Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad BoyHe's Just a Cowboy

by Lisa Jackson

  “What’s he doing here? I thought he left town.” Rachelle focused the binoculars again, until Jackson’s rough features were centered in stark relief. For a second she thought he was handsome with his knife-sharp features and thin lips, but it wasn’t so much his looks as his attitude that made him seem mysterious—even sexy. Wondering if she were out of her mind, she let the binoculars swing from her neck, grabbed the camera and snapped in the zoom lens before clicking off several shots of the bad boy of Gold Creek.

  “Print one for me,” Carlie said as she lifted the binoculars to her own eyes.

  Rachelle ignored her. “So you don’t know why he’s back?”

  “Haven’t you heard? He’s in trouble big-time with the Fitzpatricks,” Carlie said. “That’s why he’s giving them all the evil eye. My dad’s a foreman for the logging company and he’s usually up in the woods, but he had to come into the office for something—to fill out forms for an accident that happened the other day.

  “Anyway, it was kinda late and Jackson was there, raising some sort of stink about his mom working for ‘dirty Fitzpatrick money’ I think was the quote. It’s not like she’s there all the time. She just puts in a few hours a week doing filing or something. Everybody thinks the old man hired her out of pity—they went to school together, I guess, and he’s into causes, you know. Part of his political thing. Anyway, supposedly Jackson objected to his mother being another one of Fitzpatrick’s charities.”

  Rachelle took another swallow of Coke, her throat parched from staring at Jackson.

  Carlie rattled on. “It probably has something to do with the fact that Thomas Fitzpatrick gave Jackson a job a couple of years ago, then fired him. No one, not even my dad, knew why, but my dad figures Jackson was stealing tools or something and that Fitzpatrick didn’t want to press charges.” From the corner of her eye, Rachelle noticed the guilty look that passed over Carlie’s face. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything—”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Rachelle replied, but wondered how many other people Carlie had told. Carlie loved gossip, and short of wiring her mouth shut, there was no way to keep her from spreading rumors. The news of Jackson Moore’s confrontation about his mother was probably all over school.

  Rachelle bit her lower lip and stared openly across the field to the spot where Jackson, balanced on the idling motorcycle, still stood. Suddenly his head swung toward her, his eyes searching the crowd. His gaze landed on her with a force that sent a jolt of electricity through her. Her throat tightened and her hands were clammy. She looked quickly away, then finished her Coke in one swallow.

  It was stupid, of course. He couldn’t pick her out of a throng; he had no idea that she was thinking about him or had even glanced his way, but when she slid another glance toward the fence, he was still staring at her and her blood seemed to pound at her temples.

  Touching her throat with her fingertips, she felt tiny drops of perspiration collecting against her skin. She couldn’t help a little feeling of fascination for the boy with the blackest reputation in Gold Creek. He was almost twenty-two, and though he was rumored to have straightened out some of his lawless traits, there had been a time when he’d raised nothing but hell. He lived with his mother on the outskirts of Gold Creek in a rusting single-wide mobile home. He didn’t have a father—well, none that anyone in town could actually name—and he’d been in trouble with the law for as long as Rachelle could remember. As a minor, he’d stolen gas and hubcaps and shot mailboxes and had been kicked out of Tyler High for fighting on the school grounds. Somehow he’d managed to scrape together enough credits to get his diploma, though no one in Gold Creek thought he’d amount to anything.

  He’d joined the navy for a hitch and had disappeared from town for a while. But now he was back—dressed in black leather and riding a thrumming Harley-Davidson, his tattered image of the troubled kid from the bad part of town still very much intact.

  “Oh, Lord, he’s looking right at you!” Carlie whispered loudly. “You know, he’s got a face to die for.”

  “He’s dangerous,” Rachelle replied, crushing her cup.

  Carlie’s eyes widened and her blue-green eyes glinted impishly. On a sigh she said, “Of course he is. That’s what makes him so attractive.”

  * * *

  “LAURA SAID SHE’D MEET us in the parking lot—after she changed out of her cheerleading uniform,” Carlie told Rachelle as they climbed out of the emptying bleachers an hour later. They’d stayed at the stadium to take some postgame pictures of the star players and get some quotes for the next week’s edition of the school paper. Carlie had snapped a couple of pictures of Brian Fitzpatrick and Joe Knapp, the team’s all-league wide receiver, who, after catching a wobbly pass from Fitzpatrick, had run fifty-three yards to make the winning touchdown. Carlie had taken the boys’ pictures while Rachelle had gotten a few quotes from Coach Foster. Now they were to meet Laura, Carlie’s friend and one of the most popular girls in school.

  “There’s her car!” Carlie said, pointing to a yellow Toyota. “She must be around here somewhere—oh, look, over there—”

  Rachelle searched the lot and saw Laura standing next to a shiny red Corvette. Two boys were seated in the car, and another was leaning against the fender of a pickup parked next to the sports car.

  “Oh my God, that’s Roy Fitzpatrick!” Carlie whispered. “Do you think he’s the new boyfriend she’s been hinting about?” Before Rachelle could answer, Carlie was dashing through the few vehicles left in the parking lot and Rachelle was beginning to think that her new rebellious streak wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Roy Fitzpatrick? He’d earned a reputation for smooth words, quick hands and fast goodbyes. Rumors of his sexual appetite had filtered through the hallways of Tyler High and there had been gossip of a pregnant girlfriend in Coleville. Lately he’d been dating Melanie Patton, his best friend’s sister.

  Rachelle had met Roy only a couple of times—when she’d had to interview him for the school paper. She was probably the only girl in the entire school who didn’t have a crush on him.

  Ignoring the apprehension that followed her like a cloud, she wended her way through the parked cars, careful of the vehicles backing up and trying to find a way out of the crowded lot.

  The night was muggy, the clouds overhead dark and threatening rain. Over the odors of exhaust and hot engines, a thinner smell, of stale beer and cigarettes, wafted on the breeze that rustled the dry leaves dancing across the asphalt.

  The Corvette’s glossy red finish shone under the glow of the security lights. Roy, the crown prince of Fitzpatrick Logging, was seated behind the wheel, his toe tapping restlessly on the throttle, the powerful car’s engine thrumming anxiously.

  Scott McDonald, one of his friends, sat in the passenger seat and Erik Patton leaned against the fender of his metallic blue pickup.

  “Roy wants to take us for a ride,” Laura said as Rachelle approached. She tossed her a triumphant glance, as if she’d caught a prize all the girls in town were wanting.

  “Where?” Rachelle asked, feeling suddenly awkward. Though Roy and his friends were only two years older than she, they seemed so much more mature.

  “Remember I told you I knew someone with a cabin on the lake?” Laura reminded her.

  The Fitzpatricks did have a home at Whitefire Lake, but, in Rachelle’s estimation, it was hardly a cabin. The house had to be four or five times the size of the small cottage in which she’d grown up. But then Laura had grown up with higher standards. Both her parents worked and she’d never had to go without anything she really wanted.

  And now, from the looks of things, Laura wanted Roy Fitzpatrick. As if reading Rachelle’s hesitation, she said, “Come on, Rachelle, why not?” Her eyes were bright and eager as she sneaked a peek at Roy.

  Roy tossed them all—Rachelle, Laura and Carlie—his well-practiced all-American smile. His wheat-blond hair was clipped short, his athletic physique visible beneath the thin layer of yellow cotton in his pol
o shirt. “Yeah, why not, Rachelle?” Roy said, his gaze moving slowly up Rachelle’s body with a bold familiarity that caused her stomach to turn over.

  She swallowed hard. Until the past couple of weeks since she’d begun hanging out with Laura, not many boys had noticed her, and certainly not older college boys who practically owned the whole town.

  “Yeah, why not?” Carlie chimed in. “We already planned to ditch the dance.”

  Laura had told Rachelle that if the dance was boring they’d go out cruising around town, maybe drive over to Coleville as none of the girls were dating anyone special from Gold Creek, then return to her house for a sleepover. But she’d never once mentioned going to the lake with Roy and his friends.

  Rachelle hesitated. Everyone was staring at her. “Still the prude?” Roy taunted, and Rachelle’s cheeks flamed. How would Roy know anything about her?

  “I told my mom we’d be at the dance—”

  “So?” Roy cut in a little irritably. “What your mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

  Laura shot her a scathing glance. “We already worked out our story, Rachelle.”

  Rachelle bit her lip. This was her chance. She’d always been considered a “brain,” a girl who’d rather study or work on the school paper or paint scenery for the drama club than show any interest in boys. But lately, with Laura’s help in the makeup and hair department, boys had been calling and asking her out. She liked the feeling. But she didn’t trust Roy.

  “Well, what’s it gonna be?” Roy asked, his smoldering blue eyes touching hers. “A mama’s girl—or ya gonna have some fun? We can’t wait around here all night.”

  “That’s right,” Erik agreed, glancing over his shoulder. His vintage truck didn’t compare to Roy’s sleek machine, but the Pattons didn’t have the kind of money that had been passed down from one generation of Fitzpatricks to the next. As long as there had been people in Gold Creek, there had been money in Fitzpatrick hands.

  “Come on,” Carlie urged.

  “Yeah, let’s go with the guys,” Laura agreed, smiling at the three college boys. She fanned herself with her fingers. “It’s so hot tonight. The lake would be great.”

  Roy flashed his rich-boy grin—a slow-spreading smile that had been known to melt the most formidable ice maiden’s resistance.

  Laura leaned against the fender of the Corvette, her hands braced against the gleaming hood of the car, her heavy breasts outlined against her sweater. “I know I would love a ride.”

  “That’s more like it. I was beginnin’ to think that you girls were afraid,” Roy drawled, his blue eyes flickering devilment at Rachelle. He pushed the throttle with his toe and the Corvette’s engine rumbled eagerly.

  “Yeah, come on, we’ll show you a good time,” Scott agreed. Whereas Roy was blond and blue-eyed, the all-American boy, Scott was shorter, more muscular and had thick brown hair and freckles.

  Erik, unlike Scott and Roy, didn’t seem as interested in Laura or her friends. “Let’s get outta here,” he grumbled. “There’s no action. Everybody’s takin’ off.”

  He was right. The line of cars that had been streaming from the stadium lot had dwindled to a trickle. Even some of the boys from the team, freshly showered, were climbing into vehicles and heading back to the school for the postgame dance, the dance Rachelle had promised her mother she’d attend before spending the night with Laura. But Laura, it seemed, was only interested in Roy Fitzpatrick.

  “There’s action here,” Roy replied, sliding a cocksure glance Rachelle’s way. “All the little ladies have to do is say ‘yes.’ We’ll guarantee them the ride of their lives.”

  “Now what kind of ride are you talking about?” Laura asked in a sexy voice, and Rachelle nearly choked.

  Scott chuckled deep in his throat, and Erik looked embarrassed.

  Rachelle was flabbergasted by Laura’s behavior. The girl was asking for trouble, more trouble than Rachelle thought she could handle.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Rachelle said, feeling Roy’s hot gaze on her. She didn’t want to be a wet blanket, but she could smell trouble. A walk on the wild side.

  “Loosen up,” Carlie said in a soft whisper. “When do you ever get a chance to go joyriding with Roy Fitzpatrick?”

  “Three of us, three of you—we could have a party,” Roy said.

  “A private party?” Laura replied, flirting outrageously. Rachelle wanted to drop through the pavement, but she didn’t move. There was no place to go. By now the parking lot was nearly empty. Except for a lone motorcycle rider astride his thrumming machine.

  Rachelle’s heart nearly stopped as she recognized Jackson Moore. He parked his bike about twenty yards away and didn’t move. Just sat there…waiting, the Harley’s engine idling loudly, the growl of a metallic beast.

  Roy blanched at the sight of him. “Get lost, Moore,” he yelled, but Jackson didn’t flinch.

  Rachelle couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  “We didn’t finish our discussion the other day,” Jackson said, and his lips curled into a sardonic smile as he rubbed the bruise beneath his eye.

  “We’ve got nothing to talk about,” Roy replied testily. “Get out,” he muttered to Scott McDonald, reaching over his friend and flinging the passenger door open. An old Doors song blared into the night.

  Jackson didn’t let up. Over the rumble of engines and Jim Morrison’s deep-throated lyrics he yelled, “You and that old man of yours keep insulting my family.”

  Roy pretended not to hear. As Scott climbed out of his car, Roy crooked a long finger at Laura. “Let’s go,” he said. He took up the conversation where it had been dropped. “You said you’re lookin’ for a private party, well you found one. Hop in.” His gaze moved quickly up and down Laura’s curves as she climbed into the convertible. Roy’s mouth twitched. “Now that’s what I like—a girl who knows her own mind.”

  “We’re not through, Fitzpatrick,” Jackson reminded him.

  “That does it. I’m sick of you, Moore. Just butt the hell out of my life!”

  “As soon as you stay away from my family.”

  “Your family? God, that’s rich. You’re a stinkin’ bastard, Moore. Or didn’t you know? Everyone in Gold Creek but you knows that your mother’s the town slut and that she probably can’t even name the man who’s supposed to be your father!”

  Jackson’s expression turned to fury. “You lying—”

  Roy tromped on the accelerator. The Corvette lurched forward with a spray of gravel. Tires squealed and Roy wrenched hard on the steering wheel, heading the car straight at Jackson and his bike.

  Rachelle screamed.

  Laura, in the seat beside Roy, turned to stone.

  Jackson gunned the engine of his Harley, but not before the fender of the Corvette caught the back wheel of the bike. The motorcycle shimmied, tires sliding on the loose gravel. Jackson flew off. With a loud thud he landed on the ground and his bike skidded, riderless, across the lot.

  Roy laughed, shifted into a higher gear and tore out of the lot. Rachelle started running to Jackson’s inert form. He can’t be hurt, he can’t be, she thought as panic gripped her heart. He lay flat and still on the gravel while the sound of a disappearing engine and the lyrics of “Light My Fire” faded on the wind.

  Erik tried to grab her. “Leave him alone,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction and his face was sheet-white. “He’s okay. Only scared a little. That’s all.”

  “I hope to God you’re right.” Heart in her throat, Rachelle jerked her arm away and ran to Jackson’s inert form.

  With a groan, he rolled over. His jacket was ripped down one arm and his pants, too, were torn. “Bastard!” Jackson groaned. “Damn bloody bastard.” He slowly pulled himself to his feet and though he limped slightly, he headed straight for his bike.

  Relief flooded through Rachelle’s veins and she managed a thin smile. “Then you’re okay?”

  “Compared to what?” he muttered, righting his bike and
frowning as he noticed broken spokes. Lips flattening angrily against his teeth, he winced painfully as he swung one leg over the motorcycle and switched on the ignition.

  “But at least you’re all right,” Rachelle said, nearly sagging with relief.

  “No thanks to your friend.”

  “He’s not my—”

  “Sure.” Jackson sucked in his breath, as if pain had drawn the air from his lungs, then shoved hard on the kick start with his boot heel. With a roar and a plume of blue exhaust, the Harley revved.

  “You…you might want to see a doctor—”

  “A doctor?” he mocked. “Yeah, sure. I’ll go check into Memorial. Have them patch me up.”

  “It was only…a…suggestion.”

  “Well, I don’t remember asking for your advice.”

  Stung, she stepped back a pace. “I was just concerned,” Rachelle said lamely, flustered at his anger. “Look, I’m on your side.”

  Dark, impenetrable eyes swung in her direction. His lips curled sardonically, as if he and she shared a private joke. “Let’s get something straight. No one in Gold Creek is on my side. And that includes you.”

  “But—”

  “You know Fitzpatrick, right?”

  “Not really. He’s not my friend and—”

  “In case I don’t catch up to him tonight, you can give him a message for me. Tell Roy-boy that if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll leave my family alone. And that goes for his old man. Tell the old coot to quit sniffin’ around Sandra Moore. Got it?”

  “But I don’t know—”

  “Just do it,” Jackson ordered, his square chin thrust in harsh rebellion as he flicked his wrist and took off in a spray of anger and gravel. She watched him streak out of the lot and onto the street and listened as the bike wound through several gears. Her heart was racing as fast as the motorcycle’s engine, but she attributed the acceleration to the near collision of sports car and cycle and the fact that she’d been talking to the bad boy of Gold Creek. His reputation was as black as the night and anyone in town would tell you that Sandra Moore’s son was just plain bad news.