by Karen Hughes
Blowing out a breath, he swung the Porsche around a corner. In the distance, the barn, stable and bunkhouses huddled in shadowy outlines against the starry night sky. The neat white-railed fence that lined the two-lane road stood ghostlike beneath the moon’s silver glow. Beyond the fence, shadowy trees dotted the hillside pastures. Jackson knew the security cameras his uncle had installed after the second attempt on his life were recording the Porsche’s progress along the private road. Monitors had been installed in his uncle’s study that displayed the views picked up by the cameras placed in strategic spots across Colton property.
Moments later, Jackson eased to a stop in the driveway that curved in front of the sprawling two-story house painted in soft white with jutting balconies, a terra-cotta roof and high-columned porch. Colorful lakes of flowers and shrubs pooled nearby. Swinging open the car door, he breathed in the salty tang of the ocean that lay just past the steep face of rough rock bordering the house’s manicured back lawn. The beat of his footsteps against the driveway mixed with the pounding of the surf.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement at the right of the porch. An armed security guard nodded to him, then melted back into the shadows.
Twin carriage lamps on either side of the towering front door cast overlapping puddles of light onto the porch. Twisting his key in the lock, Jackson pushed open the door, closed it behind him, then veered across the tiled foyer. He paused beneath the arched doorway that marked the entrance to his uncle’s beamed study.
As always, Jackson was struck by the coziness of the room with its leather sofas and chairs, polished brasses and thick rugs that spread vibrant color across the wood floor. The walls were paneled in oak mellowed by time, housing row after row of shelves lined with leather-bound books. Across from the stone fireplace in which flames ate greedily at logs to ward off the cool night air was a mahogany desk almost as imposing as the man who sat behind it.
Joe Colton was over six feet of solid muscle with a linebacker’s shoulders and a square-jawed face softened by kind blue eyes. The gray that had begun peppering his dark brown hair only a few months before his sixtieth birthday lent the Colton patriarch a distinguished air.
As a rule, his uncle worked alone in his study after dinner. Tonight was clearly an exception, Jackson noted. On the far side of the room, his Aunt Meredith curled like a cat on the leather sofa, her beautiful face framed by the wavy, golden-blond hair that cascaded to her shoulders. As she thumbed idly through a magazine, the diamond broach on the lapel of her sleek black jumpsuit caught the flash of the flames in the fireplace.
Jackson remained in the doorway, his brow furrowed. He remembered other long-ago nights when his aunt and uncle sat in silence together in this room. Then, an unspoken contentment had existed between them. The sense of companionship they had once shared had vanished years ago. Even now, Jackson had a hard time accepting that the woman who’d lavished so much love on him and his sister was the same person he’d confronted weeks ago and warned he would go to the police if she didn’t stop blackmailing his father.
As if sensing his presence, Meredith raised her bored gaze from her magazine and glanced toward the doorway. Annoyance flashed in her eyes like lightning, then was instantly replaced by concern.
“Jackson,” she said, laying her magazine aside. “Thank goodness.”
Joe Colton snapped his gaze from the panel of security monitors installed in the wall near his desk. “Glad you made it back, son,” he said, his voice booming across the study.
“Finally,” Meredith added as she uncurled off the couch. “We’ve been worried sick about you.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Meredith repeated, arching a perfect blond brow. “It’s not every day a Colton gets called to police headquarters for questioning.”
Jackson winced. “River wasn’t supposed to tell you about that phone call.”
“River didn’t.” When Joe leaned back in his leather chair, Jackson noted the shrewd assessment in his uncle’s eyes. “Sophie overheard you tell River that the police called and asked you to come to the station. She blurted it out at dinner.”
“Good going, cousin,” Jackson muttered. When he stepped into the room the scent of leather and wood smoke settled around him.
Meredith flicked a wrist. “Never mind about Sophie, Jackson. We’ve been worried to death about you.”
“Sorry. If I’d known, I would have called.”
“You’ve been gone for hours,” she persisted, glancing at her husband. “Joe wouldn’t let me phone the station to check on you. He kept saying you’re a lawyer and if you needed us, you’d call.”
“That’s right, I would have.”
She took another step toward him. “Have the police been questioning you all this time?”
“No. After I left the station, I went to a movie. Then I…”
With thoughts of Cheyenne crowding in on him, Jackson hesitated. It was impossible to pin down what he thought about her, what he already felt about her. Instinct told him she was capable of igniting a spark in him that he wasn’t sure he wanted stirred to life.
“Then you what?” Meredith prodded.
“Stopped and had coffee.”
“You saw a movie,” Joe said, tilting his head. Jackson knew his uncle was aware of his penchant for losing himself in heavy thought while a movie played on the big screen. “Is everything okay?”
“I handled things.” Shrugging, Jackson walked to the desk, slid one hip onto the front edge. “Uncle Joe, there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. Thad Law thinks it’s possible I’m the person who tried to kill you. Both times.”
In the silent seconds that followed, Jackson watched the initial shock in his uncle’s eyes veer to anger.
“Has the man lost his mind?”
“I didn’t get that impress—”
“I don’t care if he is married to my foster brother’s daughter, he’s crazy,” Joe protested. “There’s no way Law has reason to even look at you. I’ve got a good mind to call Peter McGrath and tell him his Heather has married a blockhead. Then I’ll call Mayor Longstreet and let him know exactly what I think about his police force.”
“His police force is doing its job,” Jackson countered. “And Law isn’t a blockhead. He has what he believes are solid reasons to suspect me.”
“What reasons?” Meredith scooted behind the desk to stand beside her husband. “You mean evidence? Thad Law claims he has some sort of evidence that proves you’re the one who shot at Joe?”
“He doesn’t just claim to have evidence,” Jackson stated, then told them about the insurance policy on his uncle’s life and the years-old court case the detective alluded to.
As Jackson spoke, a log in the fireplace broke apart and fell with a shower of sparks. “At the birthday party,” he added, “I was a couple of feet from where the suspect stood only seconds before he or she fired the shot.”
“Can someone say they saw you there?” Joe asked. “In that spot?”
“Yes.” Jackson thought about the undercurrents that had pulled at him while his mouth ravaged Cheyenne’s. Undercurrents, he reminded himself, had a habit of dragging in the unwary. He had spent his life avoiding just that.
“Who?” Meredith asked. “Who told the police they saw you in the same spot as the person who shot at Joe?”
“Actually, I told Law I was near that spot.”
His aunt’s eyes widened. “You told him? Why?”
“Because that’s where I happened to be,” Jackson said, giving her a mild look. “I’d cut through the service hallway to get a drink refill. I was there when I heard the shot.”
Joe shook his head. “Did it occur to Law that hundreds of other people were milling around the house and courtyard that night?”
“I pointed that out. It didn’t seem to make a difference.”
“The man ought to stop harassing innocent people and find some real evidence.” As he spoke, Joe stabbed holes in the air wit
h an index finger. “Like the gun the bastard used to take those shots at me. Find that, and you’ve got some real proof.”
“I agree.” Jackson raised a shoulder. “Meanwhile, someone appears to want me as the scapegoat for the shootings. He or she has done one hell of a job of setting me up. I have a real problem with that.”
“You’re not alone,” Joe huffed. “And we’re not going to stand for it.”
“Of course we’re not,” Meredith said with a flip of her slender, flame-tipped fingers. “Jackson, pour us all a brandy. Joe, we need to get Jackson the best criminal lawyer money can buy.”
Joe’s gaze shot up to meet hers, his brow creased in annoyance. “If you’re referring to our eldest son, I doubt Rand will send us a bill for services.”
“It was just an expression, darling.”
Jackson noted the way his aunt’s shoulders had gone rigid beneath her black jumpsuit. It was as if he could almost see the wall of tension shoot up between husband and wife.
“I don’t need a lawyer.” Rising off the front of the desk, Jackson walked to the wet bar built into a small alcove between bookcases. He poured two snifters of brandy, reached for a third glass, then changed his mind. The last time he’d tasted alcohol was two weeks ago at Liza’s wedding reception. The one drink he’d had hit him like a ton of cement. He didn’t want to chance that happening again, especially now when he needed to keep a clear head.
“At this point, I’m not charged with anything.” He crossed the room with the two snifters of brandy. “Yet,” he added as he offered a glass to his aunt.
“It might be a good idea for me to call your cousin and put him on notice,” Joe said, accepting the snifter Jackson handed him. “Just in case.”
“That’s not necessary,” Jackson said. “Rand has his hands full in D.C. trying criminal cases. Besides, there’s nothing for him to do, except tell Law his evidence isn’t solid enough to make an arrest. I already delivered the message.”
Joe inclined his head Jackson’s way. “If you don’t feel like brandy, I can have Inez bring in coffee,” he said, referring to the longtime housekeeper.
“No thanks.”
“Bam! Bam!” The shouted words echoed off the high ceiling just outside the study. “You’re gut-shot, slime-ball!”
Meredith rolled her eyes, then looked at Joe. “Those boys were supposed to be in bed an hour ago.”
Joe’s mouth curved. “Sounds like another war interrupted their sleep. Joe! Teddy!” he said in a booming voice. “Get in here now!”
Seconds later, two barefoot boys clad in camouflage pajamas and toting toy rifles skidded through the door side-by-side.
“Yes, sir?” they asked in unison.
Joe sent a stern look across the desk. “Your mother informs me you were supposed to be in bed an hour ago.”
“Aw, Dad, we just needed to see who wins the war,” Joe, Jr. said, his sandy brown hair looking as if it had been combed by a hurricane.
Jackson held back a smile. Nearly ten years ago, Joe, Jr. had been abandoned on the Coltons’ front porch. His uncle and aunt had taken in the infant and raised him as their own. As far as everyone was concerned, the kid was one hundred percent Colton.
“Yeah, and I’m about to win,” Teddy boasted.
Joe, Jr.’s gaze swung sideways, his green eyes flashing. “It’s not over till it’s over, as Mama always says,” he commented, then gave his mother a knowing grin.
“I’m glad someone around here listens to me,” Meredith murmured, then checked her slim gold-and-diamond watch. “All right, you two, pay attention. The war must be won in five minutes or this general is calling a draw.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Teddy replied, giving her a military-precise salute. Shifting his gaze, the boy flashed Jackson a grin. “Hi ya, cousin.”
“General Colton,” Jackson replied mildly. “It appears the war is going well for you.”
“Yeah, I’m winning.”
“Are not!”
Jackson had known for three weeks that Teddy was the product of a one-night stand between his father and his aunt. Still, Jackson couldn’t quite get used to the idea that the mischievous eight-year-old standing before him with tousled blond hair and sparkling blue eyes was his half brother.
The thought had Jackson glancing at his uncle in time to see Joe beam at both boys as they raced out of the study, their bare feet slapping against the wood floor.
Years ago a bout of mumps had rendered his uncle sterile. What had it done to him, Jackson wondered, when he found out Meredith had been unfaithful? That she’d conceived another man’s child? What inner strength did Joe Colton possess that had compelled him to continue his marriage with Meredith and raise Teddy as his own son?
And what, Jackson wondered as a fist knotted in his gut, would the family patriarch do if he ever found out his brother, Graham, was the boy’s father?
“I’d better make sure our troops brush their teeth,” Meredith said. Setting her snifter on the desk, she met Jackson’s gaze. “I’m sorry to hear about your problems with the police, Jackson. No one should have to endure something like that.”
He slid a hand into the pocket of his khakis. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was referring to his promise to turn her in to the cops if she didn’t stop blackmailing his father.
“Not when they haven’t done anything wrong,” he commented. “I’ll get it resolved, Aunt Meredith. One way or the other.”
“I’m sure you will.” She dropped a kiss on top of her husband’s head, then walked toward the door, her grace perfect in her black spiked heels.
Remaining silent, Jackson watched his uncle’s expression while his gaze tracked his wife out the door. He felt a twist of sorrow at the dull resignation that clouded the man’s eyes.
“Well,” Joe said after a moment as he leaned back in his chair and swirled the brandy in his glass. “I figure while you sat through that movie you came up with a plan on how to deal with this mess?”
“The start of one.” Jackson dropped into one of the leather visitor chairs in front of the desk and stretched out his long legs. “First thing in the morning I’ll call Adam Jones at Amalgamated. I want to know if someone’s been asking questions lately about the lawsuit I filed for him against his father. If so, I want to know who that person is.”
“Good. After that?”
“I need to go to L.A. I plan to pay a visit to the insurance agent who’s ready to swear I was the one who took out the policy on your life. It wasn’t me, and I’m hoping his seeing me in person will convince him he’s wrong.”
“Take the corporate jet.”
“I planned on hopping a commuter.”
“Nonsense.” Joe sent a wry smile over the rim of his snifter. “I’m not only your uncle, son, I’m your boss.”
“Who’s talking to an employee taking a leave of absence to decide if he wants to continue in his job.”
“You’re a fine lawyer, Jackson, and I’m proud you’re a part of Colton Enterprises. But if it’s not a job you can put your heart into, you’ll never be happy.” Joe shrugged. “Until or unless something changes, you work for me and I’m ordering you to take the corporate jet tomorrow. Is your mother in L.A. these days?”
Jackson frowned. “Last I heard.” His parents had always maintained an arrangement that suited them. Graham lived near Jackson in San Diego; Cynthia Colton, a high-powered entertainment attorney, kept an office and condo in L.A. Throughout their marriage they had led their lives, together and separately. Mostly separately.
“If Cynthia’s there, take some extra time if you want and drop by to see her.”
Jackson thought about the impersonal air kiss and polite “how are you?” he’d received when his mother arrived at Hacienda de Alegria for his sister’s wedding. That had been the first time he’d seen her in nearly a year. He didn’t see a point in stopping by her office for another token kiss and disinterested greeting.
“I’ll take the jet, Uncle Joe. Than
ks.”
“No need to thank me, son. We’re family. Family sticks together.”
“Yeah.” Jackson rubbed at the muscles knotted in the back of his neck while his gaze drifted to one of the bookshelves where picture frames and books vied for space. A woman with a wavy mane of chestnut hair and dimples smiled out from a pewter frame. Emily Blair Colton, the youngest of Joe and Meredith’s daughters, adopted as a toddler, had disappeared months ago in what had initially been thought of as a kidnapping. After receiving a ransom note, Joe had paid a heart-stopping amount of money for Emily’s return. Days later, Joe had informed the family that he’d heard from a trusted source that his adopted daughter had fled Prosperino after an intruder tried to kill her. All Joe would tell anyone was that Emily was safe. If he knew her whereabouts, he wasn’t saying. The FBI was still trying to get a lead on the person who had sent the fake ransom note and collected the money.
“Uncle Joe, I’m sorry to bring my problems to your doorstep,” Jackson said quietly. “You’ve got enough to worry about with someone taking potshots at you and all that’s happened to Emily.”
“I’d have been hurt and insulted if you hadn’t brought your problems to me.” Joe ran a hand through his thick hair. “I want Emily home. More important, I want her safe.”
“We all want that.”
“Everyone, except the person who tried to kill her.”
“True.”
Joe plucked a brass paperweight shaped like an oil rig off his desk blotter. “Emmett Fallon gave this to me when the first wildcat well we dug in Wyoming came in,” he said, hefting the paperweight in his palm. “Back then, I was young, headstrong and arrogant enough to think nothing bad could happen to myself and the people I cared about.” Sighing, Joe resettled the paperweight on the blotter. “These past ten years, life has proved me wrong.”
The look of genuine sorrow in his uncle’s face prompted Jackson to veer the subject in a different direction. “Speaking of Emmett, I ran into a woman tonight who works for his son, Blake, at Hopechest Ranch.”
“Who?”
“Cheyenne James.”
“River’s little sister,” Joe said, his face instantly brightening. “I used to pick her up from the reservation and bring her to stay here on the weekends. She was so shy, she barely spoke to me. Would hardly even look at me. Years went by and I didn’t see her. When she walked up to me at my birthday party and introduced herself, you could have knocked me over with a fingertip. She’s a beautiful woman. Took my breath away just looking at her.”
