by Karen Hughes
A chill racked her body. Feeling drained, she rested her head against his shoulder. “It’s there, Jackson.”
“What is?”
“The answer we need to clear you. It’s there, beyond the light.”
Eleven
Three days later, Jackson stood on Hacienda de Alegria’s sprawling back terrace, hands jammed into the pockets of his slacks. The noonday sun shone down with blazing intensity while he watched Cheyenne, her movements smooth and controlled, walk across the stretch of manicured lawn toward the sea.
A tug of worry had him narrowing his eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was simply her trim black slacks and blouse that made her look impossibly thin, or if the stress of the past few days had resulted in her losing weight she couldn’t afford to shed.
She paused when she reached the staircase that led down the face of the rocky cliff to the beach below. Standing motionless, she stared out at the wind-tormented sea where wave swallowed wave. Her long, black hair blew around her face like a veil, but she made no move to control the thick tresses.
Something was happening. Something was building inside her that Jackson didn’t understand. Needed to understand.
She had slept only in fits and starts since the vision first came to her at the inn. Later that same night he had felt her slip from his arms, had watched her move soundlessly across the moonlit room to the love seat. She had sat curled there the remainder of the night, staring into the dark depths of the fireplace.
Each night since they had returned to his aunt and uncle’s house, Cheyenne had repeated the process, only now she left not only their bed, but their room. Because he sensed she needed to be alone, he hadn’t followed her. Where she went, he didn’t know. All he knew was that each time she moved from the circle of his arms, a part of his heart went with her.
Each morning when she returned to their bedroom, her face was pale with fatigue, her eyes shadowed. Haunted.
She spoke little of the vision, except to tell him that the light had grown brighter, as had the man’s hatred. “The answer is there, Jackson,” she had told him moments ago before she’d left to take a solitary walk on the beach. “It will come. You must have faith. You must believe. With time, the answer we need will come.”
Inside his pockets, his hands fisted as he watched her move to the staircase, then descend the first few steps. Seconds later, she disappeared from sight. He felt the loss as keenly as a punch in the gut.
He couldn’t avoid it any longer. Could not continue to deny how he felt about her. He knew those feelings had probably started settling inside him the moment he laid eyes on her at his uncle’s birthday party. Had intensified steadily every hour he’d spent with her. No other woman, at any other time, had ever come close to taking root in his heart. Hell, he hadn’t even thought it was possible. Not until Cheyenne had looked at him with simple, unquestioning faith in her eyes.
How could he not love her?
That no scrabble of panic accompanied the thought was a mild surprise. He dragged in a deep breath, bringing into his lungs the scent of salt spray, sunshine and the tea roses that bloomed in nearby planters. He had spent his life avoiding relationships, running from them because he hadn’t understood what it was that made the rare ones work. Now he did. Vividly. The key was finding the unique woman, the one who could stir his heart where no other could.
Cheyenne, his wife, stirred his heart.
He loved her.
Even as the knowledge raced through his mind, he quelled it. He could not, would not, tell her how he felt.
He knew her intimately now, knew how her mind worked, had seen for himself the stubborn slant her jaw took when she’d made up her mind about something. Although she hadn’t told him how she felt about him, he was almost certain her feelings mirrored his. If that were the case and he wound up in prison, she would refuse to file for divorce. Knowing that he loved her, she would fight for their marriage, sacrifice for him, perhaps waste her entire life. For him.
The absolute helplessness of his situation had his jaw locking. He couldn’t change anything about the evidence the police had against him, but he could damn well do something about her. It was best, for both their sakes, that Cheyenne not know his true feelings. That she continued to believe he was a man ready, able and willing to walk away from any relationship. Even their marriage.
She should believe that, he thought. He wanted her to believe it. Because if he wound up in prison, that was exactly what he would do. Walk away. Legally and emotionally. For her sake.
The sound of footsteps approaching from behind had Jackson turning.
Rand, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and crimson tie, strode toward across the terrace. “You don’t look like a man who’s having pleasant thoughts,” his cousin commented.
“You got that right, counselor.”
“Detective Law sends his regards.” Rand settled into one of the padded, black wrought-iron chairs that dotted the spacious terrace. Reaching up, he loosened the knot on his tie and flicked open his shirt’s top button. “So does the D.A.”
“I’ll bet.” Jackson dropped into the chair nearest his cousin’s. “They still making noise about Cheyenne claiming marital privilege?”
“Yes. The D.A. plans to file a challenge with the court. He’ll probably do that this afternoon. Tomorrow at the latest.”
“You have an opinion on how that’ll turn out?”
“I believe our position will be upheld.” Rand slid him a look. “It wouldn’t hurt, though, for you to keep your fingers crossed. And your toes.”
“Yeah.” Jackson shoved a hand through his hair. “You and I need to get something settled between us. If it winds up that Cheyenne does have to testify for the prosecution, I don’t want you going after her during cross-examination.”
“Jackson—”
“It’s not negotiable.”
“It’s suicide.”
“Maybe. Look, I won’t—can’t—let you go for her jugular while she’s on the witness stand. I’ve seen you work, Rand. By the time you were done with Cheyenne, you’d have the jury on the edge of their seats, waiting to see what magical Indian potion she was going to stir up. That would destroy her.”
“Going to prison wouldn’t have the same effect on you?”
“We’re not talking about me.”
“Answer a question.” Leaning in, Rand rested his elbows on his knees. “Are Cheyenne’s visions real, or just real to her?”
“I can’t tell you I understand how they work. All I know is that I was there when one of her visions saved a boy’s life. I’d say that’s real enough.”
Rand pursed his lips. “This vision she says she’s having now about a bright light and a man’s fist and a dark object she can’t quite make out. Do you believe her claim is true? That the vision will eventually lead us to the man who took the shots at Dad?”
A fist of fear squeezed at Jackson’s gut that she wouldn’t find the answer. “Cheyenne says it will. She keeps telling me to have faith.” He shifted his gaze to the staircase at the top of the ragged cliff where he’d last seen her. “With my butt on the line, I’d be lying if I said I’m content to sit back and wait for the answer. I’m not. I’d prefer to have some rock-solid evidence of my innocence to take to the police. All I can say is, Cheyenne knows a hell of a lot more about visions than I do.”
“Well, let’s hope she knows what she’s talking about on this one.” Rand raised a hand, let it drop. “You’re an attorney, pal. I don’t have to tell you that our case has its weak points.”
“You’re right, you don’t have to tell me.” Frustration pushed Jackson to his feet. “Any word from your experts yet on the results of the ballistic, fingerprint and handwriting tests?”
“Not yet.” Rand checked his watch, then rose. “I’ll go make some calls now.” His hand settled on Jackson’s shoulder, strong and firm. “Maybe one of them will come up with something solid we can use.”
“I hope to hell you’re rig
ht,” Jackson muttered while he watched Rand stride across the terrace.
Just as his cousin reached the house, the door swung open. Jackson raised a brow when Johnny Collins, clad in baggy jeans, T-shirt and a red baseball cap, stepped out the door. Emmett Fallon followed behind him, sunlight glinting off his gray hair. After shaking hands with the twosome, Rand swept a hand Jackson’s way, then disappeared into the house.
Jackson tucked away the frustration churning inside him and forced a smile.
“The patient is up and around, I see.” While he spoke, Jackson shook hands with Emmett. “Too bad Uncle Joe’s in Prosperino on business. I know he’d have liked to have seen you.”
Emmett nodded. “I saw Joe at Hopechest Ranch on Memorial Day. He said to drop by anytime.” Emmett’s gaze swept the trim, jewel-like grounds and color-laden flower beds that sprawled toward the sea. “I’d heard he hired a security company to patrol the grounds after someone took that second shot at him. I bet I had to answer twenty questions when they stopped my car coming up the drive. Good thing Meredith answered the phone when they called the house to check on me, or we’d never have gotten up here.”
“They take their job seriously,” Jackson commented.
“Yeah.” Emmett shrugged. “Anyway, Johnny here’s going stir-crazy not being able to do any of his regular activities.” While he spoke, the older man dug a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches out of his wrinkled denim shirt. “He wanted to thank you again for saving him. Since Blake’s tied up today with Hopechest Ranch business, I volunteered to drive Johnny over.”
“Glad you did.” Jackson offered the teenager a hand and arched a brow at the cast molding the boy’s left arm. A bright red sling with the Hopechest Ranch’s logo looped around Johnny’s thin neck, cradling the injured arm tight against his chest. “Last time I saw you, that arm was pointing the wrong way.”
“Yeah, that Brahma sure packed a punch.” Johnny shifted the brim of his baseball cap. “Thanks again for getting me out of the corral before that bull hammered me into dog meat.”
Jackson hid a wince at the image. “You’re welcome. How long do you have to wear the cast?”
“Doc Kent said at least a month,” Johnny responded. “He’ll take more pictures of my elbow then.” He hesitated. “I was sort of wondering…are you and Cheyenne coming back to Hopechest?”
Jackson slid a hand into the pocket of his slacks. Because he wanted to clear the air, he said, “I don’t know. I assume you’ve both heard I’m in trouble with the law.”
Johnny’s gaze slid away. “Yeah. I guess most everybody’s heard.”
Emmett exhaled a puff of gray smoke then swiped the side of one finger across his white mustache. “I can’t figure that out, Jackson.”
“What part of it can’t you figure out?”
“I heard on the radio the police found the gun used to shoot at Joe. They’re saying your prints are on it.”
Jackson expelled a slow breath. Leaking information to the media about a suspect’s alleged guilt was a standard law enforcement ploy. When it came time to pick a jury, almost everyone had their mind made up about the defendant’s guilt, whether they admitted it or not.
“That’s what the police say. Problem is, I didn’t put my prints on that gun.”
“I’ve known you a long time, son,” Emmett said, his gaze going to the teeming ocean. “I’ve never known you to say anything that wasn’t true.”
Johnny shifted from one foot to the other. “We heard that you and Cheyenne got married.”
“That you can believe.” Jackson angled his chin at the boy’s serious expression. “You have a problem with that?”
“No. Unless it means she won’t be coming back to work at Hopechest. By the looks of this house, I guess you’ve got a lot of money and she doesn’t have to work, but what if she wants to? You won’t stop her, will you?”
Jackson fought a smile. He doubted he could stop Cheyenne from doing anything. “Cheyenne talked to Blake and he approved her taking a leave of absence. As far as I know, that’s just until things settle down.”
“I’d hate to see her not come back,” Johnny said, then looked toward the house. “Is she here?”
“She’s walking on the beach. I’ll take you down to see her if you feel up to some pretty steep stairs.”
“Sure, I’m game.”
Jackson turned to Emmett. “What about you? Want to go with us, or would you rather wait for us here? I can ask Inez to bring out some iced tea.”
Emmett dropped his cigarette, ground it beneath the toe of his scuffed boot. “I wouldn’t mind the walk. Haven’t been on a beach in a while.”
“Let’s go, then,” Jackson said.
After dinner, Cheyenne took refuge in Joe Colton’s empty study. Over the past days, the vision had turned relentless, images sliding into one another, tormenting her thoughts, robbing her of sleep. The picture that came regularly now to her mind’s eye had strengthened. Through the bright light she could now make out the man’s shape. Though his face was a blur, she had a clear picture of his weathered hand fisted against his waist.
The black image just beyond the light would not sharpen into focus. It formed over and over in her fatigued mind like wax, melting, then reforming into hazy, muted shapes. The deep-seated instinct she’d always trusted told her that small, shadowy fragment held the answer she sought.
The answer that would prove Jackson’s innocence.
With fatigue pressing down on her like a lead weight, she drifted half asleep in the chair where she’d curled. The study was barely lit by a single dim light, the air around her cool and quiet with the heavy hush of the advancing night. Her tensed muscles relaxed. As if a mental static had invaded her brain, images stirred, flitting in brilliant bursts of color across the back of her eyelids, exploding into the white light that illuminated the fisted hand. The shadowy fragment fled through the shifting light, and she followed it in her mind’s eye until it plunged her into a black, dank pit.
She felt the man’s emotions as surely as if they were her own—grief, fear and hatred. Searing hatred, years old and vicious in strength.
Cold struck her like a knife, cutting through her clothes and into her flesh. Terror dug sharp claws into her throat.
Her breath sobbed through her lips; the quick, instinctive fear of a cornered victim had her lunging to her feet. Rocking a bit, she clung to the chair, waiting for her heart to slide back down in her throat while she dragged in quick gulps of air.
She closed her eyes, desperate to freeze the vision in her mind, to see the man, his face. The black, hazy image.
All were gone, like letters wiped off a chalkboard.
“You’ll come back to me,” she whispered, her raw voice trembling. “You have to come back.”
Tears welled up, ran in hot rivulets down her cheeks. She loved Jackson and she needed to help him, had been sent to help him. But so far, she’d done nothing. He was her husband, charged with crimes he didn’t commit, facing prison, maybe for life.
Her gaze dropped to her left hand, clenched into a fist against the chair’s back. The gold band Jackson had placed there blurred through her tears. He had not married her out of love, she reminded herself, but out of a need to protect her. Protect her. She was the one with the gift, the legacy. It was on her shoulders to protect him. She had failed.
No, she instantly countered, battling control back into place. Not failed. She just hadn’t yet succeeded.
She lifted her trembling hands to her face and wiped away her tears. She was trying too hard. Attempting to force the vision to come to her when she had learned long ago that no measure of force could stir those things she saw in her mind’s eye. Still, that knowledge didn’t stop the weight of all the sleepless hours from descending around her. She rubbed her burning eyes and struggled to clear her brain. Useless, she told herself. She was so tired, she could no longer gather up the force to focus her concentration.
“There you are,” Jackson
said as he swung open one of the study’s double doors. “What are you doing in here in the dark?”
She took a deep breath, made one last attempt at swiping away the wetness from her cheeks. She would not let him see that she was terrified for him.
“I fell asleep.” It was close to the truth, she told herself, forcing her mouth to curve when he flicked on the overhead lights.
“You’ve been crying.” His expression clouded as he walked to her. “And you look exhausted.”
“I’m fine.”
He nudged her braid behind her shoulder. “Meredith has tranquilizers. You should take one tonight so you can sleep.”
“No.” She knew in her heart that the vision would return, perhaps tonight. The man would come back. She had to step into the vision, go beyond the light to the dark shadows. She could not do that with a mind dulled by tranquilizers.
“Cheyenne—”
“Trust me.” She reached up, cupped a hand against his jaw. “I have to do this my way, Jackson. My way.”
“Your way is to wear yourself out?” Beneath her palm, she felt a muscle tick in his jaw. “To exhaust yourself to the point that the shadows under your eyes have shadows? To agonize so much that you lose weight? All because of me, dammit. You think that’s easy for me to swallow?”
She measured the mix of anger and frustration in his eyes and realized how helpless he must feel. “I don’t think any of this is easy for you.” She closed her eyes, opened them. “Things are the way they have to be. Fate doesn’t alter its course, or change its speed, just because we wish it to.”
He opened his mouth to respond, then snapped it shut when Rand walked in. “Good, you’re both here.”
The attorney closed the door behind him. He strode behind the desk that he’d commandeered from his father and settled into the high-backed leather chair.
The grim set of Rand’s mouth put a hard lump of dread in Cheyenne’s stomach. She dropped her hand from Jackson’s jaw and turned to face the desk. “Has something happened?”
