Wed to the Witness (7 page)

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.

T
hirty 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.”