenne blinked. “She’s barely three months old. Isn’t she too young to be teething?”

“Who knows? For the sake of our eardrums and to prevent the noise from stampeding every cow within hearing distance, I say we don’t discount anything.”

“Good point.”

“I saw my Aunt Meredith use this trick a couple of times,” he said as he nudged a knuckle against Meggie’s lips. “Come on, sweetheart, try wrapping your gums around this,” he murmured. “That’s my girl,” he added when Meggie drew in a choked breath and began to gnaw.

He nodded toward the diaper bag in the portable crib beside the sofa. “Did Sophie bring something for her to chew on?”

“If she didn’t, I’ll make something,” Cheyenne said. She rummaged through the bag, found a plastic case. Inside was a freezer pack and a couple of teething rings. “Here,” she said a second later, offering one of the taffy-pink rings.

Jackson slipped the cold ring into Meggie’s mouth to replace his finger. Whimpering, she gummed the ring while staring up at him with wide eyes, her tiny face red and tear-streaked.

“This is the first time I’ve kept a baby on my own.” Shoving her hair behind her shoulders, Cheyenne moved to Jackson’s side and peered down at her niece. “Sophie will never let me keep Meggie for a weekend if this is what happens when I have her for less than an hour.”

“Sure she will.” Jackson flashed a grin that Cheyenne felt all the way to her toes. “To cinch the deal, the three of us will swear a secret pact.” He looked down at Meggie and got a drooling smile in return. “Nobody mentions ‘crying jag.’ Got that, doll face?”

Cheyenne was suddenly aware of the tall, lanky man smelling vaguely of soap, his black hair damp and slicked back from his tanned face, his faded work shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows of well-toned arms. And in those arms was a now cooing Meggie, cradled so naturally Cheyenne couldn’t help wonder if he held a baby every day.

Touched at his gentleness, Cheyenne swallowed around the lump in her throat and glanced toward the window where early evening sunlight suffused through gossamer curtains. “I didn’t realize what time it was,” she said, looking back at Jackson. “Did you hear Meggie screaming all the way up on the barn’s roof and decide to come to her rescue before you left for the day?”

“No.” He blew out a breath as the humor abruptly left his eyes. “I planned to drop by and see you. There’s something I want to talk to you about. The sooner, the better.”

The grimness in his eyes made her mouth go dry. Her thoughts scrolled back to the vision that had first sent her to him two nights ago. The gray eyes now staring down into hers looked as hard as those she’d pictured in her mind’s eye.

Her vision had revealed he was in trouble. Instinct told her that trouble was the reason Jackson had come to her.

“We can talk as soon as I get this angel to sleep,” Cheyenne said.

“Fine.” Jackson planted a light kiss on top of Meggie’s head before he passed her to Cheyenne.



While Cheyenne cooed her niece toward sleep, Jackson took the opportunity to check out his surroundings. The living room was small, done in cool clay and cozy warm wood. Pillows in shimmering earth tones lined a tan sofa that looked as if it would welcome afternoon naps. Beneath the window that nudged out onto the house’s front porch sat a table that held a pewter pitcher from which flowers burst with wild and careless color. A rustic hooked rug covered the gleaming, wide-planked oak floor.

Through a door past the couch was a small, neat kitchen where an assortment of baskets and dried herbs hung on wood pegs over the sink. What he supposed was a bedroom lay at the end of the dim hallway to his right.

The house was as tidy as its owner, he decided, shifting his gaze to Cheyenne while she settled Meggie into the portable crib. And as seductive, he thought, taking in the white T-shirt that fell over the swell of her breasts, her legs long and brown and soft coming out of black shorts that skimmed down her slender hips.

He watched in silence as she draped a daffodil-yellow blanket over her niece’s tiny body. When Cheyenne turned from the crib, she absently brushed the heavy fall of black hair from her cheek. His reaction to her transformed to sheer lust, so basic and raw that he took one deliberate step in retreat.

“Is something wrong?” she whispered, her whiskey-dark eyes serious and watchful. Secret eyes, he reminded himself. Would he ever find out what those secrets were?

“No.” Tucking his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans, he waited for the need clawing in his stomach to ease. He had given his word he would keep his hands off her until she wanted them on her again. If she wanted them on her again. He intended to keep his promise…even if it killed him.

“I noticed a couple of chairs on the front porch when I came in,” he said. “Want to talk out there?”

“Fine. We’ll be able to hear Meggie if she wakes up.”

“We’ll hear her, even if we go to Oklahoma to talk,” he commented, then moved to the door and pushed open the screen.

Cheyenne smiled, but her eyes stayed sober as she crossed the room. When she stepped past him onto the porch, Jackson caught the drift of her soft scent and thought again of the tea roses planted in his Aunt Meredith’s garden.

The sun hung low, casting long, graceful shadows across the wooden porch lined with a simple, sturdy rail. Beyond the porch were bushes of yellow roses and a postage-stamp-size lawn edged by a picket fence painted the same soft yellow as the house.

Because he wanted to watch her face, her eyes, Jackson leaned against the rail while she lowered onto one of the wicker chairs padded with floral cushions. The waning summer sunlight turned her skin the color of gold.

“I haven’t offered you anything to drink,” she said. “I have wine, beer.”

“No, thanks. The last drink I had was at my sister’s wedding. It knocked me out cold. I haven’t touched alcohol since.”

“I can make some iced tea.”

“I’d rather talk.”

“Okay.”

He flexed his fingers against his thighs and listened to the soft lowing of cattle that carried on the warm air.

“I’ve spent all day thinking about what happened between us on the archery range,” he began. “I meant it when I told you I’ve never wanted a serious relationship. Never had use for one. Now I’m pretty sure that’s what I want with you.”

He watched nerves slide into her eyes, and silently cursed the man in her past who had hurt her so deeply.

“Jackson, I told you I don’t know if that’s what I want. I just don’t know. And I won’t be pushed where I don’t choose to go.”

“I’m not pushing. I understand you’ve been hurt. You want to take things slow. I’m content with that, for now.”

“For now?”

He raised a dark brow at the challenge in her voice. “For as long as you need,” he amended. It wasn’t often a beautiful woman insisted he keep his distance. Doing so was taking some getting used to.

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and regarded him across the span of the porch. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“I’m getting there.” He shifted his gaze past the picket fence to the gravel road that dipped and curved around soft rises of green. In the distance he could see the house that doubled as Blake Fallon’s office. Beyond that were the barns, stable, paddocks and weathered post-and-rail fence that marked the property line.

Not for the first time that day, he wondered if a big-city lawyer could find contentment in a ranch’s open spaces.

“Jackson, where have you gone?”

Cheyenne’s soft question brought his gaze back to hers. “Sorry.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what you came here to say?”

“All right. We want to get to know each other. That won’t happen unless we’re up-front about things.”

“Up front.” Beneath her T-shirt, he saw her shoulders stiffen. “About what?”

“Everything.” Taking a deep breath, he crossed his arms over his chest, then dove in. “Are you aware that the same person who tried to kill my Uncle Joe at his birthday party made a second attempt about four months ago?”

“Yes, Sophie told me. She said her dad was in his bedroom, getting dressed for dinner. Just as he bent to tie his shoe, a bullet crashed through one of the windows.”

“Right. It was my bad luck that I chose that day to drive up from San Diego. I pulled into the driveway a few minutes after the shooting occurred.”

Cheyenne tilted her head. “Why was that bad luck for you?”

“Because the Prosperino cops—Detective Thad Law in particular—think I’m the person who made both attempts on my Uncle Joe’s life.”

Jackson had the satisfaction of seeing sheer astonishment settle in her face. “They… He what?”

“As far as I know, I’m Law’s prime suspect.”

“Why? Why would he even think that?”

“Last time we spoke, he had three reasons. First, if my uncle dies, my father inherits Colton Enterprises. That includes all of its assets if he exercises his option to purchase Uncle Joe’s stock.” Jackson paused, his thoughts veering to his father’s lack of remorse over sleeping with his aunt and fathering Teddy—the son Graham could never acknowledge as his own. Then there was the two million dollars in blackmail Graham had readily agreed to pay Meredith to ensure she kept the name of Teddy’s father secret.

“My father and I have never been what you would call close,” Jackson continued. “Our relationship has gotten even shakier lately. Let’s just say Graham Colton has the brains to run the company, but not the heart. With him at the helm, it wouldn’t be long before he’d have Colton Enterprises in financial trouble. Big trouble.”

“How would your father’s inheriting the company be reason for you to try to kill your uncle? You don’t directly profit if Joe Colton dies.”

“At first, I didn’t get Detective Law’s implication either. Then he brought up a lawsuit I filed years ago, right after I passed the bar. The suit was on behalf of a friend whose father had gotten hooked on drugs and alcohol and was in the process of bankrupting the family’s business. The court ruled in my friend’s favor, which resulted in his father’s removal as CEO. The son took over control of the company. Law pointed out that my being attorney of record on the case proves I know how to legally put the reins of Colton Enterprises into my own hands if Uncle Joe were to die.”

“Knowing that doesn’t prove you tried to kill him,” Cheyenne said quietly.

“You’re right, it doesn’t. Law and I both know he’s basically blowing smoke on that point.” Jackson raised a shoulder. “The second reason he gave for considering me his prime suspect is more problematic. About three weeks ago, a man who apparently could be my twin walked into the office of a Los Angeles insurance company. Using my name, he purchased a one-million-dollar insurance policy on Uncle Joe’s life.”

“It wasn’t you?”

“It wasn’t me.”

A crease formed between Cheyenne’s dark brows. “The second attempt on your uncle’s life happened months ago. The one at his birthday party was almost a year ago. If you planned to gain by his death, you’d have had to take out the policy before the attempts.”

“I pointed that out to Thad Law. He seems to think the two attempts were intended to be just that—attempts. My alleged motive for buying the policy at this late date is that all along I’ve planned to take a third shot at Uncle Joe. And I’ll make sure that one hits the target.”

Cheyenne blinked. “Could you do that? Are you that good of a shot?”

Jackson gave her a grim smile. “Growing up, I spent all my summers on my aunt and uncle’s ranch. I practiced target shooting, hunted, put down injured cattle and horses. I’m as accurate with a gun as you are with a bow and arrow. That’s another bit of information about me Law picked up. If anything, the cop is thorough.”

“Is this insurance policy the reason you went to L.A. yesterday?”

“Yes. I planned to walk into the insurance company, introduce myself to the agent who sold the policy, then get him to admit it wasn’t me whom he’d done business with a couple of weeks ago.”

Jackson shoved a hand through his hair. Twenty-four hours later, his stomach felt just as sick as it had when he’d ended his meeting with the agent.

“The man insisted I’m the person who took out the policy on my uncle’s life. The signature on that policy looks enough like mine that I’d be a fool to give the cops a voluntary handwriting sample for comparison.”

“If it wasn’t you who bought the policy, who did?”

“Los Angeles is full of starving actors and celebrity look-alikes. I imagine it would be easy to find an actor so desperate for money that he’d impersonate someone for a couple of hours and not ask questions about why he was hired to do the gig. The risk of doing so would be minimal.”

“Because he was disguised to look like you no one could identify him.”

“Only the person who hired him, who isn’t likely to talk since doing so would implicate him or her in the scam,” Jackson concurred. “Chances are, the guy who pretended to be me couldn’t have fooled someone who knew me, but that’s not what he needed to do. The insurance agent had never laid eyes on me—the real me—until yesterday. The man who walked into his office and handed him a cashier’s check told him he was Jackson Colton. The agent didn’t have reason to think otherwise.”

“So, where were you when the policy was purchased? Can you prove you were somewhere else? With someone?”

“It was a couple of days before my sister’s wedding. I was here, in Prosperino. I had a lot of thinking to do that day, so I got up early, left without telling anyone where I was going and just drove. I paid cash for my gas and meals. If I had known I would need an alibi, I’d have made sure I had one.”

Cheyenne nodded, her gaze locked with his. “You said Detective Law has three reasons to suspect you. What’s the third?”

“It’s the most damaging,” Jackson said while dread tightened his chest. “And it involves you.”

“Me? How could it involve me?”

“At the birthday party I told you I was going to refill our glasses so we could toast Uncle Joe. When I left you, I headed across the courtyard to take a shortcut to the bar through the service hallway. Right before I stepped into the hallway, I glanced across my shoulder. You were watching me. I liked knowing that.”

“Yes, I watched you.” Her cheeks blushing, she dropped her gaze to the fingers she’d entwined in her lap. “I remember hoping you wouldn’t be gone too long.”

“I had every intention of getting back to you in a hurry.” He hesitated. “Cheyenne, has Detective Law questioned you about what happened that night?”

“No, not Law. None of the guests could leave until they’d given a statement to the police. I gave mine to a uniformed officer. He asked if I had noticed anyone acting suspicious, if I’d seen anyone with a gun. Things like that.”

“From what I gather, now that Law suspects me, he’s re-interviewing everyone who was there that night. He’ll probably get to you soon.”

“Which will be a waste of his time. I didn’t see who fired the shot at your uncle.”

“No, but you did see me near the service hallway. You did watch me disappear inside.”

“Yes. So?”

“So, did you keep watching the hallway after that?”

“No.” She frowned, as if pulling back memories of that night. “I started talking to Rebecca Powell. Then Rafe came up,” she said after a moment. “Not long after that, we heard the gunshot and Rafe dragged us to the floor.” She raised a hand, palm up. “How am I involved in this, Jackson? Is it because I can give you an alibi for where you were right before the shooting?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” he said, his mouth curving into a sardonic arch. “And I wish that were the reason I’m here talking to you, but it’s not. The police have determined the trajectory of the bullet fired at Uncle Joe. They know that whoever shot at him stood a few feet from the entrance to the service hallway. You can place me near there right before the shooting.”

“I can also say that I saw you go into the hallway.”

“Then you shifted your attention to Rebecca. You wouldn’t know if I’d stepped back out seconds later, pulled a gun and shot at Uncle Joe.”

He saw the flash in her eyes as awareness settled in. “I guess it would be safe to say that your situation is likely to get worse if I tell Detective Law where I saw you and when.”

“That about sums things up.”

“I see.”

She rose, walked to the far end of the porch and stood, arms crossed over her chest, to stare out at the small lawn. Her hair rained down her back, as black as a moonless night.

“So, here you are,” she said after a moment. “Jackson Colton, who professes to have never wanted a serious relationship with a woman, claims to suddenly want one with me.”

“I do—”

“Is it just a happy coincidence that I’m the one woman who can maybe prevent you from going to jail if I keep my mouth shut about where I saw you that night?”

He closed his eyes. As an attorney, he had anticipated her reaction. As a man whose feelings for her seemed to deepen by the minute, he’d dreaded it. He shifted against the rail, then settled back again to study her profile.

“I didn’t come here to try to sweet-talk you into keeping me out of jail.”

“Really?” She turned and gave him a steady stare. Her burnished skin carried a flush of anger; her mouth had thinned. Jackson saw the full power of her heritage in her face. “A woman involved in a serious relationship might think twice before implicating her lover in an attempted murder.”

“Am I going to be your lover, Cheyenne?”

Her chin rose. “That’s exactly what you tried to become this morning. But you discovered I’m not a woman who’s easily seduced. Your Plan A didn’t work. You’ve had all day to come up with a new course of action. Is this Plan B, Jackson? Have you come here this evening, expecting to cajole me into not telling the police where I saw you?”

Understanding her reaction didn’t stop anger from churning inside him. Jaw set, he pushed off the rail and walked across the porch to face her.

“Listen to me,” he said, forcing a steadiness into his voice he was far from feeling. “I didn’t want what happened between us this morning to stop with a kiss. I’m sure that was obvious. I want you, Cheyenne. Every time I see you, get close to you, smell you, that need deepens. Like now.”

“I…” When she took a step back, he took one forward. “I don’t want—”

“I do,” he continued quietly. “I want to take you someplace quiet where the only light comes from flickering candles.” Slowly, his eyes skimmed over her face, lingering on each feature. “I want to drink sweet wine with you and listen to you sigh while I peel every piece of clothing off your body. Then I want to make love with you until I’m the only man who ever has, or will, exist for you. That’s what I want, Cheyenne.”

Her lips parted, trembled. “Don’t. I can’t think straight when you say things like that.”

“Good, because I’m having a hard time thinking straight when I get around you, too.” He blew out a breath. “My kissing you this morning had nothing to do with the problems I’ve got with the police. And I’m not here now to try to ‘cajole’ you into keeping quiet when Thad Law contacts you. I expect you to tell the man the truth about that night, just like I did.”

She slicked her tongue over her lips. “You want me to tell him I can place you in almost the exact spot as the person who fired a shot at your uncle?”

“Hell, no, I don’t want that.” Jackson jabbed a hand through his hair. “But it’s the truth, so there’s nothing I can do to change it. I didn’t try to kill my uncle that night. I was halfway to the bar when I heard the shot. I ran back into the courtyard where all hell had broken loose. It’s my bad luck no one saw me in that hallway. Just like it was my bad luck months later to be alone when the bastard took a second shot at Uncle Joe. Those are facts I have to deal with. Just like I’ve dealt for almost a year with thoughts playing in my head of the time you and I spent together at the birthday party.”

“Maybe I…” Her voice was ragged, unsteady.

“Maybe you what?”

Dragging in a breath, she wrapped her arms around her waist. “There’s no maybes about it. Since that night, I’ve dealt with those same kind of thoughts about you.”

Jackson acknowledged the streak of primitive male satisfaction that came with her words. “So, maybe you understand why I’m asking for a chance at a relationship with you?” he asked evenly. “There’s a reason we’ve stuck in each other’s heads, Cheyenne. Maybe you’d like to know that reason as much as I would?”

“Maybe. Maybe just the thought of knowing scares me.”

“Doesn’t do much for my nerves, either. Hell.” He ran his hands over his face, then gave her a considering look. “I have to say, though, that taking time to get to know each other does have its intriguing moments.”

Her eyes came to his, dark and curious. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, you’re tougher than you look. There’s a streak of steel inside you.”

“I take after my mother in many ways. Her people were warriors.”

A fact, he thought, that only heightened her underlying mystique that had fascinated him since the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

He studied her profile, both angular and soft. “Despite all that’s going on, I consider myself lucky.”

“Lucky?” She slanted him a look. “The police suspect you of trying to murder your uncle. Twice. What could you possibly find lucky about that?”

“When I have a lot of thinking to do, I take in a movie. Losing myself in front of the big screen usually helps me work things out.” Without thinking, he raised a hand, intending to slide his palm down the tempting length of all that silky black hair. Remembering his promise to her, he let his hand drop to his side.

“I went to the movie the other night after I left the police station,” he added softly. “When I walked out of the theater, there you were. Lucky for me.”

“Lucky,” Cheyenne repeated softly, then drew in a quiet breath. She’d had no idea a man could entice so deeply, so completely with mere words. Not until Jackson’s voice had skimmed along her flesh, leaving a heated trail of magic with promises of candlelight, wine and seduction. She hadn’t known how intimately he could touch her, without ever laying a hand on her.

Oh, how she wanted to pull those words to her heart, hold them close. Yet, she couldn’t. Couldn’t let down the barrier that protected all she was. Couldn’t let her deepening feelings for him take root in her scarred heart.

“I appreciate you telling me about the police,” she said quietly. “About their suspicions.”

“I don’t want secrets between us.”

His words tightened her throat. He had come to her and bared the truth. Yet she would not afford him the same openness about her gift.

The sun setting at his back cast shadows over his face, darkened his eyes to the color of pewter. “I didn’t try to kill my uncle. I hope someday you’ll know me well enough to believe that.”

Cheyenne struggled to get a grip on her tumbling emotions. The hurt that had ignited her anger and wounded her pride just moments ago had clouded her thinking. After the police had questioned Jackson, after he knew the harm she might bring to him, he had not sought her out, intent on seducing her into silence. Instead, he had gone to the movie theater.

Where fate had sent her in search of him.

She closed her eyes. With the first breath she’d drawn she had understood that she possessed the power to help people, that her gift of sight was linked solely to goodness. She had been sent to Jackson because he was in trouble. Because somehow, someway, it was in her power to help him.

Because he’s innocent.

Looking up, she met his eyes calmly, so that he would understand she spoke the truth. “I believe you, Jackson. I know you didn’t try to kill your uncle.”

His eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“I just do.”

He shook his head. “Not good enough, Cheyenne. This morning you were ready to walk away because you hardly know me. Now you’re taking my word I didn’t try to kill Uncle Joe. What’s changed?”

“Nothing.” She tilted her head. “I see the truth in your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“Yes.”

He stared down at her, his brow creasing. “I suspect this is one of those situations where it’s best to quit while I’m ahead.”

“I’d say so.” She gazed out at the small lawn where a slate-blue twilight had settled. “Do you have any idea who’s made the two attempts on your uncle’s life?”

“No. Find him or her, and you’ll find the person who’s gone to a hell of a lot of trouble to set me up to take the fall for two attempted murders.” As he spoke, his hands clenched into fists, unclenched. “Whoever that is, isn’t finished with me. I can feel there’s more to come. Dammit, it’s like walking through a field infested with snakes. You know they’re there, but there’s no way to predict where they’ll strike next.”

And she couldn’t see them, Cheyenne thought. She could not will the visions that came to her any more than she could change what she saw.

The wind picked up, whispering the secrets of the coming night. Absently, she rubbed her hands along her arms to ward off the chill. Although she was still uncertain how fate intended her to help the man standing beside her, she knew, with time, the answers would come. They always came.

“You’re cold,” he said quietly.

She looked up, unaware he’d been studying her. “A little.” She glanced across her shoulder toward the front door they’d left ajar. “I should check to make sure Meggie hasn’t wiggled out from under her blanket.”

“Probably should,” he agreed, keeping his eyes on hers. “Now that you know there might be a jail cell in my future, do you still want time to get to know me?”

The vision that had come to her that morning replayed in her mind like a seductive phantom. She and Jackson, lying together on cool sheets while candlelight flickered softly against their heated flesh. He wanted to give her candlelight and warm, sweet wine.

Cheyenne felt her chest tighten. Even as her mind cautioned her to go slow, desire poured through her.

“If I told you I changed my mind about getting to know you, would that keep you away?”

“No,” he answered instantly. “I’d have to try to overrule whatever objections you had to my presence. And I’ll be present a lot, because I volunteered to help Blake get this ranch ready for the Memorial Day competition. Starting tomorrow, I’m staying in one of the spare rooms in his house. Since I can’t seem to keep away from you, why don’t you plan on seeing me tomorrow night?” He flashed her a grin. “In case you can’t tell, I’m trying to cajole you into letting me take you to dinner.”

Cheyenne fought a smile. He had walked into her life two days ago, and already so much had changed. Just, she supposed, as it was meant to.

She walked across the porch, pulled open the screen door, then met his gaze across her shoulder. “I’ll cook. Dinner will be ready at seven. Don’t be late.”

“I’ll be here.”

Six

For the next five days, most of the work done on Hopechest Ranch was geared toward getting ready for the Memorial Day all-around rodeo competitions. During that time Jackson worked beside Emmett Fallon to finish repairs on the roof of the horse barn, then they plied similar labor to the stables. After that, Jackson supervised a paint crew consisting of Johnny Collins and several other Hopechest Ranch teens while they swiped brushes and rollers dipped in glistening white paint over the dorm-style lodge known as the “Homestead,” the counseling center and expansive dining hall. Working beside a grizzled ranch hand, Jackson restrung more barbed wire than he knew had existed. He’d even labored over a tractor that threw a rod.

During the years he’d spent in law school, then sitting behind a desk in a climate-controlled office, he’d forgotten the grueling, exhausting work that went hand-in-hand with the operation of a ranch.

And the satisfaction derived from doing that work.

Even falling into bed each night with new blisters, scrapes and muscles that ached from the inside out didn’t dampen that feeling of satisfaction.

Now, as Memorial Day dawned in hazy swirls of pinks and gold, he stood on the porch of Blake Fallon’s combination home and office, wishing he felt the same contentment with his life as he did with the work he’d done over the past days.

Sipping coffee from the thick mug he’d carried from the kitchen, he acknowledged that his peaceful surroundings were in direct contrast to the churning going on inside him. The time was fast approaching when he would have to make decisions. Some with life-changing impact.

Just the thought of returning to his job in San Diego made his brow furrow. Working with his father no longer held appeal. In truth, the only thing that had kept Jackson at the law offices of Colton Enterprises over the past months was the loyalty he felt to his uncle.

Joe Colton had phoned several times to assure his nephew he was under no obligation to stay in a job for which he no longer had any heart. Jackson knew those calls had been made to ease the guilt he felt that came with the thought of walking away from the business his uncle had built with his own grit and sweat.

If he decided to move on, Jackson knew he also had to figure out if he wanted to continue practicing law. Or try something new. If that were the case, he had no idea what the hell that something would be. Or where it might take him.

He shifted his gaze down the gravel road while a distant rooster crowed a greeting to the dawn. Through the early morning haze, he could see the outline of the simple frame house that sat amid the other small houses in which the ranch’s counseling staff resided.

For the past five evenings, he had knocked on the door of Cheyenne’s pale yellow house. Twice, she’d opted to cook, so they’d eaten dinner in. They’d driven into Prosperino and dined at dim, elegant restaurants. Last night he’d charmed the ranch’s cook into packing a basket of sandwiches, potato salad and apricot cobbler. He and Cheyenne had driven to the coast, spread a blanket on an empty stretch of beach and shared the meal while the moon slid into the sky to cast pale light on the sea.

To Jackson, it hadn’t much mattered if they’d stayed in or gone out. As long as they were together. He just wanted—needed—to be with her.