Karen Hughes - Wed to the Witness p.05

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.

She felt the man’s emotions as surely as if they were her own—grief, fear and hatred. Searing hatred, years old and vicious in strength.

Cold struck her like a knife, cutting through her clothes and into her flesh. Terror dug sharp claws into her throat.

Her breath sobbed through her lips; the quick, instinctive fear of a cornered victim had her lunging to her feet. Rocking a bit, she clung to the chair, waiting for her heart to slide back down in her throat while she dragged in quick gulps of air.

She closed her eyes, desperate to freeze the vision in her mind, to see the man, his face. The black, hazy image.

All were gone, like letters wiped off a chalkboard.

“You’ll come back to me,” she whispered, her raw voice trembling. “You have to come back.”

Tears welled up, ran in hot rivulets down her cheeks. She loved Jackson and she needed to help him, had been sent to help him. But so far, she’d done nothing. He was her husband, charged with crimes he didn’t commit, facing prison, maybe for life.

Her gaze dropped to her left hand, clenched into a fist against the chair’s back. The gold band Jackson had placed there blurred through her tears. He had not married her out of love, she reminded herself, but out of a need to protect her. Protect her. She was the one with the gift, the legacy. It was on her shoulders to protect him. She had failed.

No, she instantly countered, battling control back into place. Not failed. She just hadn’t yet succeeded.

She lifted her trembling hands to her face and wiped away her tears. She was trying too hard. Attempting to force the vision to come to her when she had learned long ago that no measure of force could stir those things she saw in her mind’s eye. Still, that knowledge didn’t stop the weight of all the sleepless hours from descending around her. She rubbed her burning eyes and struggled to clear her brain. Useless, she told herself. She was so tired, she could no longer gather up the force to focus her concentration.

“There you are,” Jackson said as he swung open one of the study’s double doors. “What are you doing in here in the dark?”

She took a deep breath, made one last attempt at swiping away the wetness from her cheeks. She would not let him see that she was terrified for him.

“I fell asleep.” It was close to the truth, she told herself, forcing her mouth to curve when he flicked on the overhead lights.

“You’ve been crying.” His expression clouded as he walked to her. “And you look exhausted.”

“I’m fine.”

He nudged her braid behind her shoulder. “Meredith has tranquilizers. You should take one tonight so you can sleep.”

“No.” She knew in her heart that the vision would return, perhaps tonight. The man would come back. She had to step into the vision, go beyond the light to the dark shadows. She could not do that with a mind dulled by tranquilizers.

“Cheyenne—”

“Trust me.” She reached up, cupped a hand against his jaw. “I have to do this my way, Jackson. My way.”

“Your way is to wear yourself out?” Beneath her palm, she felt a muscle tick in his jaw. “To exhaust yourself to the point that the shadows under your eyes have shadows? To agonize so much that you lose weight? All because of me, dammit. You think that’s easy for me to swallow?”

She measured the mix of anger and frustration in his eyes and realized how helpless he must feel. “I don’t think any of this is easy for you.” She closed her eyes, opened them. “Things are the way they have to be. Fate doesn’t alter its course, or change its speed, just because we wish it to.”

He opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut when Rand walked in. “Good, you’re both here.”

The attorney closed the door behind him. He strode behind the desk that he’d commandeered from his father and settled into the high-backed leather chair.

The grim set of Rand’s mouth put a hard lump of dread in Cheyenne’s stomach. She dropped her hand from Jackson’s jaw and turned to face the desk. “Has something happened?”

“I’ve got the faxed reports from my experts.”

Jackson crammed his hands into the pocket of his slacks. “I take it from the look on your face the news isn’t good.”

“The results pretty much match the evidence the police say they have.” Rand shuffled through papers. “The document examiner states that the signature on the insurance policy is close enough to your own that he can’t say it isn’t yours. All he can say is the comparison is inconclusive.”

“Hell,” Jackson muttered. “What about ballistics?”

“Tests confirm the Luger the police recovered from the Dumpster is the gun used in both attempts on Dad’s life. There’s no record the Luger has ever been registered to anyone.”

“And the fingerprints on the Luger?” Jackson asked evenly.

Rand paused. “They’re yours.”

“Dammit, they can’t be!”

“They are.”

“There’s no way in hell I’ve ever touched that Luger.”

“There is some way, and we need to figure it out.” Rand’s dark brows slid together. “Here’s where things get interesting. My expert used Super-Glue to fume the Luger.”

“Fume?” Cheyenne asked.

Rand nodded. “Fumes from Super Glue react to components in human perspiration. Your skin leaves traces of your perspiration behind on anything you touch. Labs have glass tanks in which they place items needed to be analyzed for fingerprints. The tanks are filled with fumes from Super Glue. Those fumes, which adhere to ridge detail, appear after a few minutes as a white latent fingerprint.”

Rand looked back at Jackson. “Except for your exact prints, the gun is absolutely clean. Like somebody wiped it before you picked it up—”

“I didn’t pick it up—”

“Or printed your fingerprints onto the Luger when you were unaware. There are no smears or partials or smudges on the gun’s background surface like there should be when someone handles something. There’s just one set of very clear prints. Too clear, too careful. They have to be deliberate.”

Cheyenne stepped to the desk. “Are you saying someone pressed Jackson’s hand around the gun?”

“That’s the logical assumption.”

Jackson settled his palms against the top of the desk and leaned in. “You want to tell me how come I don’t know about that?”

“I’m working on it,” Rand stated. “What about a medical condition? Have you ever blacked out? Woken up and not known how you wound up there?”

“No.”

“Ever seen a doctor for any symptoms even remotely resembling those?”

“No.”

“All right.” Brow furrowed, Rand stared down at the papers spread across the desk. “We’re missing something. We’ve overlooked the piece that will put this puzzle together so it makes sense.”

Jackson shoved a hand through his dark hair. “It looks like I’ll have plenty of time to work on that when I’m locked in a cell.”

“Cousin, I’ve got a hell of a lot more plays to make before that happens. I don’t care how well this was planned, there’s no way the person who pulled off this setup could think of everything. No matter how well he or she covered themselves, there’s some way they’re not covered. The devil is in the details. Mistakes, accidents or random chance can ruin even the best-planned crime. Trust me, there are too many details on this setup for the person to have anticipated them all. We’ll find what we need. Eventually.”

Cheyenne slid a look at Jackson. She saw the tension in the way he held his shoulders, the strain about his eyes.

Rand glanced at his watch, then rose. “Time for me to hole up in my bedroom and call Lucy before it gets too late. Let’s meet back here first thing in the morning. We’ll put our heads together on this and come up with something.”

Cheyenne waited until Rand closed the door behind him, then placed her hand on Jackson’s arm. She could feel the frustration, the sense of helplessness shimmering inside him. “Rand’s right, Jackson. You can’t give up hope.”

“Too late, babe.” Shaking off her touch, he turned and paced to the far end of the study, where he stood before a bookcase with several shelves crowded with framed photographs. “I’m already there. Somebody decided I should take the fall for two attempted murders. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

The certainty in his voice had her heart thudding in her throat. “No, you’re not. Not if I can help it.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “You must have faith. The answer will come, you have to believe.”

He stared at the photographs for a long, silent moment, then turned to face her. His gray eyes were dark, unreadable. “What I have to do is start thinking about spending the rest of my life in prison.” He angled his head. “And while we’re on the subject, it’s time you accept how bad things are. I know you believe you’ll see the answer I need, but I’m not counting on that. Neither should you. There’s too much evidence against me. I don’t have an alibi for the time of either shooting. My fingerprints are on the Luger. No vision is going to change those facts. Period.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “You don’t believe in my visions?”

“Hell, yes, I believe in them. I just don’t happen to have much faith in this particular one you say you’re having.”

“I say I’m having?”

“That came out wrong.” Swiping a hand across his face, he walked to her. “I know you want to help get me out of this jam. You have no idea what that means to me. But I can’t stand watching you tear yourself apart because you feel some obligation to help me.” He reached out, settled a hand on her forearm. “Just because you believe something will happen doesn’t mean it will. All you’re doing is wearing yourself out. Losing weight. Sitting in here in the dark, crying. All on my account.” As he spoke, his fingers tightened on her arm and he gave her a small shake. “Dammit, you need to think about yourself. You need to back off. Accept the inevitable before you make yourself sick.”

“You don’t believe.” A razor sharp blade of hurt pierced her heart. She took a step back, then another, forcing him to drop his hand. “You don’t believe the answer you need will come to me. You don’t believe in my gift.”

“Dammit, quit twisting my words around.” He moved forward; impatience flicked in his eyes when she retreated backward two more steps. He raised a hand, took a deep breath. “All I’m saying is that you need to think about yourself. From where I’m standing, there’s no way out of this for me. I could wind up in prison for years. For the rest of my life, maybe. We’ll both be better off if we accept that. Deal with it. Then figure out where to go from there.”

“Do you think I’m playing parlor games here?” Her chin lifted while anger boiled through her like water in a pot. “That maybe for my next trick I’ll pull a rabbit out of a hat?”

His brows drew together. “What?”

She fisted her hands, her muscles taut enough to snap. “Do you think my gift works according to some schedule? Demand an answer, then immediately get one?”

Wariness slid into his eyes. “I guess I don’t understand exactly how it works.”

“I guess you don’t.” It hurt to think about everything she felt for him. Everything she had begun to wish for. “And there’s something else you obviously don’t understand, Jackson. From day one, I believed in you. In your innocence. Do you know why? Because a vision sent me to you. I trusted it. Believed in it. Just like I believed in you. Totally.” She set her jaw. The sense of betrayal was huge, overwhelming. “All I ever asked of you was equal belief in me.”

“I do believe—”

“Not enough,” she said in a voice that had gone very cool. Very calm. “Not fully. And that’s what matters.”

“Cheyenne, please.”

She turned, walked to the door, then paused and gave him a searing look across her shoulder. She had given him her heart, and now it was bleeding. She could feel it.

“I can’t—won’t—be with a man who doesn’t accept me for what I am.”

Twelve

Jackson discovered that a man could lose his mind in the space of a single night.

After Cheyenne had walked out on him in the study, he spent hours prowling the dark house and grounds, searching for her. Her white Mustang had remained parked in its usual spot near the five-car garage. When questioned, none of the security team on patrol had caught a glimpse of her. He couldn’t even spot her with the help of his uncle’s state-of-the-art video system that surveilled all of Hacienda de Alegria, including the stables, barns and other buildings. Having run out of places to look, he had gone to their room, where he’d tossed restlessly in bed until dawn. Waiting for her.

Even now, as he sat brooding in his uncle’s study, he told himself what had happened between them was best. If he was going to prison, this was as good a time as any for Cheyenne to pull away. To avoid him. To not even step one foot into their bedroom the whole damn night.

A vicious case of frustration had him surging to his feet, roaming the length of the paneled room. He was going out of his mind with worry. And fear. He closed his eyes on the image of her walking away from their marriage, from him, but that didn’t stop white-hot panic from burning through his belly.

It didn’t seem to matter that he had resolved to walk away from her if he wound up in prison. In his mind, the situation was different. Totally. It was a way—the only way—for him to protect the woman he loved so that she didn’t waste her life waiting for a man who could never give her anything but heartbreak.

He had not considered that he would die on the inside if she were the one who turned her back.

He paced to the study’s far wall then back again, scrubbing his hands over his whisker-stubbled face while guilt and misery rolled through him. His mind was so fatigued that he wasn’t sure he was even thinking logically. How the hell could he think when in all his life he had never been so afraid? That fear had nothing to do with the prospect of going to prison and everything to do with the fact he might never again step into Cheyenne’s arms and feel her complete, unconditional acceptance.

Which was all that she had ever asked of him.

He cursed himself for the idiotic way he’d handled things. More precisely, fumbled them. She had trusted him with all that she was. Opened herself to him. All he’d done was show doubt, try to convince her the gift that was her legacy, a part of her soul, couldn’t be counted on.

Dammit, he did believe in her. In her visions. All he had to do was make her understand that. He was an attorney, adept at delicate negotiations. The minute he saw her he would force—no, request—that she sit with him, then he would calmly ask if a man who was about to have a mountain of irrefutable evidence avalanche on him shouldn’t be allowed to voice a momentary lack of faith. Surely he could compel her to view the situation reasonably, and admit it was human nature for him to have doubts, even if she had never once doubted him.

“Lame, Colton,” he muttered as he paced the length of the room. “Totally lame.”

Okay, he would forgo the attempt at logic, and beg. Promise to do whatever it took to make things right again. Swear he would never again doubt her and all she was.

The sound of the study door opening had him jerking around in midstride. Hope that Cheyenne would walk through the door died like a flamed-out match when Rand stepped into view, a mug of steaming coffee in one hand. Jackson filled the air with a stream of graphic oaths.

Rand raised a brow. “I sense I’m not who you wanted to see.”

“Nailed that one, counselor.”

Rand moved to the front of the desk, leaned against it and sipped his coffee. His speculative gaze met Jackson’s over the mug’s rim. “You look like hell.”

“Since I’m headed there, I’ll fit right in.”

“I told you, we’ve got a lot of hands to play before you need to worry about going to prison.”

“To hell with prison.” Striding to the desk, Jackson took the mug from Rand’s hand and swallowed a gulp. The coffee scalded his tongue. “Dammit, I’m talking about Cheyenne.”

“Ah.” Rand glanced around the room. “Where is your lovely bride?”

“You tell me.”

“You lost her?”

“She lost herself.”

“I’m not lost.”

The sound of Cheyenne’s voice jerked Jackson’s head around. His heart shot into his throat when he saw her face, pale as ice, her bloodless lips. Her hair rained messily down her shoulders; her black blouse and slacks made her look desperately thin, as fragile as glass.

He shoved the mug at Rand, who staggered sideways to avoid the coffee that sloshed over the rim and onto the wood floor.

“Where have you been?” Jackson reached her in two strides, grabbing her forearms as if to confirm she was really there. His stomach knotted when he felt her tremble against his touch. “Are you all right? We need to talk.”

“Not now.”

“Cheyenne—”

“I see the gun.” She stared up into his face, her eyes dark and hard. Lines of exhaustion etched the corners of her mouth. “In my vision. The dark shape—it’s a gun. He wears dark clothing, like a hunter’s. The gun is against his waist, slipped beneath a brown leather belt.”

“Come sit down.” Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Jackson drew her across the study to the leather couch. She was shaking so badly he was afraid her legs would give out.

“This is the man who tried to kill Uncle Joe?” he asked after he’d nudged her back onto the cushions. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Rand had moved to the bar and was adding a shot of whiskey to the coffee.

“Yes. He hates your uncle. Viciously. The hate has festered for years.”

Crouching beside the couch, Rand slid the mug into her hands. “Drink this,” he said quietly. “It should make you feel steadier.”

“Thank you.” Cheyenne took a sip. Then another. “Rand, he hasn’t given up trying to kill your father. He still wants to. There’s security here now. The patrols. That’s why he hasn’t tried again. He’s just waiting.”

Rand angled his chin. “Do you know who the man is?”

“No.” She closed her eyes, opened them. “I can’t see his face. I tried. All night, I tried….” Her voice hitched. “It’s not Jackson. Even though I can’t see the man’s face, I know it isn’t Jackson.”

“Cheyenne…” Jackson’s heart turned over at the thought of how carelessly he’d handled her faith in him. He cupped his palm against her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

She shifted away. He wouldn’t exactly describe it as a cringe, but it was close enough to lock his jaw.

“In my vision, I see the gun clearly,” she said after a moment. “The metal is dark, its barrel long and thin. It’s older, carries marks of use. It has a notch—one notch—in the top of its grip.”

Jackson felt his throat close. He pictured Thad Law, holding the plastic bag that shrouded the Luger. Even through the plastic, he had noticed the distinctive notch in the Luger’s grip.

“A notch.” Rand’s voice remained even although his eyes had widened. Jackson knew his cousin had read the description of the Luger in both the police report and the information Rand had received from his ballistics expert. He would have read about the notch in the Luger’s grip.

He and Rand exchanged a silent look. Jackson shook his head to indicate he hadn’t described the gun to Cheyenne.

Her brow furrowed as she stared down into the coffee’s golden depths. “I have seen the man before, standing with his hand fisted at his waist, sunlight reflecting off the gun’s metal. I’ve seen him in this setting.” She lifted a hand, rubbed at her temple as if to massage an ache. “I just don’t have a sense of being there. Of being near him.”

Jackson wanted to reach for her hand, but he was afraid she would pull away again. “You’ve seen this?” he asked. “Not just pictured it in your mind?”

Her gaze slowly rose to meet his. “Yes.”

Rand stood. “So, now we have to figure out where it was you saw him.” He paused. “Could it have been here? On the reservation, maybe? Hopechest Ranch?”

“I don’t know.” Cheyenne raised a hand, let it drop to her thigh. “I just don’t know.”

Jackson’s spine straightened on a thought. “You’ve seen him, but don’t have a sense of being near him. Cheyenne, the other night at the inn, you mentioned how, on the weekends you came to visit River, Uncle Joe would let you sit in here and look through the family photo albums. Maybe this man is in one of the pictures. You would have seen him with the gun even though you weren’t there when the picture was taken.”

Her lips parted. “Yes, that would explain it.” She set the mug aside. “I could have seen him in a picture.”

“Let’s get at it.” Rand turned, had the bottom door on one of the bookshelves open before Jackson and Cheyenne made it across the study. “We’ll each take a couple,” Rand said, jerking albums off the shelves and handing them to Jackson.

Twenty minutes later, Rand was muttering about the number of photographs his parents had taken over the years. “If I’d known they’d kept all these ridiculous pictures of me with various teeth missing, and opening every Christmas present they’ve ever given me, I’d have gotten rid of them long ago.”

“Same here,” Jackson said from the place he’d taken on the couch. At the other end, Cheyenne sat in silence, leafing through the pages of an album. Although the color had returned to her face, he saw no warmth in her eyes when she looked at him—which was as seldom as possible. His fingers tightened on the pages of album he was flipping through. He would rectify that, he promised himself. The minute he got her alone.

“My God,” she whispered, then looked up from the album in her lap. “It’s him! It’s the pose I see in my vision. It’s him!”

“Who?” Jackson and Rand asked the question in unison as they both moved to stand behind her.

“He’s dressed in dark hunting clothes and holding a rifle,” she said, almost to herself. “I didn’t see the rifle in my vision.”

“Just the Luger tucked into his belt.” Rand settled a hand on her shoulder and leaned in to examine the photo. “With the distinctive notch in its grip.” He looked at Jackson. “He and Dad used to hunt together all the time. Mother made a habit of snapping their picture when they were in full hunting garb.”

Cheyenne rose from the couch, handed Jackson the open album. “I spent hours looking through these albums. I must have seen this photograph a hundred times.”

“And remembered it,” he said quietly.

“In my subconscious, yes.”

Jackson gazed down at the photograph. A much younger Emmett Fallon smiled up at him. The eyes that were now so often bloodshot from alcohol glittered with pride. Then, his shoulders held an aggressive squareness, his chin a proud slant. And there, tucked into his brown leather belt beside his fisted hand, was the Luger, sunlight glinting off its metal surface.

“I need to take a look at something.” Rand took the album from Jackson, laid it open on the desk. He slid a fingernail beneath the photo and lifted it off the page. “Perfect,” he stated, his mouth curving.

Cheyenne peered around his shoulder. “What’s perfect?”

Rand flipped the photo over. “Mother habitually wrote the date on the back of all the pictures she and Dad took. Once, when I was a brilliant teenager, I informed her it was a waste of time for her to do that. She told me some day I would be glad she wasted her time.” Rand’s smile turned into a glowing grin. “Thanks to Cheyenne, that day has come.”

She placed a hand on Rand’s arm. “Is the photo enough to clear Jackson?”

“Close.” Rand put a hand over hers, squeezed it, then walked around the desk and pulled open a drawer. “This shows Emmett Fallon in possession of the weapon used in the commission of two attempted murders. It’s more than enough probable cause for the police to bring Emmett in for questioning. With that notch in the grip, he can’t claim the Luger stuck beneath his belt isn’t the same one the police have in evidence. If he were my client, I would advise him to confess and try to work a deal.”

“Why Emmett?” Jackson asked. “He and Uncle Joe served in the army together.” Leaning, he picked up the brass paperweight shaped like an oil rig off the desk’s blotter. “Emmett gave this to Uncle Joe when the first Colton well hit. That had to have been forty years ago.”

Rand nodded. “I guess Emmett will have to be the one to explain his motive, among other things.”

“One being how he got my prints on the Luger,” Jackson said.

“I’m not looking forward to telling Dad that his oldest friend in the world is who took those shots at him.”

“Or Blake.” Jackson laid the paperweight back on the desk then turned to Cheyenne. “Your boss lived here for a while when Emmett and his mother got a divorce. Blake worships Uncle Joe. What’s it going to do to him when he finds out what his father did?”

Cheyenne raised a hand to her throat. “He’ll be hurt. Terribly.”

“I guess we’ll have to deal with a lot of things.” As he spoke, Rand slid the photograph into an envelope. “The first order of business is to get my client cleared. Jackson, you and I need to visit Detective Law.”

“Glad to.” Jackson stared down at Cheyenne for a long moment. “I need time with my wife first.”

“Later.” She shoved her hair behind her shoulders. “I’m so tired, I can’t think. I have to get some rest.” Nothing in her voice, in her face, offered him the slightest opening. She walked to the study door, hesitated, then turned. “Your clearing yourself is the most important thing, Jackson.”

“Not by a long shot,” he muttered as she hurried out the door.



“We got a confession out of Fallon,” Thad Law said nearly six hours later when he strode into the small conference room at the Prosperino PD. To Jackson, the cop looked harried with his shirt collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up and tie askew.

“At first, he denied having anything to do with the attempts on Joe’s life,” Law continued. “Then I showed him the photograph you brought in of him in possession of the Luger. After that, Fallon folded like a cheap tent in a strong wind. Turns out, his grandfather won the Luger in a poker game. That’s why the gun wasn’t registered.”

“Why?” Jackson nudged aside the foam cup that held the coffee he’d let go cold. “Why the hell did Emmett try to kill Uncle Joe?”

Law settled a hand on his waist near his gold badge and holstered automatic. “He claims Joe Colton owes all his success and wealth to his guidance. Because of that, part of Colton Enterprises is rightfully his.”

Rand leaned forward in the chair beside Jackson’s. “It’s true Dad took some guidance from Emmett. In fact, he contributed a lot to the start-up of Colton Mining. But Dad’s the brains behind Colton Enterprises and all its subsidiaries. Knowing Dad, you can bet he’s compensated Emmett generously over the years for whatever he contributed.”

Law raised a shoulder. “From what I’ve found out about Fallon’s past, I have to wonder if the guy even knows the meaning of the word stability. He’s been divorced three times. His four kids were shuffled from household to household while they grew up. It doesn’t sound like any of them get along very well with him now. Plus, he has a drinking problem that apparently started early.”

Jackson thought about how bloodshot Emmett’s eyes had been when they re-roofed the barn at Hopechest Ranch. “I worked with him last week on a couple of jobs at Hopechest to help out Blake. Emmett still has the drinking problem.”

“Speaking of his son, Blake.” Law pulled out a chair at the table and settled into it. “It sounds like he has a lot of good things to say about Joe Colton.”

“That’s right,” Rand said. “When Emmett divorced Blake’s mother, Blake came to live with my parents. He’s told me more than once that living at home was hell, and he credits the Colton family with saving his life.”

Law nodded. “That’s the ironic part. Blake’s the only one of Emmett’s four kids that’ll have much to do with him. Emmett told me he got sick of hearing Blake talk about how he respects and admires Joe Colton. Emmett already carried this burning hatred for Joe over the way he perceived Joe cheated him out of his share of the company. Believing that Joe also stole his son’s affection had the effect of pouring gasoline on that fire.”

“Why now?” Jackson asked. “Blake’s been singing Uncle Joe’s praises for years. Why did Emmett suddenly decide to shoot him at the birthday party?”

“Fallon’s drinking problem worsened last year. It got so bad that your uncle had to pressure him to retire. Fallon couldn’t deal with the shame of that. Plus, without a job or a real family, he realized for the first time how alone he is. He filled his time focusing his resentment and unhappiness on Joe. Fallon decided the sixtieth birthday party would be the perfect place to kill him. When that attempt failed, he waited a couple of months, sneaked onto the grounds of Hacienda de Alegria one evening and took the potshot at Joe through his bedroom window.”

“Which, unlucky for me, occurred just a few minutes before I drove in.” Jackson rested his forearms on the table. “Does Blake know about this yet?”

“Yeah. I called him, told him what was going down and that he might want to hire a lawyer for his dad.”

Rand pursed his lips. “We’re not going to let Blake carry this weight on his shoulders alone. Emmett’s sick and he needs help. I’ll meet with Blake and give him the name of a criminal attorney in San Francisco I’ve worked with. He’ll know how to work a deal with the D.A. that will include getting treatment for Emmett.”

“That’s what Uncle Joe will want,” Jackson agreed, then shifted his gaze back to Law. “Okay, why me?” he asked. “Why the hell did Emmett choose me to set up? And how did he get my prints on that Luger?”

“That’s the curious thing.” Leaning back in his chair, the detective rubbed a fingertip along the thin scar on his left cheek. “Fallon says he didn’t set you up. He claims someone else did all that. I tend to believe him.”

Rand looked at Jackson. “Think about it. Is the Emmett Fallon you know sharp enough to pull all that off?”

Jackson pressed the heels of his palms to his gritty eyes. He’d been awake for over twenty-four hours; his body ached with fatigue and his brain felt numb. “Now that you mention it, no.”

Law crossed his arms over his chest. “Fallon claims that when he took the second shot at Joe, he was worried about getting stopped by the cops on his way home, so he dashed down the stairs to the beach and supposedly hid the Luger in the alcove that’s carved out of the cliffs. He planned on coming back for the gun but first there were too many cops on the grounds, then Joe hired his own security patrol. Fallon never did retrieve the gun.”

Jackson blinked. “Emmett brought Johnny Collins—one of the Hopechest kids—to the house yesterday. We went down on the beach to talk to Cheyenne. At one point, Emmett wandered off. When I looked around for him, he was just walking out of the alcove.”

“That squares with what he told me,” Law said. “He couldn’t believe it when he heard on the radio that you’d been arrested for the attempts on your uncle’s life, and that we had the Luger with your prints on it. He arranged to drive the kid as an excuse to get onto Colton property without the security people hassling him. He wanted to make sure that someone had taken his Luger out of the alcove.”

Jackson raised a palm. “So, if Emmett is to be believed, we’re back to square one. We don’t know who the hell set me up.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it square one,” Law commented. “You’re in the clear now. That ought to make you rest easier.”

“There is that.”

“We’ve got to track down whoever it is who’s intent on putting you behind bars.” Law leaned forward, his eyes grim. “You have any idea who that might be?”

Jackson shook his head. “All along, I thought it was the same person who tried to kill Uncle Joe.”

“It’s not. Anyone have a personal grudge against you? Might make you want to pay for something you did?”

Jackson’s thoughts skittered back to the conversation he’d had with his aunt the previous month. He had seen resentment spark in Meredith’s eyes when he promised to go to the police if she continued blackmailing Graham over the fact he was Teddy’s father. Would she do it? Jackson wondered. Had the woman who had taken Liza and himself into her home, nurtured them and loved them changed so much over the years that she was now capable of setting him up to take the fall for two attempted murders?

Jackson slid Rand a look. Meredith was his mother, for God’s sake. At this point, he had no proof that she was behind the setup. Until—and if—he ever did, he couldn’t in good conscience give her name to Law.

Jackson re-met the cop’s gaze. “If I come up with anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

“All right.” Law rose. “In the meantime, watch your back.” The cop relaxed enough to smile. “I’m glad this worked out for you, Colton. Heather isn’t exactly thrilled at my suspecting one of her friends of attempted murder. She’s given me a lot of grief over this.”

“Good.” Jackson grinned at the thought of his friend defending him. “Give Heather a big kiss for me.”

“I’ll give her a big kiss, but not for you,” Law murmured as he checked his watch. “I have reports to write. If anything else comes up that either of you need to know, I’ll call.”

When the detective strode out, Rand nudged a fingertip against the foam cup Jackson had set aside. “The other night, you mentioned you’d quit drinking.”

“That’s right. I had one drink at Liza’s wedding reception. One. It threw me for a loop. I’ve been off booze ever since.”

“Did you pass out?”

“No.” Jackson frowned. “I just got tired. Real tired, real fast. I finally went to bed. Slept like a rock until morning.”

“Has alcohol ever hit you like that before?”

“Never.”

“You slept like a rock,” Rand repeated. “What if there was something more than alcohol in that drink? Instead of sleeping, maybe you were drugged. With you sedated, that would have given someone plenty of time to sneak into your bedroom, press your hand around that Luger, then leave. That would explain why your prints on its surface are so exact.”

Jackson closed his eyes. He already knew Rand’s next question.

“Who gave you the drink?”

Jackson hesitated. “Meredith.”

“Good old Mom.”

The derision that settled in Rand’s eyes had Jackson’s spine going stiff. “Look, it’s obvious you and your mother don’t get along the way you used to. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not right now. Does Meredith have any reason to set you up for two attempted murders?”

Jackson rubbed at the nerves that shimmered in the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

“What reason?”

“Jesus, Rand, we’re talking about your mother.”

“Don’t let that get in your way.”

Jackson rose, walked to the room’s lone window and stared unseeingly out at Prosperino’s main street, busy with the usual tourist traffic. “I’m like Blake Fallon—I think your Dad walks on water.” Jackson turned to face his cousin. “If Uncle Joe found out about what I know, it would hurt him. A lot. I love the man, so the last thing I want to do is cause him any pain.” And, Jackson thought, if the truth got out, his half brother, Teddy, would suffer even more than his uncle. The kid deserved better.

Rand stood, walked around the table to Jackson’s side. “Certain things are going on that I can’t talk about right now. Things that, if they play out the way I think they will, are going to rock this family to its core. Chances are, whatever it is you know will just add another blast to a series of explosions.”

“Well, that’s clear as mud.” Jackson expelled a slow breath. “Let’s you and I agree to hold off on telling each other what we know until we see how things play out.”

“Fair enough.”

Jackson checked his watch. He had called Cheyenne thirty minutes ago. Inez had answered the phone, advised him Cheyenne had been asleep for hours, was still asleep. He wanted to be there when she woke up.

“I need to get back to Cheyenne.” All day he’d battled a rippling panic at the thought that she had already slipped through his fingers. “My wife and I have some unfinished business to take care of.”

“And I need to get with Dad and tell him about Emmett.” Rand settled a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “I hope your business is more pleasant than mine.”

“Don’t count on it.”



She hadn’t meant to sleep so long, Cheyenne thought as she crammed clothes into the suitcase that lay open on the big bed covered in a thick emerald comforter. She had intended to be up hours ago, packed and gone from Hacienda de Alegria long before the afternoon shadows slanted toward evening.

Long before Jackson returned from the police station.

Still wearing the rumpled shorts and T-shirt she’d slept in, she crossed the bedroom, her bare feet sinking into pale ivory carpet so thick it would muffle the sound of a jackhammer. Stepping into the bathroom, she scooped up the few cosmetics she owned, then did a last check of the gleaming tile surfaces to make sure she’d gotten all of her belongings.

She had.

She wasn’t running away like a coward, she assured herself as she headed back to the bed. Her relationship with Jackson had simply run its course. Served its purpose. Moments ago, Inez had knocked on the bedroom door to report that Jackson had called earlier and said he was cleared of all charges. The threat of Cheyenne having to testify against him no longer existed, nor did the reason for their marriage.

He didn’t love her. Didn’t believe in her gift. Her legacy.

Blinking back tears, she stuffed the cosmetics into her suitcase, her hands trembling with a sense of urgency.

She loved Jackson, but she would get over that. Hadn’t she also loved Paul, who was now only a faded memory? So, too, would Jackson be. Someday. All she needed was time to mend her fatigued mind and ragged soul.

Grief ripped viciously at her heart. Who was she trying to kid? Even now, she knew she would never get over him. Never rid herself of the sense of loss, the bittersweet wish for what might have been. If only he had loved her, believed in her.

She slammed the lid on the suitcase, the gold band on her left hand shimmering through the haze of her tears as she snapped the locks into place. After she’d woken, she had taken time to call the attorney on the reservation. He had referred her to a divorce attorney who had agreed to prepare papers for her signature. Loss scraped at her as she worked the band off her finger and laid it on the nightstand.

“You can just slide that ring back on your finger, Mrs. Colton.”

She jolted at the sound of Jackson’s voice coming from close behind her. She hadn’t sensed when he’d opened the door, hadn’t heard him cross the bedroom. Taking a deep breath, she blinked back her tears, then turned to face him.

His eyes, darkened to the color of tarnished pewter and combined with the heavy black stubble that shadowed his jaw, gave him a cold, dangerous look. His slacks were rumpled, as was his shirt, and his fists were clenched at his sides.

Leaving the gold band where it lay, she lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Our marriage was a pretense, Jackson. A necessity. That necessity no longer exists.”

“It does for me.”

“I can’t imagine why. And if that’s the truth, it’s your misfortune because I no longer want to be bound to you. I have an appointment tomorrow with an attorney who will take care of the divorce.”

He grabbed her arms, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Dammit, Cheyenne, you can’t leave me.”

“I can and I will.” She slapped her palms against his chest, shoved from his grasp. It hurt too much to be touched when her defenses were shattered. “I believed in you, Jackson. You didn’t extend the same to me. As a matter of trust, it comes down to that.”

He held up a hand, palm toward her. “I admit to a momentary lapse in faith. I was angry, frustrated and going slowly crazy watching the visions tear you apart. And for what? All I could see was the rock-solid evidence the cops had that pointed to my guilt. That meant a prison cell was the only thing in my future. The fact that you wouldn’t even accept that as a possibility tore at me. I wanted you to be prepared.” He closed his eyes for a brief instant. “I do believe in you, Cheyenne. In your gift. In everything you are.”

Weary, she raised a shoulder. She was too worn out to fight about it. Too many hours of lost sleep, too many images sliding into her head had left her numb. “All right, you believe. When you come down to it, that doesn’t really matter at this point.” The ache inside her was like a burning. “What does matter is we’ve outlived our usefulness to each other.”

“You think I’ll let you walk out? Just like that?”

The feral look in his eyes shot her heart into her throat. In defense, she took a step backward. “Jackson—”

“I don’t care if I have to tie you to the bed, you’re going to listen to what I came here to say.”

Nerves jittered up her spine and down again. “All right, have your say.”

“You’re right when you say we got married when we did out of necessity. If this whole setup business hadn’t happened, there’s no way I’d have asked you to marry me—”

“That’s my point.”

“It’s not mine!” He blew out a breath between his teeth. “There’s no way I would have asked you to marry me this soon. But I’d have gotten around to it eventually because I’m in love with you. I can’t get through ten minutes without thinking about you, wanting you.” He shook his head. “Dammit, Cheyenne, nobody’s ever gotten inside me this way. I’ve never wanted anyone else inside me this way. I can’t let you walk away.”

“You love me?” Her voice thickened, and she swallowed to clear it. The shaft of hope was almost too painful. “You…never told me. You could have told me.”

“How? How could I have told you when all I could do was envision myself seeing you, wanting you, loving you with a set of bars separating us?” He reached for her, his hands gentle now when he pulled her close and buried his face in her hair. “If I’d gone to prison it would have been easier for both of us if I had never said those words to you.”

She tilted her head back, wanting to accept, but afraid. “So much has happened, so fast. Maybe too fast. Maybe we need time to see if we can work.”

“I’ll tell you what doesn’t work.” As he spoke, he cupped her face in his hands. “Me without you. I found that out over the past twenty-four hours. Nothing in my life is right without you. Dammit, nothing works. I want a life with you, Cheyenne. I need that life. I’m sorry I hurt you. If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you how much I believe in you.”

She stared into his eyes—those same gray eyes that had brought them together in a vision—and knew the words he spoke came from his heart. Suddenly, she felt the strength of his love flowing into her and her own heart opening to him.

“Jackson…” Her arms wrapped hard around him. “You love me.”

“More than anything,” he murmured as he rained kisses over her face. “And I’ve got to wonder if I’m crazy.”

She lifted a brow. “Because you fell in love with me?”

“No. Because here I am married to a woman, holding her, wanting to make love to her, and I’m wondering if she loves me back.”

“She does.” Touched, she lifted her hand to his cheek. “I knew you felt cornered enough without my telling you my true feelings.” She raised on tiptoe, brushed her lips against his. “I do love you, Jackson. More than anything.”

He cupped her face in his hands, his eyes intent on hers. “Will you marry me?”

“We’re already married.”

“Again.” He nuzzled her throat. “For all the right reasons this time. After that we can have a big blowout, invite the whole town, if that’s what you want.”

“Another wedding with our families there sounds good, but I’d rather have our own private celebration.” Her gaze slid to the bed, its comforter looking like a soft, peaceful valley. “Right here. Now.”

“My pleasure.” He kissed her long and hard, then tumbled with her onto the emerald softness.

Epilogue

The next morning, Patsy sat across from Joe at a glass-topped table in the courtyard, the morning sun streaming down on the newspaper propped in front of her. Behind her huge concealing sunglasses, her eyes narrowed as she read the slashing black headline that all but screamed Emmett Fallon had confessed to the two attempts on the life of Prosperino’s favorite citizen.

With disgust fountaining inside her, Patsy dropped the paper, then picked up her coffee cup while she watched the man sitting across from her. His expression grim, Joe stared out at the sun-kissed sea while he sipped coffee from a thick-handled mug. A slight breeze lifted strands of his dark hair, but he didn’t seem to notice. No doubt, he was mulling over the fact that a man he’d considered his friend for forty years had tried to kill him.

Contempt twisted in Patsy’s stomach. If Emmett hadn’t been such a total screw-up he’d have killed Joe long ago and she would have inherited his fortune. She wouldn’t be sitting here now, worried about collecting money from that bastard, Graham Colton.

The good news was that she seemed to have gotten away with setting up his son. Even though Emmett had probably claimed he had nothing to do with framing Jackson, the police couldn’t be absolutely sure. Still, Emmett had confessed to the crimes, they had their prey in the trap—that was what the police would focus on. If she backed off, did nothing else to Jackson, she would stay in the clear.

Which was fine, because she needed to focus all her attention on Silas Pike. She would call him this morning, tell him he had better find the prey he sought if he expected to get more money out of her. Dammit, he had to find Emily!

Diamonds winked on her fingers as Patsy shoved her blond hair off her shoulder. Emily was out there somewhere. How hard could it be to find her? Kill her?

“Good morning, Dad. Meredith.”

The sound of Rand’s voice had Patsy tightening her fingers on her cup as she glanced across her shoulder. He wore black slacks, a charcoal-colored shirt and sunglasses with lenses as dark as hers. She didn’t have to see his eyes to feel them boring into her.

Remaining silent, she watched Joe swivel in his chair and smile. “Morning, son. You still insisting on leaving today so you can get back to that wife of yours?”

“I am.”

Joe nodded. “Need a ride to the airport?”

“Jackson’s driving me.”

Patsy gave him a tight smile. “It’s been wonderful having you home, son.”

“Thanks.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned in. “I’m hoping to be back soon. Very soon.”

She gave Joe a quick glance to see if he’d picked up on the thread of menace in Rand’s voice. Joe’s smile told her he hadn’t. Her hand trembled on the coffee cup; sweat beaded between her breasts. She closed her eyes. Get hold of yourself. You’re a good actress. Act.

Reaching up, she patted his hand. “Soon is good.”

Patsy caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned her head. Jackson strode across the courtyard, looking disgustingly happy. She still couldn’t believe the explanation for how he’d managed to clear himself of the charges. His wife had a vision! Patsy wished both him and Cheyenne a speedy trip to hell.

“About ready to go, Rand?” Jackson asked.

“Yes. I was just telling Meredith I hope I’ll be back soon.”

Patsy felt the weight of the world lift when Rand moved his hand from her shoulder.

Jackson nodded. “If that’s the case, you’ll have to come see Cheyenne and me at Hopechest Ranch. I told Uncle Joe last night that I’ve accepted a job offer from the Hopechest Foundation to act as legal advocate for the kids at the ranch. Cheyenne and I will live in her house there, for a while anyway.”

Joe shook his head in acceptance. “Hopechest’s gain is Colton Enterprises’ loss.”

Patsy watched Rand shake hands with Joe, saw the tenderness in the way the son squeezed his father’s shoulder. In contrast, she had felt only a threat.

“Take care, Dad. I’ll be in touch.”

Joe engulfed his oldest son in a bear hug. “You’d better be.”

“Yes,” Patsy murmured. “Stay in touch.” She reached for the coffeepot to refill her cup just as Cheyenne stepped out of the house.

Jackson turned his head, following Meredith’s gaze. He pursed his lips when he saw his wife rushing across the courtyard. Five minutes ago, he had left her trembling and sated in the shower. Now, she was dressed in the hopelessly wrinkled shorts and T-shirt he’d stripped off her and tossed across the bedroom the evening before. Her long, black hair hung in a wet curtain across her shoulders, her eyes glowed with awareness.

When she reached his side, he took a handful of her wet hair and tugged her head back for a kiss. “You miss me so much you couldn’t wait to see me again?” he murmured against her mouth.

“That, too,” she said, smiling up at him. “Right before I got out of the shower I had a vision.”

He flashed a devil’s grin. “So did I.”

A blush started at her throat and rose to two bright spots on her cheekbones. “Hush.”

Joe put his head back and laughed. “Jackson, I told you it’d be a smart move to marry that girl.”

Jackson nodded, staring down into the face of the woman who in so short a time had become precious to him, vital to his life. “Best advice you’ve ever given me, Uncle Joe.”

Cheyenne slid her hand into his, then turned to Rand. “I wanted to catch you before you left. The vision I had was about you.”

Jackson scowled when Rand sent him a smug smile before saying, “Cheyenne, I’m flattered. But do you think it’s wise to let your husband in on this?”

Cheyenne gave an exasperated shake to her head. “Has anyone ever mentioned that all Colton men think alike?”

“I’ve noticed that,” Meredith murmured.

Cheyenne looked back at Rand. “In my vision, I saw that you’ll receive wonderful news when you get back to Washington. I wanted to let you know you have something to look forward to.”

Rand touched her cheek. “Any idea what that news is?”

“No.” Smiling, Cheyenne nuzzled against Jackson’s side. “Just that it’s something you’ve been waiting for a long time.”



Cheyenne was as good as her word, Rand thought as he stood at his desk in his Washington D.C. office, his suitcase sitting in the middle of the room. Face grim, he listened for the second time to the message Austin McGrath had left on his answering machine only fifteen minutes ago.

“I’ve found Meredith.” The private investigator’s recorded voice echoed through the still air. “She’s in Jackson, Mississippi, going by the name of Louise Smith. Apparently, Meredith’s a victim of some form of amnesia. She’s being treated by a Dr. Martha Wilkes, a specialist in repressed memory.”

With a hand not quite steady, Rand jotted down the phone number for the doctor the P.I. gave. He clicked off the machine, then picked up the phone and dialed a number he’d recently memorized.

When the soft voice answered, he said, “Emily, it’s Rand. Austin found our mother. Meet me in Jackson, Mississippi.”

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Maggie Price for her contribution to THE COLTONS series.