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

by Lisa Jackson

  Frowning at the turn of his dark thoughts, he grabbed his duffel from the bed and tossed it over his shoulder. He shot a glance to the sturdy oak frame of the double bed he’d slept in for as long as he could remember and tried to picture Heather lying with him on the sagging mattress, beneath the faded old patchwork quilt his grandmother had pieced. Heather with her calfskin shoes, diamond earrings and expensive suits. No, that mirage wouldn’t come to life before his eyes. He was just being foolish.

  He walked down a short hallway to the kitchen where Nadine was scrubbing an old kerosene lamp he used when the power went out. She’d tied her hair back into a ponytail and her cheeks were flushed from working on the floor and counters. Seeing his reflection in the brass works of the lamp, she smiled. “Thomas Fitzpatrick called while you were in the barn.”

  Turner’s jaw tightened. “Some people just don’t know when to give up.”

  She looked at him quickly, then her eyes fell on his duffel bag and her lips turned down a little at the corners. “Sometimes, when people want something desperately, they can’t quit.”

  “Fitzpatrick never gives up.”

  “So they say. So…you’re all packed?”

  “I guess.”

  Turning, she attempted to hide a sliver of sadness in her eyes. “You’re going to the city?”

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  “There must be a reason.”

  Turner offered her his lazy grin. “Maybe it’s time I got more sophisticated.”

  She swallowed a smile. “Well, be sure to tell me all about the opera and the ballet when you get back.”

  “I will.”

  She set the lamp on the windowsill and snipped off the extra leaves of three roses she’d left in the sink. “Why do I have the feeling that your trip has something to do with all those calls from Heather Leonetti?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me,” he teased, then regretted the words when she pricked her finger on a thorn and avoided his eyes as she muttered something under her breath. She placed the roses in a vase and set them on the table—her last chore before she left each week.

  “You don’t really have to bother with those,” he said, motioning to the heavy-blossomed flowers. “I’ll be gone—”

  “I like to,” she cut in. “You could use more of a woman’s touch around here.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know it.”

  “Then why am I happy with the way things are?”

  “’Cause you’re a bullheaded fool, Turner Brooks, and if you think you’re happy, I strongly suggest you take a good long look in the mirror.” She grabbed her bucket and supplies and swung out the door.

  Turner watched her leave. He should’ve told her the truth, explained about Heather and the boy. But how could he, when he barely understood it himself? It was his problem, keeping things bottled up, never sharing with anyone, but he didn’t figure now was the time to tell Nadine his life story.

  Right now, all he could worry about was the son he’d never met. And there was other, unfinished business he had to deal with. As he watched Nadine’s dusty Chevy pull out of the yard, he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Lazy K.

  Mazie answered on the third ring. After a short discussion on the fact that she hadn’t seen Turner for too long a period, she told him that Zeke was still in Montana, scouting up livestock, where he’d been for the past week and a half. If Turner would like, Mazie would give him a message.

  “I’ll call back,” Turner replied, as he had the other two times he’d called. He didn’t want Mazie or anyone else from the Lazy K involved. If Zeke had lied way back when, if he hadn’t bothered to tell Turner that Heather had been looking for him six years ago, Turner wanted to hear it from the older man himself.

  Heather wasn’t lying about Adam. Turner had determined that she loved the boy and would never have sought Turner out unless she was desperate, which she was. No—he was certain now that the boy was his, but he still didn’t trust her—not completely.

  But if she only wanted Turner for his bloody bone marrow, then why make love to him—nearly seduce him? It didn’t fit. He wanted to believe that she still cared for him, but he’d been fooled once before. No. Heather wanted something from him, something more.

  He glanced at the acres of ranch land he owned free and clear. Thomas Fitzpatrick was more than interested in the land—the old man had called him just yesterday with another ridiculous offer, but Turner had held firm. A strange, uncomfortable thought crossed his mind and drew his brows into a knot of concentration. Jackson Moore, the man Heather’s sister was planning to marry, was Thomas’s son, his firstborn, the only decent male descendent left since Roy had been killed and Brian had bilked his father out of part of his fortune. Was it possible that Heather was trying to get close to Turner to get him to sell his land to Fitzpatrick? Maybe the old man had offered her a cut of the profits. Turner wouldn’t be surprised. Fitzpatrick would stoop as low as a snake’s belly to get what he wanted, and Heather—well, her track record proved how she felt about money and what it could buy. If Fitzpatrick had gotten to her… But that was too farfetched. Or was it?

  Bile rose in the back of Turner’s throat as he climbed into his pickup. First things first. He’d do what he had to do for his boy, and then he’d deal with Heather, find out just exactly what made her tick.

  * * *

  “HE WON’T SELL.” BRIAN FITZPATRICK pulled at the knot of his tie as he flopped into one of the plush chairs near his father’s desk on the third floor of the old hotel that now housed Fitzpatrick, Incorporated. “For some reason, Turner Brooks has decided to keep hold of that miserable scrap of land for the rest of his damned life.”

  Thomas studied his son carefully. Brian had never been his favorite; in fact he’d once, years ago, referred to the boy as a “backup” for his firstborn, golden boy, Roy. Although Roy hadn’t really been his eldest. Thomas’s firstborn had been a bastard, born out of wedlock to a woman Thomas had never been able to forget. Oh, he’d stopped his affair with Sandra Moore thirty years before, but he couldn’t kid himself. Never once in all his years of marriage to June did he feel that same exquisite passion he’d had with Sandra.

  And June had never let him forget it.

  Oh, well, it was all water under the bridge, but it seemed ironic that of his only two living sons, one hated his guts, and the other was a weakling, a boy who’d never grown up, a man who had skimmed money from the logging company. Thomas was torn. By greed and the need to pull his family—all of his family—together. As much as he wanted the Brooks ranch, he wished he could make things right with Jackson. But what he’d put the boy through was unthinkable. He didn’t blame Jackson for despising him.

  It seemed as if his life had turned upside down ever since that Tremont girl—the reporter—had come back to town, wagging her cute little tail and luring Jackson back here.

  Jackson. His insides shredded. Now there was a son of whom a man could be proud. But he couldn’t think of pride right now. His mind was boggled with more important matters. Though few people knew it, Fitzpatrick, Incorporated was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. Thomas had spent a lot of money greasing some palms in a senatorial bid that hadn’t gotten off the ground. Now, with the truth about Roy’s death, any political chances he’d had were gone. Besides which, logging was off and Brian had skimmed enough off the top to break a weaker company and the rest of his businesses were recession-weary. June was talking about an expensive divorce, and the cost of defending his son and daughter-in-law for their part in Roy’s death was crippling.

  And he’d made a decision about the house at the lake. He and his wife had never gone there, not since Roy was killed over twelve years before. It belonged to Jackson—if he’d take it—for all the pain he’d suffered at his father’s hand. It wasn’t much and Jackson would probably laugh in his face, but in Thomas’s mind the land and house were the boy’s.

  But that didn’t stop his need f
or dollars. Though the house and grounds at the lake cost him money in taxes and upkeep every year, they were valuable and June would hit the roof when she found out. Too bad. She was to blame as much as he.

  And there were ways to make money. If Thomas knew nothing else, he knew how to turn a buck. He knew there was oil on Badlands Ranch. The geological tests he’d done on the surrounding acreage that he already owned had proved him out. If only he could find a way to make Turner Brooks budge. Money didn’t seem to matter to Brooks—the damned cowboy was as stubborn as some of those sorry animals he tried to tame.

  “So what have we got on Turner Brooks?” Thomas asked as Brian, restless, had shoved himself to his feet and walked to the bar. Brian poured them each a shot of Scotch.

  “Not much. His old man was a drunk—killed his mother in that pickup wreck years ago.”

  “I remember,” Thomas clipped out, irked that he’d sold the ranch for the pitiful amount of insurance money John had inherited at his wife’s death. Brooks had mortgaged the rest of the debt and Thomas had been sure that John would drink himself into oblivion and default on the note. At which point Thomas had planned to step in and buy the place back for a song. That way, the Fitzpatricks would have collected the insurance money as well as ended up with the ranch. But Turner—damn that cowpoke—had always scraped together enough cash to keep the place afloat. How he’d done it, Thomas couldn’t figure out.

  “Well, when Turner sets his mind to do something, it would take an act of God to change it,” Brian observed, handing his father the drink. “Brooks spent a lot of time taking care of his old man, getting him out of jams. Then John’s liver gave up the ghost a few years back. I don’t think there’s more to his life than that.”

  “Everybody’s got a past,” Thomas said. He sipped the Scotch and enjoyed the burn that followed the liquor down his throat. “My guess is that there’s something more important to Brooks than the ranch. All we have to do is figure out what it is.”

  Brian shrugged. “I’ll look into it.”

  Not good enough. Brian was a bumbler. He’d cut corners. “Hire a detective.”

  “Do you really think—”

  Thomas slammed his empty glass onto the desk. “Get the best P.I. that money can buy! Once we find out what skeletons Brooks has tucked away in his closet, then we can deal with him!”

  Brian didn’t need to be told twice. He finished his drink and was out the double doors of Thomas’s office. But the old man wasn’t satisfied. He walked to the window, where he could spy down on the parking lot. His white Mercedes hadn’t moved and Brian’s sleek green Jaguar was parked in the next spot. Within seconds Brian emerged from the back of the building. But he wasn’t alone. Melanie Patton, Thomas’s secretary, was with him. They shared a stolen kiss and Thomas’s stomach turned to ice. No wonder the boy couldn’t keep his mind on anything important.

  Brian climbed into his Jaguar and roared off, but Thomas knew that he’d have to handle Turner Brooks himself.

  * * *

  HEATHER DROVE HOME FROM her gallery by rote, stopping automatically at the stop signs, slowing for corners, accelerating up the steep streets of San Francisco without even thinking. Pictures of Adam flashed through her mind. She remembered bringing him home from the hospital, giving him his first bath, watching anxiously as he tried to skateboard at four… . Oh, God, her life had been empty until he’d arrived. A lump settled in her throat. By the time she’d parked in the garage, on the lowest level of her home in Pacific Heights, the reality that Adam’s life was in jeopardy nearly incapacitated her. What if she lost Adam? What if the boy died? Her own life would be over.

  Her heart froze and she could barely breathe. A cold, damp sweat clung to her skin as she sat behind the wheel, unable to move. “You can’t let it happen,” she muttered, not knowing if she was talking to herself or to God.

  She was in her mid-twenties and she suddenly felt ancient. Her legs barely carried her up the first flight, from the garage to the kitchen level, above which two more stories loomed in this prestigious part of the city.

  “Mommy!” She heard Adam’s squeal as she opened the door. Fifty-three pounds of energetic five-year-old came barrelling toward her, nearly throwing her off balance as Adam flung himself into her waiting arms.

  Oh, precious, precious baby, she thought, squeezing her eyes against tears. Her throat worked over a huge lump. “How’re ya, sport?” she said, managing a smile.

  “Good!” he replied, though his skin was pale, and dark smudges beneath his eyes belied his insistence that he felt fine.

  “And you were good for Aunt Rachelle?”

  “Of course,” he said, his impish eyes gleaming. He wrinkled a freckled nose. “She’s crazy about me.”

  “Is she?” Heather couldn’t help laughing, despite her fears about Adam’s future. Adam was precocious and she overindulged him terribly, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “You bring me a treat?” Adam demanded.

  “Did I ever,” she replied, opening her purse and finding a minuscule little car, part of a set. She had the entire collection hidden in a closet upstairs, and when she left Adam, she always slipped a tiny car into her purse to surprise him when she returned. Today’s gift, a candy-apple-red racing car, was unlike the taxi, ambulance and garbage truck he’d already placed in his toy box.

  “Oh, wow!” Adam’s eyes, gray and round, lit up. He scrambled out of her arms and began moving the tiny vehicle over the floor, the tables, the plants and everything else in his path as he made rumbling race-car noises deep in his throat.

  The stairs squeaked. Heather glanced up as Rachelle descended from the upper living room level. Sunlight refracting from the leaded windows over the landing turned her hair a reddish mahogany color for an instant. Tall and willowy, with intense hazel eyes, the “levelheaded one” of the two Tremont sisters, Rachelle was four years older than Heather and soon to be married to Jackson Moore, a New York lawyer who had once been the bad boy of Gold Creek. “I thought I heard you,” Rachelle said, questions in her eyes. Though Heather had confided to her older sister about Adam’s paternity, Rachelle was still a little hurt that her younger sister hadn’t told her the truth long ago.

  “Turner will be here a little later.” Heather’s nerves were strung tight. “He’s already at the hospital, being typed.” She thought about her conversations with Turner—short and to the point. All business. As if they’d never kissed, never touched, never made love in the hay…

  “What happens then?”

  Heather snapped herself back to the present and caught Rachelle observing her. Damn her sister’s reporter instincts. Heather sometimes felt she couldn’t do anything without Rachelle guessing her motives. “If the marrow’s a match, we go through the procedure—when the doctor says it’s the right time. Once Adam’s given a clean bill of health, so to speak, we all go back to his ranch.”

  “And if the tissue doesn’t match?”

  “Don’t even think that way,” Heather said softly. “This has got to work.” Her fists closed in silent determination. “It’s got to!” There were no other alternatives.

  Rachelle skated a glance down Heather’s sleek dress and coordinated jewelry. “And then you’re off to the ranch? Why is it I can’t see you branding calves or hauling hay or whatever else it is they do at a place named Badlands?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Heather replied.

  “I’d be flabbergasted.”

  Adam ran his racing car around a potted fern, and Rachelle hugged her sister. “We’ll get through this. All of us,” she insisted. She was always so positive and levelheaded, though now her hazel eyes were shadowed with worry.

  “I will—”

  “Hey, lookie, Auntie Rachelle!” Adam held up his new prize, the little red Porsche. He was beaming ear to ear.

  “Boy, isn’t that something?” Rachelle bent on one knee to examine the tiny car. “I bet you could win the Daytona 500 with that rig.”

  “I co
uld even win the ’Tona five million!” Adam assured her confidently and snatched his small prize from her hand.

  Rachelle glanced over her shoulder to Heather, still standing near the stairs. “You spoil him, you know.”

  “I know.” Heather felt that infinite fear again, that she was tumbling through dark space to a cold, black hole where she would never see her son again. “But it won’t hurt him.”

  “Don’t worry, Heath. We’ll work this out,” Rachelle said firmly, as if she could read Heather’s mind. “Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “With a shot of brandy?”

  “Whatever you want,” Rachelle agreed, walking quickly into the kitchen. Heather followed behind, her own steps seeming to drag on the shiny mahogany floors. This house, once her pride and joy, seemed lifeless, as if it, too, had lost its vitality. The antiques and objets d’art were meaningless; even her own work, paintings created with love and patience, seemed frivolous. All that mattered was Adam.

  Rachelle was already pouring black coffee into heavy mugs as Adam careened into the room. “Hot chocolate for me,” he ordered. “With marshmallows.”

  “You got it, kid.” Rachelle winked at her nephew.

  Heather slid into a chair and Adam crawled into her lap. He suddenly wrapped his arms around her neck. “Mommy, you sad?” he asked, wide eyes searching hers.

  “No,” she lied, her heart wrenching.

  “Good. I don’t like it when you’re sad.”

  Rachelle turned to the cupboard, ostensibly to find the marshmallows, but not before Heather noticed the tears shining in her older sister’s eyes. Even Rachelle, stalwart and sane in any crisis, was shaken this time.