by Lisa Jackson
A sardonic smile curved his lips. “No?” he asked, disbelieving. “You think we can stay away from each other?”
“It hasn’t been a problem for the last twelve years.”
“But now we’re back in Gold Creek, aren’t we? I doubt that we can avoid each other.”
“We can try.” She dropped his hand and refused to acknowledge his insolent grin.
“Gold Creek’s a small town. But you’re right, we can try.” Without so much as a goodbye, he crossed the porch, grabbed hold of the rail and vaulted into the yard. Within seconds, he’d disappeared into the shadows.
Jackson Moore.
Back in the town that had cast him out.
Back with a vengeance.
And she needed a damned interview with him!
Rachelle closed the door and threw the dead bolt into place as the sound of a car’s engine roared to life.
* * *
JACKSON MENTALLY KICKED himself all the way back to his motel. What in God’s name had he been thinking? He hadn’t intended on making a pass at Rachelle. In fact, he’d faced her just to prove to himself that his memory of her was skewed; that she wasn’t as attractive today as she had been on that long-ago emotion-riddled night.
He’d dealt with his guilt over leaving her by telling himself that they’d made love, she’d lost her virginity because of the circumstances, because they were thrust together and scared, because they were young and stupid. He’d convinced himself that he’d overdramatized their lovemaking in his mind and that she wouldn’t affect him now as she had then.
Wrong.
He’d been stunned at the sight of her. While in high school, she’d been pretty, now she was beautiful, not in a classic sense, but beautiful nonetheless.
But beauty usually didn’t get to him. He was surrounded by beautiful women, women who were interested in him because of his notoriety or his money. He usually didn’t give a damn.
Rachelle was different. She looked more womanly now than she had twelve years before; her face had lost all the round edges of adolescence. Her cheekbones were more pronounced and her body language gave the impression that she was a woman who knew what she wanted and went after it. Until she’d taken the phone call. The atmosphere in the room had changed then; she’d seemed more submissive somehow, a little less secure.
Whoever the guy was on the other end of the line, Jackson didn’t like him. And so, he himself had come on to Rachelle.
He pulled into the parking lot of his motel and gritted his teeth. Leave her alone, he kept telling himself as he pocketed his keys and climbed the stairs to his room on the second floor. She doesn’t want you and she’s better off with the jerk who called her.
Inside the room, he tossed off his jacket and headed to the bar. He needed a drink. Seeing Rachelle again was a shock. His reaction to her was even more of a shock. And what he was going to do about the next couple of weeks scared the hell out of him.
* * *
AVOIDING JACKSON DIDN’T prove to be easy, Rachelle learned to her chagrin. Gold Creek was just too small to get lost in. She’d seen him walking into the Buckeye and caught him having breakfast at the Railway Café. She’d even watched him work an automatic teller machine at one of the two banks in town.
Now Rachelle half expected to see him at Fitzpatrick Logging where she was rebuffed by a sweet-smiling receptionist. “I’m sorry, but there must’ve been some mistake. Mr. Fitzpatrick is out of town for several days,” she was told.
“But I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she replied firmly. “My editor set it up a week ago.”
The receptionist, Marge Elkins, lifted her plump shoulders and rolled her palms into the air. “I’m sorry. There must’ve been some mix-up, but if you’d like to speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick’s son, Brian, I could fit you in within the next couple of days.”
Why not? Rachelle thought. She may as well start with someone she knew, someone at the top of Gold Creek’s economic ladder. “I’d like that.”
“Mmm.” Marge flipped through an appointment book. “He’s free Wednesday morning,” she said. “How about eleven?”
“That would be fine,” Rachelle agreed, her curiosity aroused. “So Brian works here with his father?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Mr. Brian Fitzpatrick is president of the company,” the friendly woman told Rachelle as she scratched a note in the appointment book. “His father only works a few days a week—more of a consultant than anything else. He’s busy with the rest of his businesses. Oh, here—our annual report.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a glossy folder. Inside, along with pictures of the board members, which consisted mainly of the Fitzpatrick family, were graphs and charts on productivity at the logging company as well as a list of other enterprises that comprised the Fitzpatrick empire.
Rachelle thumbed through the report as she walked away from the receptionist’s desk. Brian? In charge of the logging company? Rachelle was surprised. In school, Brian had always been more interested in sports than academics. She’d heard from her mother that Brian had married Laura but, of course, Rachelle hadn’t been invited to the wedding. During the remainder of their senior year at Tyler High, Laura had made a point of keeping her distance from Rachelle.
All because of Jackson, Rachelle thought with a trace of bitterness. Though, if given the same set of circumstances, Rachelle would have stood up for him again. He was innocent, damn it, and no matter what else happened, she’d never believe him capable of murder.
Frowning at the turn of her memories, she shoved open the door and stepped outside. The air was clear, a hint of sunshine permeating thin clouds. Behind the low-slung building housing the offices of Fitzpatrick Logging was a huge yard surrounded by a chain-link fence and guarded by a pair of black Doberman pinschers who paced in a kennel that ran along the fence. Warnings were posted on the chain link. A few signs cautioned employees to wear hard hats and work safely. Other signs threatened would-be trespassers.
Trucks, loaded with logs, rumbled in and out of the yard. Cranes lifted the loads from the trucks, to be stacked in huge piles, while other trucks hauled their cargo away from the yard, presumably to a sawmill down the road.
Rachelle’s boots crunched on the gravel of the parking lot and so immersed was she in the report she’d received from Marge Elkins, she didn’t notice Jackson leaning against the dusty fender of her Escort.
“Short meeting,” he commented, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Wha—oh!” Her hand flew to her throat and she almost dropped the shiny-paged report. Though she’d thought he might show up, still he startled her. “What’re you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought we got off on a bad foot the other night and I decided maybe I’d come on a little strong.”
“A little?” she mocked, unlocking her car door and refusing to look at his long, jean-encased legs that were propped in the gravel for balance as he rested his hips against her car.
“A lot, then. I was just worried, that’s all.”
“Worried? About me?” She almost laughed at the irony of it. “Too late, Jackson.” Years ago, when she’d needed him, he’d left her high and dry to stand up for herself, to stand up for him, to endure the taunts, the smirks, the jokes at her expense. She’d earned a new nickname. Risqué. And the boys who’d call her by the name would let their eager gazes rove all over her. And where had Jackson been then? Hitchhiking to God-only-knew-where. “I don’t need you to worry about me.”
To his credit, he winced a little. “I can’t help it.”
“I can take care of myself.” She opened the car door and tossed her bag onto the passenger seat.
He caught her by the hand before she was about to slide behind the wheel. “Wait.”
“I’m through waiting for you. I did enough of that twelve years ago.” She tried to yank her arm away, but he wouldn’t let go. His fingers were warm and as sed
uctive as his voice.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, and she believed him. The honesty in his angular features couldn’t be faked. “I did what I thought was best. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have stuck around here. Maybe I should have stood by you. Married you.”
“What?” she gasped, but a little part of her wanted to cry at the tenderness in his words. Don’t be an idiot, Rachelle!
“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”
“I never wanted to marry you,” she replied, stung at how close he came to the truth. But her teenage fantasies had nothing to do with her feelings for him now.
He dropped her hand, though his enigmatic brown-gold gaze wouldn’t let go of hers. “Then I guess I made a mistake. I thought all the rage that you’re holding inside had something to do with me.”
“I lied for you, Jackson. I perjured myself for you.” She thought of the painful days he’d spent in jail, the police who had badgered her, the way she’d waited for him when he’d been released and the charges dropped. She’d been so foolish.
Now he didn’t move. The silence in the air was thick.
Rachelle glared up at him. “You weren’t with me all night, were you? You left sometime after midnight.”
He didn’t deny it. But the look in his eyes was hard as glass and his mouth compressed into a furious white line. “You think I killed Roy?”
“No. If I did, I would never have lied. I just wanted you to know that I pulled out all the stops for you. Because, believe it or not, I trusted you. With everything I had.”
“So now I owe you one, is that it?”
She wanted to slap him, to tell him that he was the most frustrating man she’d ever met, but she slid into the warm interior of her car and rummaged in her purse for her keys. Her emotions were shredding. With each second she spent with him, all her hard-fought independence seemed to unravel bit by bit. Slowly she dragged in a long breath. Honesty. She had to be truthful with him. Even if it killed her. But she didn’t have to bare her soul, did she? Not entirely. “I stood up for you, Jackson. When no one in this town could say your name without verbally crucifying you, I told everyone that you were innocent, that I knew you couldn’t have killed Roy because I was with you. All night long.”
His lips pinched slightly. “And you’ve blamed me ever since.”
“Yes!” she cried. “For abandoning me. I lost my reputation, my job, my friends and all my self-respect. Even the teachers knew that I’d slept with you—that I’d spent all night with a boy I barely knew, a boy whose reputation was the worst in town, a boy who used me and then left me without once looking over his shoulder, without once calling. You were a coward, Jackson,” she said, tears stinging the back of her eyes. “And that’s why I can never forgive you.”
“I never used you! I cared, damn it.”
“Can’t prove it by me.” She wrenched the car door closed and stared up at him through the open window. She couldn’t help blinking back tears as she palmed her keys. “Leave me alone, Jackson. And while you’re at it, go to hell.”
With a flip of her wrist, she started her car. Gravel spun beneath the Escort’s wheels as she floored the throttle and took off.
Jackson jumped backward and was left staring after her, silently damning himself and knowing that most of what she’d said was true. Though she didn’t know his reasons. Cowardice hadn’t driven him from Gold Creek. No, he could have stood up to all the gossip-mongering citizens of the town; he could have suffered their stares and their remarks and their unspoken innuendos.
But he’d left because of her. Any more involvement she may have had with him would only have destroyed her further. True, she’d suffered. But the pain would have been much worse if he would have stayed here, stood by her and married her.
The thought struck a painful chord in his chest. Not that he hadn’t considered marrying her before. Lying on the dirty bunk in his jail cell, he’d had plenty of time to come up with alternative plans to prove to everyone that they were wrong about him. He’d considered marrying Rachelle, just to clear her reputation and prove himself capable of one decent act.
But what would have come of a hasty marriage between two kids who had nothing in common but one night of sex? With no education and the suspicion of murder hanging over him, he would have been able to offer her next to nothing. Their romance—if that’s what it was—would have faded quickly when he couldn’t find a decent job in Gold Creek and she would have had to move away from her friends and family and give up her dreams of a college education and a career in journalism.
No, marrying Rachelle would have been a mistake. A big mistake. One they both would have regretted for the rest of their lives. They would’ve ended up hating each other.
And is she so fond of you now?
He didn’t care. It was best if she hated him, he told himself, but he couldn’t convince himself to stay away from her. The fire in her eyes that had attracted him twelve years ago had only mellowed to a quietly burning flame that captivated him all the more. She was long-legged and sleek, with mahogany-hued hair that still swung to her waist. He remembered getting lost in the fragrant, damp strands of her hair that night. He could still recall the firelight casting deep shadows of red into the auburn waves.
He’d drowned in the scent and feel of her, losing all sense of right and wrong while letting her agile body be the balm that he’d so desperately needed. He hadn’t thought about the future, only about the present and about the incredibly hot desire she’d aroused in him.
He’d made love to her. Over and over. Putting aside the pain from his wounds, and the thoughts that somehow they’d be found out, he’d driven into her sweet warmth again and again, fusing with her flesh until all he could feel, taste and smell was Rachelle.
Naked in the light from the dying fire, her supple body stretched out beside him, her breasts crushed against his chest, she’d been more beautiful than any woman he’d ever met. He’d told himself that he’d loved her, that no matter what had happened, that night was special and right, that nothing so perfect could go wrong.
What a fool he’d been. What a pitiful, young fool.
And now you’re an older fool, he thought, staring after the cloud of dust that trailed after her car. Because like it or not, Moore, Rachelle Tremont with her sharp wit and even sharper tongue is still in your blood.
* * *
RACHELLE LEFT FITZPATRICK LOGGING with her heart in her throat. Why was he here? She didn’t want to see him or deal with him. Just being around him reduced her to childish emotions that she’d hoped she’d grown out of. Love, hate, anger and frustration. One minute she was ready to slap him, the next she was moved to tears. What was wrong with her? Jackson Moore was just a man, for crying out loud, a man who’d hurt her once but wasn’t going to get another chance.
Yes, she had to see him again—to ask for an interview. But then, by God, she’d keep the conversation professional, even if it killed her!
The two-lane road passed beneath the Escort’s wheels in a blur. Only when the asphalt dipped a bit as she drove under the old railroad trestle, did she bring herself back to the present. She smiled at the skeletal rigging of the bridge that had survived two major earthquakes and a fire that had swept through town in the fifties. The rickety-looking trestle seemed as indestructible as the Fitzpatricks.
She spent the next couple of hours poking around town, noticing the new businesses as well as the old. The same dress shop was still on Seventh Street, owned by a woman who must now be in her seventies, while other stores had changed hands over the years.
She grabbed lunch in a café that had once been part of the old movie theater and walked through the park, only to stop and stare at the memorial—a gazebo of all things—to Roy Fitzpatrick.
No matter what she did or where she went, the memory of the night Roy died followed her. It seemed as if the town of Gold Creek had changed permanently that October evening. The course of history had been altere
d. And she and Jackson were a major part of that change.
Who had killed Roy? She’d asked herself a hundred times and never found an answer. Maybe there wasn’t one. Maybe the past was so buried beneath prejudice against Jackson and gossip about her, that the other facts surrounding Roy’s death were conveniently forgotten. No other suspect had ever been hauled into jail, though the sheriff’s department and the Gold Creek police had questioned nearly everyone who had been at the homecoming game that night, as well as a few citizens who hadn’t. Every kid who’d shown up at Roy’s party had been interrogated, but when the dust had cleared, Jackson had been the only suspect.
Roy’s murder had been left unsolved, though everyone in Gold Creek assumed that Jackson was the culprit.
She climbed back into her car and stared at the green. It had all been so long ago, and yet, in some respects, it was as if time had stopped in Gold Creek.
And now Brian was running the logging company—a job Roy had been groomed for. Things would be different in Gold Creek if Roy had survived, and things would certainly be different between Jackson and her. But she wasn’t going to think about Jackson. Not today.
She had work to do.
She drove back through town and under the railway trestle again. But she didn’t drive as far north as the logging camp and stopped at Monroe Sawmill Company, where some of the workers were just getting off. Still, others were arriving for the swing shift.
She approached a man she didn’t recognize and hoped he didn’t know her name as she introduced herself. He didn’t even lift a brow as she explained her reasons for returning to Gold Creek and began asking him questions about his family, the town and what he wanted from life.
“I just want to work and support my family,” he said after staring at her long enough to decide he could trust her.
“And you’ve found that opportunity here?”
“I did until all the dad-blamed environmentalists decided it was more important to save some bird’s habitat than it was to keep men’s jobs. I got a wife and two kids, a mortgage and car payment. I don’t give a rat’s rear end for some dang bird.”
