Wed to the Witness (11 page)

Patsy dragged off her hat, dropped it onto the bench. Despite the additional money she had wired Silas Pike, he had yet to track down Emily. Yesterday, Patsy had spoken to the private investigator she had hired to find
Meredith. The idiot still insisted her sister had died years ago, homeless on the street.

Patsy had told him in no uncertain terms she would believe that only after she saw her twin's cold, dead body on a slab in the morgue.

The P.I. then responded that he was out of leads and closing the case unless she paid an additional retainer.

Dammit, she needed more money!

Patsy's right hand went up, her fingers skimming the diamond stud in her ear. She couldn't sell her jewelry—wouldn't sell it. Not when she might need to spirit away Joe, Jr. and Teddy at a moment's notice. To support them, she needed all the jewelry and money she could get her hands on. To make matters worse, damn Joe Colton had her on a strangling budget and the bastard hadn't bought her any new baubles in years!

Money. She had to get more money. Suddenly, she felt almost quiet inside and she realized the Valium had kicked in. She was still in control, she assured herself. No reason to panic.

Maybe it was fate that Graham was coming to Prosperino for a couple of days. Even though he was bringing ice-bitch Cynthia with him, Patsy knew she wouldn't have a problem getting Graham alone—he and his wife spent even less time together than she and Joe. Yes, Patsy thought, she would have ample opportunity to talk to Graham. When she did, she would force him to agree to resume paying her to keep quiet about the fact he'd fathered Teddy.

Before she could do that though, she had to get rid of the one obstacle that stood in the way to her getting Graham to agree to whatever she wanted.

Jackson.

Timing was everything, Patsy thought as she plucked
up her hat and stood. Just as it had been the evening four months ago when she'd stormed into the backyard just before dinner. Who would have thought that her needing to calm down over Heather McGrath's failure to dress appropriately for dinner would have turned into a gold mine?

Patsy smiled to herself. If she hadn't been outside the instant the gunshot sounded, she wouldn't have seen the figure clad in black and gripping a gun race down the staircase built against the face of the rocky cliff. She'd remained out of sight, while the dark figure disappeared into the shallow alcove that stared out at the sea. Seconds later, the shooter stepped back into sight, hands empty, then disappeared into the shadows.

It had been dusk—too dark to get a good look at the man who'd fire the shot. Even if she had, she wouldn't have told the police what she'd seen. Lord knew she wanted the person to keep trying until Joe was dead. Then, she would inherit a trust fund worth more money than Fort Knox ever thought about having. Even while she was being questioned by Thad Law, she had formulated possibilities on how to use this latest development to her advantage. Later that night, after the cops had gone, she had retrieved a small flashlight, gone down to the beach and slipped into the alcove. She'd searched until she found the well-concealed gun, then slid it into her coat pocket and crept back to the house through the oozing shadows.

She had hidden the gun, thinking she might use it to her advantage down the road.

That advantage had arisen when Jackson threatened to go to the police if she didn't stop blackmailing his father. During his sister's wedding reception, it had been a simple matter to slip Jackson a drink loaded with Val
ium. Then, when he'd shown the effects, she'd played the dutiful hostess and concerned aunt and taken him to his bedroom.

Having already wiped the gun clean of prints, she donned gloves and crept to his bedside. While he lay in a drug-induced sleep, she'd pressed his hand around the weapon's grip, then slid the gun back in the knapsack where it now lay hidden. Jackson had no clue.

Now she needed to get him out of her way. With him cooling his heels in a cell, he would spend his time trying to figure out how the hell his fingerprints got on the gun used in the attempts on Joe's life. The last thing Jackson would give a damn about was Graham's resuming his payments to buy her silence.

Patsy glanced at her watch while a plan clicked in her brain. She knew Joe intended for them to stay at Hopechest Ranch through all the boring afternoon competitions. Knew, too, he would keep a fatherly eye on Joe, Jr. and Teddy, but he wouldn't lift a finger to even look for her until he was ready to leave. His indifference toward her was convenient, considering what she had to do.

She settled her hat back on her head, her glossed lips curved in a smile. It would take only a couple of minutes to go by the dining hall and check on her sons. After that, she would get the car, swing by Hacienda de Alegria and unearth the knapsack that held the gun. Then she would make the short drive into Prosperino. With the town's entire population doing their holiday celebrating at Hopechest, little chance existed that anyone would see her.

Rechecking her watch, she stepped out of the clearing and resumed her trek along the gravel path. The final
phase of her plan to set up Jackson for the two attempts on Joe's life shouldn't take long to put into motion.

It didn't.

A little over an hour later, a smug Patsy steered along the winding curves of the coast highway like a five-time winner at Le Mans. Everything had gone without a hitch. The instant she got back to Hopechest Ranch she would make an anonymous call to the cops.

Then she would sit back and watch everyone play into her hands.

T
he sun was stretching the afternoon shadows when Cheyenne crossed the grass-covered rise toward the temporary bandstand that several off-duty Prosperino firemen had built. As she moved, the wind picked up, bringing with it the mingling scents of fresh hay, animal flesh and earth. From the corral below she heard the crowd cheering their picks in the bull riding competition.

While she checked the flame-red bunting stapled to the edges of the raised dance floor, she again assured herself she had been right to tell Jackson she was ready to become his lover. Right to follow her emotions. Right, too, not to tell him about her gift of sight. Her holding back wasn't deception, it was self-preservation—she'd learned that through hard experience. While her own heart had lain ripped open and bleeding she had come to the understanding that, no matter the love she felt for a man, she was under no obligation to tell him about her
heritage. So, she would not tell Jackson. She simply wouldn't. Couldn't.

The slide of guilt tugging at her conscience had her worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Forcing her thoughts to her duties, she retrieved her clipboard off the edge of the bandstand and jotted a note. The sound system was in place. The strands of twinkle lights that would illuminate the dance floor when night fell stretched above her like spiky vines of ivy. The table was already in place to display the trophies Blake Fallon would present to the winners of the competitions. Cheyenne had spoken to the bandleader that morning and he had assured her his group would be there in plenty of time to set up for the dance.

Save me every dance tonight. After that, I'm going to take you home and make love with you. All night.

The memory of Jackson's soft words had her fingers trembling against the clipboard as weakening, seductive anticipation settled shaky heat in her belly. It had been so long since she'd stepped into a man's arms and let herself feel. Just feel. She couldn't wait—

“Miss James?”

Cheyenne jolted at the deep male voice coming from just behind her. She turned to find a powerfully built man with black hair and piercing midnight-blue eyes standing inches from her. He had a small scar on his left cheek and his nose didn't quite line up with the center of his mouth.

She thought she had seen him before, but she couldn't place him. “Yes, I'm Cheyenne James.”

“Detective Thad Law.” As he spoke, he tugged a gold shield from the snug front pocket of his faded Levi's and clipped it onto his belt beside a cell phone.
Cheyenne realized she'd seen him at the Colton estate after the first attempt on Joe Colton's life.

“I need to ask you a couple of questions,” Law added.

“Welcome to Hopechest Ranch, Detective Law.” She forced a smile while dread shredded her insides. All week she'd desperately hoped this moment would never come. “I trust you're enjoying today's activities.”

“I am, though I'm mixing business with pleasure. You attended Joe Colton's birthday party nearly a year ago.”

“That doesn't sound like a question, Detective.”

“It wasn't.” He smiled and surprised Cheyenne with a flare of charm. “I have a copy of the guest list. Several people I've spoken to recently confirm seeing you there that night.”

“It was crowded. I imagine a lot of people can confirm I was there.”

“Did you go to the party with a date?”

“No, with my half brother, Rafe James.”

“Did you hear the shot fired at Joe Colton?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you when you heard the shot?”

“In the center of the courtyard.”

“Alone?”

“No, I was talking to Rebecca Powell and Rafe.”

“How long had you been with them?”

“A few minutes.”

“Whom did you talk to before Rebecca and your brother?”

Cheyenne hugged the clipboard to her chest. She sensed the cop knew the answer to every question before he asked it. “My other brother, River and his wife, Sophie Colton. Her cousin, Jackson Colton, too.”

“How long did you spend with Mr. Colton?”

“Ten minutes. Maybe.”

“This was before you started talking to Rebecca and Rafe?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where Colton went after he left you?”

The air in her lungs seemed to thicken. “To get us drinks from the bar in his uncle's study. It was nearing time to toast Mr. Colton's birthday.”

“Were you in the center of the courtyard when Colton walked off?”

“Yes, near the fountain.”

“Which way did Colton go?”

“Toward the house.”

“There were several small bars set up on the grounds. Why didn't he go to one of those to get a refill?”

“As I said, it was nearing time to drink a toast to Mr. Colton. People had lined up in front of all the bars. Jackson said it would be faster if he went into the study and fixed our drinks there.”

“I need a reference point, Miss James. Do you know where the service hallway is that connects the house to the courtyard?”

“Yes.” Cheyenne smoothed her hand over a section of red bunting the wind had flipped back.

“Is that the direction Colton went?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see him step into the hallway?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“I started talking to Rebecca. Then Rafe came up.”

“Did you keep your eyes on the hallway after that?”

“No.”

“So, Colton could have come right back out.”

“There wouldn't have been a reason for him to do that. He went inside the house to fix our drinks.”

“How long after you saw Colton duck into the hallway did you hear the gunshot?”

“Maybe two minutes.” She shrugged. “I'm not sure.”

“So, you can say positively that Colton was near the service hallway a couple of minutes before someone tried to kill his uncle.”

Cheyenne kept her eyes locked with Law's. “I can say that Jackson was with me until a minute or two before I heard the gunshot.”

“That's a good try at alibiing him, Miss James. But there's a space of time you can't account for his whereabouts. People can do a lot of things in a minute or two.”

“Detective Law, it's obvious you suspect Jackson is the person who tried to kill Joe Colton. You're wrong.”

“I expected you to say that.”

“We've never met. What makes you think you would have any idea what I might say?”

He angled his head. “Earlier, I watched you with Colton by the corral. Considering the way you look at each other, touch each other, I figure you've got a relationship going. People close to each other usually try to protect the other person.”

Knowing that Law had watched her and Jackson sent a chill up Cheyenne's spine. After she and Jackson parted, Law must have followed her to the dining hall, she reasoned, where there had been a horde of people and nowhere for a private talk. So, he'd waited until he could get her alone, on the small rise where the deserted bandstand stood. She looked beyond Law, her gaze sweeping the paddocks, the corrals, the buildings, the
houses and farther to the ranch's property line where giant redwoods stabbed into the sky. She felt small and alone and suddenly vulnerable—which she guessed was intentional on the cop's part.

“Yes, Jackson and I are close. But I'm not trying to protect him. I don't need to. He's not the person who fired the shot.”

“Can you prove that?”

“No.” A distant cheer rose from the crowd watching the bull riding.

“I can't either,” Law stated. “Jackson Colton was present at his uncle's birthday. He was at the Colton ranch seven months later when someone took a second shot at his uncle. In a case like this, proximity and accessibility to the intended victim mean a lot.”

She felt as if a stone had lodged in her chest. “Just because Jackson was in the general vicinity both times someone tried to kill his uncle doesn't mean he's guilty.”

“True.” The wind whipped Law's dark hair into his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice. “In my mind it's a stretch to think it's just a coincidence that no one can vouch for his whereabouts during either attempt.”

“That's exactly what it is. A coincidence.”

“I've been a cop a long time, Miss James. I've learned the more I can't prove someone innocent, the greater chance they are guilty.”

“Try harder. Jackson is innocent.”

“Everyone's entitled to his own opinion.” Law raised a shoulder. “You're an intelligent woman, Miss James. You do good work here with kids who need help. Backing off from Colton might be smart for you, at least until this investigation's completed.”

“I have no reason to back off.”

“That's your choice.”

Law's cell phone rang. He pulled it off his belt, flipped it open and answered. He listened for a moment, his brow creasing. Then his gaze lifted to meet Cheyenne's. “I'll be in touch, Miss James.”

Turning, he strode away, the phone clamped to his ear.

 

Jackson caught a glimpse of Cheyenne in profile as she waited beneath the oak where they had agreed to meet before the target shooting match. She had one shoulder propped against the trunk of the towering tree, her gaze focused on the bull riding competition in full swing a few yards away.

He glanced toward the corral, saw that Johnny Collins and a couple of other Hopechest teens were again straddling the same section of gleaming white fence they'd claimed that morning during the bronc busting. At that instant, the chute sprung open and Johnny whooped a cheer for the cowboy holding on for dear life while a snorting black Angus bull kicked and bucked beneath him.

Shifting his gaze back toward the oak, Jackson took time to study the woman who, somehow, someway had become a permanent part of his thoughts. He took in her endlessly long legs clad in snug denim, the sleeveless red blouse that fell over the curve of her breasts then cinched at her narrow waist. As he watched her, he realized he had never before seen Cheyenne James so unaware. The faintest line of concentration showed at the corner of her eye and mouth. Her lips were slightly parted. The wisps of hair that had fallen out of her braid fluttered against one high, sculpted cheekbone.

She took his breath away. Just like that. And before the night was over, she would be his.

A pang of desire, then something deeper and stronger than he'd expected stirred inside him as he walked to her. What that something was, how deep it went, he didn't know.

“Cheyenne.”

She started at the sound of his voice, then turned. Concern overrode everything else when he saw the bleakness in her dark eyes.

“What's wrong?”

“Detective Law's here. He questioned me. Jackson, he already knew we spent time together at your uncle's birthday party.”

Jackson fisted a hand against his thigh, unfisted it. Anger would get him nowhere. “We were standing in the courtyard, surrounded by hundreds of people. It's not a surprise a few of them mentioned to Law that they saw us together.”

“I doubt any of them know exactly when it was you left me to go get us our drinks. No one else but me remembers that. And I had to tell Law. I had to tell him I saw you near the service hallway only minutes before someone near there shot at your uncle.”

“Yeah.” Jackson pulled in a slow breath. “Cheyenne, we knew this was going to happen. It was a matter of time before Law got around to talking to you.”

When she raised her chin, sunlight filtering through the oak's leaves patterned her burnished skin. “I wanted to refuse to talk to him. I wanted to just tell him to get lost.”

“No.” Gripping her arms, Jackson leaned in. “You'll only make problems for yourself if you give Law a bad
time. You have to talk to him. You have no reason not to.”

“He thinks you tried to kill your uncle. He wants to use me to try to prove it.”

“Let him.”

“I don't want to let him—”

“Dammit, I didn't do it!” The frustration growing inside Jackson flexed in his words. “Law can try all he wants, but he can't
prove
anything.”

Her hands came up, her palms pressing against his chest. “I know you didn't do it, Jackson. I know.”

The certainty in her voice twisted something in his gut. He pulled her against him, buried his face in her hair and swore.

“I'm sorry I put you in the middle of this. If I could change things, if I could go back to that night, I wouldn't have come anywhere near you.”

Tipping her head back, she met his gaze. “We were meant to talk to each other.”

“Maybe.” He furrowed his brow at the stillness that had settled in her voice. “If there's such a thing as fate, it wasn't doing you any favors at that party by hooking you up with me.”

“I'm not sure of that.”

A roar rose from the crowd watching the bull riding. Cheyenne's gaze slid toward the corral. In a crystallized moment Jackson saw the color drain from her face. She stiffened against his touch.

“Cheyenne—”

“No!”

“What—”

Her hands gripped the front of his shirt as her gaze swung back to his. Her face was ghost-pale, her eyes wide and filled with fear. “Johnny!”

Jackson jerked his head toward the corral. The smiling teenager still straddled the fence, cheering the cowboy riding the back of a ferocious Brahma bull. “What about him?”

“The bull! He'll go out of control, get too close to the fence, to Johnny.” She was talking so fast that her words tripped over each other. “We've got to get him off the fence.”

“Cheyenne—”

“Now!” She clamped her hand on Jackson's wrist, yanked him forward.

“All right.” He sprinted with her across a gravel path, then a section of grass, driven by pure instinct that told him to ask questions later.