by Lisa Jackson
CLOSED-IN PLACES MADE HIM restless, and this doctor’s office, complete with diplomas on the wall and soft leather chairs, didn’t ease the knot of tension between Turner’s shoulder blades. He felt trapped and hot, barely able to breathe. His legs were too long to stretch between his chair and the desk, so he sat, ramrod straight, while the doctor shifted the papers in a file marked LEONETTI, ADAM.
That would have to change. Turner would rot in hell rather than have his son labeled with another man’s name—a man who really didn’t care one way or the other for the boy. As soon as possible, Adam’s name would be Brooks. Heather would have to change it. There were no two ways about it; Turner intended to lay claim to his son.
Dr. Thurmon was a portly man with thin silver hair and a face right out of a Norman Rockwell poster. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, Thurmon had gentle eyes and Turner trusted him immediately. He’d always had a gut instinct about people, and usually his first impressions were right on target.
Thurmon took off his glasses. “Good news,” he said, casting a smile at Heather, and Turner saw her shoulders slump in relief. “The marrow’s a match and I didn’t have a lot of hope that it would be. Siblings are the best source for transplants. But—” he lifted his hands and grinned “—we lucked out.”
“Thank God,” Heather whispered, tears filling her eyes. Without thinking, Turner wrapped a strong arm around her and they hugged. His own throat clogged, and he fought the urge to break down. His son was going to be well.
“While this is still very serious, Adam is in good shape,” the doctor went on as he polished the lenses of his glasses with a clean white handkerchief. “We have his own marrow, taken while he’s been in remission, and now Mr. Brooks will be a donor. And as well as Adam’s doing, there’s no reason to anticipate that a transplant is necessary, at least not in the near future. But Adam will have to stay on his medication for a while.”
Heather’s voice was shaky. “And if he relapses?”
Dr. Thurmon’s lips pressed together. “Then a transplant will be likely. We’ll reevaluate at that time.” He closed the file. “But let’s not worry about it just yet. Right now, Mrs. Leonetti, your son is as healthy as can be expected.”
“Thank you!” Heather cast a triumphant glance at Turner and smiled through the tears shimmering in her eyes.
“Does this mean that Adam can do anything he wants?” Turner asked.
The doctor nodded. “Within reason. I wouldn’t want to have him become overly tired. And I’d keep him away from anyone you know who has a contagious disease.”
Heather froze as Turner said, “Then there’s no reason—no medical reason—why Adam couldn’t visit me at my ranch.”
“Absolutely not,” the doctor replied, and Heather’s smile fell from her face as Turner and Dr. Thurmon shook hands.
She walked on wooden legs along the soft carpet of the clinic, past open doors with children sitting in their underwear on tables and mothers fussing over their kids as they waited. She turned by rote at the corner to the exit and found herself in the elevator before she let out her breath.
“That wasn’t necessary,” she said as the elevator descended.
“What?”
“I told you I’d let Adam visit.”
“Just making sure you didn’t find a reason to weasel out of it.”
“I wouldn’t—” She gasped and nearly stumbled as Turner slapped the elevator button and the car jerked to a stop.
“You kept him from me for five years. You admitted that you probably wouldn’t have told me about him until he was eighteen if he hadn’t gotten sick! You probably would have kept him from me if your bone marrow had matched. When I think about that—” He slammed a fist into the wall and Heather jumped. Turner’s face suffused with color. “Well, things have changed. He does know me and soon you’re going to tell him that I’m his father and—”
“I can’t just blurt it out! He’s only five!”
“Then he’ll have fewer questions.”
“But—”
“Don’t fight me on this, Heather,” he warned, leaning over her, his face set in granite. “I’ve lived up to my part of the bargain. Now I expect you to come through.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Turner stared deep into her eyes and some of his hard edges faded a bit. “Oh, hell,” he muttered, trying to control himself. He flexed his hands, then shoved them impatiently through his hair. “Look, the last few days, we’ve both been worried—on edge and we…well, we fell into a pattern of trusting each other and playing house.”
Stung, his words cutting deep, she couldn’t respond, just swallowed at the swelling in her throat.
“But now we know that Adam’s safe. You don’t need me anymore. Or at least not right away. It would be easy to step back into our old lives—you go your way, I go mine.”
Oh, Turner, you’re so wrong. So very wrong, she thought desperately. Perhaps he could forget her easily, but she’d never forget him. Never! She’d already spent six years with his memory; she was destined to love him, if just a little, for the rest of her life.
“But that’s not going to happen. Now that I know about Adam, my way—my path—is wound with his. That can’t change.”
Fear took a stranglehold of her heart. “What’re you saying, Turner, that you want custody?” Her knees threatened to crumple, and she leaned hard against the rail in her back.
He slapped the button again and, with a groan of old gears, the elevator continued on its descent. “Not yet. I’m not stupid enough to try to take him from you, but from this point onward, I’m going to have some influence over him.” He sent her a look that cut clear to her bones.
“How much ‘influence’?”
“That’s up to you, Heather.”
“Meaning?”
“As long as I see him often, and I’m not talking one weekend a month, I won’t challenge you in court. But…” His eyes glittered ominously, with the same gleam she’d seen whenever he was trying to break a particularly stubborn colt. “…If you come up against me, or try any funny stuff, you’ll be in for the fight of your life.”
The elevator landed and the doors whispered open to a crowd of onlookers. One man was frantically pushing the call button; other people whispered about the wisdom of getting onto a temperamental car.
Turner cupped her elbow and guided her through the crowd.
“You really are a bastard,” she whispered under her breath.
“Why thank you, darlin’. I’ll take that as a compliment.” With a smile as cold as a copperhead’s skin, he shoved open the doors.
Outside, fog had settled over the city, bringing with its opaque presence the feel of nightfall. Heather, shivering, slid behind the wheel of her Mercedes. Turner hauled his long body into the passenger seat, propped his back against the door and stared at her.
“If you moved to Gold Creek, I wouldn’t feel any need to demand partial custody,” he said.
She shot him a look of pure venom and switched on the ignition. “Me move back to Gold Creek? I’d rather die first.”
“Are you willing to take a chance on a custody hearing?”
Her hands tightened over the wheel. Please, Turner, just leave it alone! “This wasn’t part of the deal. You asked me to bring Adam to your ranch for a week or two and I intend to, but I’m not moving. Just because you’re Adam’s father, doesn’t give you the right to bully me.” Muttering under her breath, she eased the car into the flow of traffic traveling through the city.
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“From the first time I stepped into your barn.”
He turned his attention to the roadway. In the fog, brake lights glowed eerily and crowds of pedestrians crossed the streets at the stoplights.
“You’ve got a week,” he said as the light changed. “I’ll expect to see Adam then.”
“But I have work—”
“So do I.” He rubbed a big hand over the faded spot of denim covering
his knee. “I’ve been gone long enough already. Fred can’t watch my place forever. Work out whatever you have to, but bring Adam to the ranch.”
She wanted to argue, to find a way out of the deal because she knew that if she took Adam to Badlands Ranch, it wouldn’t be long before she lost her son as well as her heart to Turner Brooks.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I THINK YOU’RE MAKING a big mistake.” Rachelle eyed her sister in the mirror of her bedroom, grimaced, then adjusted one of the shoulder pads in Heather’s gown. Layers of raspberry-colored chiffon and silk, the dress was to be worn at Rachelle’s wedding. “You can’t let him have the upper hand.”
“What choice do I have?” Heather asked, holding her hair up and frowning at the sight she made. Modeling the elegant dress only reminded her of weddings and just how far apart she and Turner had grown. The city girl and the cowboy. An unlikely combination. An unlikely explosive combination. “He’s holding all the cards.”
Rachelle shook her head furiously. “I saw him with Adam. He wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his son’s well-being. Hold still, will you? I think this should be taken in a little in the waist…what do you think?”
“That you’re being overly concerned. You’re the bride. No one will be looking at me.”
Rachelle’s brow puckered as she slid the zipper down her sister’s back. “If it were up to me, Jackson and I would’ve taken off on his Harley, driven straight to Lake Tahoe and gotten married without all this fuss.”
“So why didn’t you?” Heather asked, stepping out of the dress.
“Because His Majesty wants to make a statement.”
“I heard that,” Jackson called from the living room of Rachelle’s tiny apartment.
“Well, it’s true.” Rachelle’s eyes lighted as she zipped a plastic cover over the gown. “You’re tarnishing your rebel image, you know, by doing the traditional wedding and all.”
“Good! Keeps the people in Gold Creek on their toes.”
As Rachelle hung up the dress, Heather slipped on her jeans and cotton blouse, then slid her arms through a suede vest.
Rachelle arched an eyebrow at Heather’s getup. “Well, aren’t you the little cowgirl?”
“I figured I better look the part.” Together they edged along the hall, past the stacked boxes and packing crates. Jackson was on the floor near the bay window, black hair tumbling over his forehead, his sleeves rolled up as he wrestled with a red-faced Adam.
“I got you, I got you!” Adam chortled triumphantly as he straddled Jackson’s broad chest. “One, two, three, you lose!”
“You’re just too tough for me,” Jackson said with a laugh. His dark eyes gleamed as Rachelle approached. “I think we should have a dozen of these.”
“A dozen?” she said, grinning. “I don’t know. Sounds like a lot.”
“Well, maybe just a half dozen. When do we start?”
“When I’ve got a legal contract, Counselor. One that spells out how many times you change the diapers and get up in the middle of the night and—”
“Okay, okay, I’ve heard this all before.” With a quick movement, he lifted Adam off his chest and rolled quickly to his feet. Adam squealed with delight as he was tossed into the air and caught in Jackson’s strong arms.
“Legally binding, mind you,” Rachelle said. “And I plan to have a real attorney check all the fine print.”
A devilish grin slid across Jackson’s jaw and he motioned to his fiancée as he stage-whispered to Heather, “She just doesn’t trust me. That’s the reporter in her.”
“Give it up, Counselor,” she said, but he grabbed her, twirled her off her feet and left her suddenly breathless when she finally touched down again.
“Never,” he mouthed, his lips only inches from hers.
Heather felt her heart twist when she saw them exchange a sensual glance, the same kind of glance she shared with Turner. Yet, while Rachelle and Jackson were head over heels in love, she and Turner were worlds apart and had no chance of planning a future together. He’d never once said he loved her, and as far as she knew, he still didn’t believe that particular emotion existed. He’d told her as much six years before and Heather doubted he’d changed his mind. She cleared her throat, and the two lovers finally remembered there was someone else in the room. “Well, I guess we’d better get going. Adam can’t wait to see Turner’s ranch, can you?”
Adam let out a whoop. “I’m gonna learn how to break a…” He glanced to Heather for help.
“Break a bronco,” she replied. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”
Adam’s eyes were shining. “You can come visit,” he told his aunt. “Turner will probably let you break one, too.”
“I’ll remember that,” Rachelle said with a chuckle. “And while I’m at it, I’ll rope me a steer, brand half a dozen calves and spit tobacco juice!”
“You’re lyin’!” Adam accused, but curious doubts crowded his eyes, and Heather imagined he was trying to picture his trim aunt wrestling with livestock and shooting a stream of brown juice from the corner of her mouth.
“You might be surprised, sport,” Rachelle teased, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Oh, Heather, would you mind dropping these in the mailbox?” She rifled through the papers on the desk and came up with a stack of wedding invitations, already addressed and stamped.
“No problem.” Heather took the stack of cream-colored envelopes and headed down the stairs. A post office was on her way out of town and she was glad to do a favor for her sister. Rachelle and she had always been close, though Heather had kept more than her share of secrets from her sister. Not only had she hidden the fact that Turner was Adam’s father, but she’d also kept quiet about Adam’s illness for a long time, until the doctors had started talking about bone-marrow transplants.
Though Rachelle had known that Adam wasn’t well, Heather had kept the extent of the illness to herself, always telling herself that she couldn’t burden her sister or mother with her problems. They had both experienced enough of their own. Rachelle had been horrified, when six weeks ago Heather had told her the truth.
After strapping Adam into the passenger seat, she wove the Mercedes through the traffic until she reached the nearest post office and pulled into the lane near a series of mailboxes. As she stuffed the thick envelopes through the slot, she saw the names of people she’d known all her life, people who had lived in Gold Creek. Monroe and McDonald, Surrett, Nelson, Patton and…the last envelope surprised her. Addressed in Rachelle’s bold hand, the invitation was addressed to Thomas Fitzpatrick, Jackson’s father. The man who had never claimed him. The man who had almost let Jackson twist in the wind for the murder of his legitimate son, the man who all too late tried to make amends, the man Jackson still professed to despise.
Had he changed his mind? Heather doubted it. No, this had all the earmarks of Rachelle deciding it was time her husband-to-be put old skeletons to rest. And it spelled fireworks for the wedding.
“Oh, God, Rachelle, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Heather turned the invitation over in her hand and a sharp beep from the car in line behind her startled her. This wasn’t any of her business. Heather jammed the envelope into the slot and edged the car back into the flow of traffic. Certainly Rachelle wouldn’t have been so silly as to send the invitation behind Jackson’s back. Or would she?
Rachelle had a reputation for being stubborn and bull-headed. She’d stood on principle once before—for Jackson—and it had cost her the respect of her friends and family and soiled her reputation. But surely she’d learned her lesson… .
This was Rachelle’s wedding—if she wanted to make it her funeral, as well, it was her choice. Besides—Heather stole a glance at her son, his face eager, a small toy car clutched in his fingers—she had her own share of concerns.
* * *
“I ALREADY SAID I WASN’T interested,” Turner said, irritated beyond words. He’d made the mistake of picking up the pho
ne as he’d walked through the house and ended up in a conversation with God himself: Thomas Fitzpatrick. Now the guy wasn’t even working through his real-estate agent.
“I’m willing to pay you top dollar,” Fitzpatrick argued smoothly. “Why don’t you think it over?”
“No reason to think.” He could almost hear the gears grinding in Fitzpatrick’s shrewd mind.
“Everyone has a price.”
“Not everyone, Fitzpatrick,” Turner drawled.
There was an impatient snort on the other end of the line. “Just consider my offer. Counter if you like.”
“Look, Tom,” Turner replied, his voice edged in sarcasm. “With all due respect, I’m busy. I’ve got a ranch to run. If you wanted this place so badly, you should never have sold it in the first place.”
“I realize that now. At the time, I wasn’t interested in diversifying. I had timber. Now I’ve changed my mind. There might be oil on the land and I’m willing to gamble. I’m offering you twice what the land is worth, Mr. Brooks. You couldn’t get a better deal.”
“Good. ’Cause I don’t want one.”
“But—”
“Listen, Fitzpatrick, you and I both know you never cut anyone a deal in your life.”
“But—”
“The answer is ‘no.’ Well, maybe that doesn’t quite say it all. Let’s make it ‘No way in hell!’” With that, Turner slammed the receiver into the cradle, turned off the answering machine and strode to the bathroom. He didn’t want to think of Fitzpatrick with his starched white shirts, silk ties and thousand-dollar suits. The man couldn’t be trusted and Turner wasn’t interested in doing any kind of business with him.
Still bothered, he cleaned the dirt, grime and horsehair from his face and hands, then noticed the smell of oil that lingered on his skin from this morning, when he’d had to work on the fuel line of the tractor. Damned thing was always breaking down.
Scowling, he glanced at his watch. Three-thirty. She’d be here any minute. Calling himself every kind of fool, he stripped quickly, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, twisted on the shower and stepped under the cool spray. Within a minute or two the water warmed and he scrubbed his body from head to foot. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he headed down the hallway and nearly tripped over Nadine, who was walking through the front door.
