The Next Mrs. Blackthorne (Bitter Creek Book 6)

by Joan Johnston

  “I wanted us all to go horseback riding this morning,” Kate said, looking from one parent to the other.

  “I’m afraid I have to get back to the city, too,” Clay said.

  “Please, Daddy. Please, Mom,” Kate begged. “Just a short ride. I have something I need to discuss with you both.”

  Libby reminded herself that their entire purpose in being here was to ensure their daughter didn’t make a mistake that would ruin her life. She exchanged a quick glance with Clay, who nodded slightly. Then she said, “All right, Kate. A quick breakfast and a short ride. Then your dad and I need to head back to Austin.”

  Libby was the last to leave the porch. She stared at the door through which Clay had passed, realizing what she’d done. It was hard, so very hard, to let go of a dream. But she’d finally woken up.

  Now she just had to figure out how to face the future without the man she loved.

  Clay sat in the backseat of Jack’s extended-cab pickup with Libby as they drove to North’s stable from the foreman’s house, but she spoke only to Kate and Jack. When they arrived, she refused his offer to saddle her horse with an abrupt, “I can do it myself.”

  Once the four of them were mounted up, they followed an old wagon trail over the rolling hills dotted with mesquite and live oaks, Kate chattering a mile a minute to fill the thundering silence between Clay and Libby.

  Clay stared at Libby’s back, which was all she’d shown him all morning, wondering if this would be the extent of their relationship from now on. He blessed his daughter for keeping the stream of conversation going, or this horseback ride would have been more than a little awkward. On the other hand, Kate’s monologue was giving him far too much time to think. And feel.

  Clay couldn’t remember the last time he’d been provoked into raising his voice or using profanity. He never shouted and he rarely swore. He was proud of the self-discipline, the absolute control, that had made him such a good politician. But Libby knew all the right buttons to push. This morning, she’d yanked the tight rein he kept on his emotions right out of his hands.

  He wondered if Libby had recognized the slip he’d made—the admission that the difference between his willingness to forgive Jocelyn, and his unwillingness to forgive her, was that he loved Libby.

  Did that mean he didn’t really love Jocelyn? That he’d kept blinders on his eyes, so he wouldn’t realize the truth? And what was the truth?

  Clay grimaced. The truth was, he’d been so frightened by his powerful attraction to Libby last year that he’d gotten himself engaged to Jocelyn as fast as he could, to make sure he didn’t do anything about it. The truth was, he’d never stopped loving Libby. And never stopped being furious with her for robbing him of his own “happily ever after.”

  He could remember his mother’s reaction when he’d said he would simply wait two years until Libby was eighteen and then marry her, when King couldn’t stop them.

  “Do you think no one will notice that you’re marrying a child—and one with a babe in arms?” his mother had said. “The tabloids will find out the truth. Count on it. And that will be the end of your political career.”

  “I don’t care,” he’d said. “I love her.”

  “You can’t afford that luxury,” his mother replied.

  “I can live without becoming president,” Clay said.

  “It’s been your dream—”

  “It’s been your dream,” Clay interrupted. “Not mine.”

  “Don’t delude yourself,” his mother said. “You’re ambitious. And driven. And determined. What will you do with your life if you give up your dreams for a woman who lied to you, who betrayed you, who only wanted vengeance?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Clay said. But his face was flushed, and his heart was beating hard. He’d tried to convince himself that Libby’s cruel dismissal of him when he’d gone to see her after they’d been discovered by her father had been forced on her by her father. But his stomach rolled when he remembered the scorn on her face as she told him how she’d used him. How she’d always planned to discard him. How her father’s interruption of their interlude had only hastened the inevitable.

  “She’s her father’s daughter,” his mother continued. “She used you, Clay. She’s a viper, who’ll poison your life. Let her go.”

  “I can’t!” he’d cried. She was his life, the other half of his soul. And she carried his child.

  Clay had tried to see Libby, to tell her he didn’t believe her, that he knew she loved him. That she could trust him to take care of her. To tell her he’d fight King, hell, he’d fight the whole world, if he had to, to spend his life with her.

  But when she’d finally agreed to see him—so he’d go away and leave her alone—she merely repeated the foul slander he’d heard the first time, her eyes even more heartless, her voice even more venomous.

  To survive the devastation, he’d had to believe Libby was what his mother had called her—a viper who’d poisoned his life. The only way to survive was to suck out that poison. And stay away from Elsbeth Grayhawk in the future.

  He’d stayed away for six long years. But that had meant denying himself his daughter, too. At long last, he’d gone to see Libby. And lost his heart to his daughter.

  After that, there had been no question of staying away.

  Clay wasn’t sure when he’d realized that his first instincts had been correct. That Libby had lied, probably to protect him from threats her father must have made against him. That she must have loved him as much as he’d loved her. But she was engaged by then, so there was no reason to confront her and demand the truth.

  As the years passed, he’d nursed the grievous hurt he felt at what Libby’s cowardice had cost them. And continued to blame her for causing them to spend their lives apart. If only she’d trusted him. If only she hadn’t lied when he’d come to her. If only she’d had a little faith in him, they might have had their happily ever after.

  This morning Libby had forced Clay to admit his part in their broken fairy tale. His unwillingness to forgive. His unwillingness to take the chance of letting anyone, especially Libby, tear his heart in two again.

  So where did that leave them?

  He was willing to admit, now that Libby made it clear she wanted nothing more to do with him, that he’d never stopped loving her. But it was too late now to go back and undo the damage of the past.

  Libby had done him a big favor after all. No one could say he didn’t learn from his mistakes. He wouldn’t wait for things to play out between Jocelyn and North. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. He would go to Jocelyn and tell her what he suspected about her sacrifice, and that he was there for her if she ever wanted him back.

  It wasn’t only gratitude that made him determined to have her, if he could. Jocelyn had social skills she’d learned practically from the cradle. She was supportive and loyal, giving and loving. She very much wanted children, and she would be a good mother. To add icing to the cake, she was extraordinarily beautiful. In short, she was everything he’d ever wished for in a wife.

  And if Jocelyn didn’t want him back? If he was free of his engagement to her? What then?

  Clay didn’t let himself think that far ahead. It was too late to make amends with Libby. It was too late for the fairy tale.

  Wasn’t it?

  “What do you think, Daddy?”

  Clay hadn’t been paying attention and said, “I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “About Jack and me getting married this summer.”

  Clay thought this about-face—this sudden suggestion of marriage—was more alarming than the situation where his daughter and Jack McKinley had no plans to wed. “I think marriage is a bad idea,” he said. “You’re too young to know what you want. You need to get a college education, choose a profession you enjoy, and figure out what life is all about, before you even start to think about marriage. Jack should know better—”

  “Don’t say anything bad abo
ut Jack, Daddy. Please. I won’t be able to stand it if you do.”

  Clay couldn’t bear the wounded look on his daughter’s face. He exchanged a What do we do now? glance with Libby behind Kate’s back.

  “Why don’t you and I ride ahead, Kate,” Libby said, “so Daddy and Jack have a chance to talk and get to know each other better.”

  Kate looked warily at her father, then leaned over to kiss Jack on the lips before she said, “Be nice, Daddy.”

  “I’m always nice,” her father replied. A moment later, Kate and Libby kicked their mounts and loped away, and he was alone with Jack McKinley. He turned to the ex-quarterback accused of throwing the Super Bowl and said, “I’ll give you twenty-five thousand dollars to walk away from her.”

  Jack lifted an eyebrow and said, “Is that all your daughter’s worth to you?”

  Clay felt his throat flush with heat and realized he was angry on his daughter’s behalf that she’d gotten herself involved with such a scoundrel. “Fifty thousand. Take it and get yourself out of my sight.”

  “I don’t want your money,” Jack said.

  “What will it take to get you out of Kate’s life?” Clay demanded.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Judge Blackthorne,” Jack said. “Except down the aisle with your daughter.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  The smile on Jack’s face made the hairs stand up on Clay’s nape. He resisted the urge to grab Jack by his throat and squeeze the life out of him. “All Kate’s money is in trust. She won’t get a penny till she’s twenty-five. Long before then, she’ll have seen you for what you are.”

  “I don’t want her money, either,” Jack said.

  “What do you want?” Clay asked through tight jaws.

  “For you to back off. For you to let Kate decide what she wants.”

  “She’s too young to know what she wants,” Clay retorted. “She needs to be protected.”

  “It seems to me,” Jack said in a voice more quiet than Clay’s, “that you haven’t done such a good job of that in the past.”

  Clay thought of Kate’s kidnapping last year. How she’d been held hostage and only barely escaped with her life. He met Jack’s gaze and said, “Last year—”

  “What about right now?” Jack said. “I’ve heard plenty of speculation at the Grille that Brown didn’t bomb that courthouse in Houston on his own. That Judge Kuykendall was executed—pure and simple. These guys mean business, and they don’t care who gets hurt. Kate isn’t safe when she’s anywhere near that courthouse—or you. She needs someone to keep an eye on her.”

  “I suppose you’re applying for the job,” Clay said sarcastically.

  “A deputy marshal will do just fine.” Jack looked him in the eye and said, “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you could be next.”

  “Killing the judge—again—isn’t going to stop the trial.”

  “But it’s going to leave Kate without a father,” Jack said. “Keeping Kate safe and happy is my one goal in life right now. So I suggest you pay attention to your business, and let me take care of mine.”

  Clay was left sitting his horse alone when Jack spurred his mount and disappeared over the next hill. Clay frowned as he stared after the young man. Jack McKinley was going to be a harder nut to crack than he’d suspected. He and Libby were going to have to put their heads together to figure out how to free Kate from his clutches. He might even ask Owen to investigate Kate’s boyfriend. Maybe his brother could find a reason to lock him up.

  Jack didn’t immediately rejoin Libby and Kate. He rode just far enough to be out of Clay’s sight over a hill, then stopped his horse where he was hidden by the massive trunk of an ancient live oak. He pulled out his cell phone, punched the button to call a programmed number, and waited for it to be answered.

  When it was, he said, “I want to take the girl out of the equation now. She’s a problem that’s only going to get worse. I think you ought—”

  Jack’s jaw tightened. “All right. I’ll hold off. For now. But you’d better do something. And soon.”

  9

  Jocelyn dumped the last of her coffee in the sink and turned to North, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, cup in hand. “Another cup?” she asked.

  “No time,” he said.

  Jocelyn flushed. They were late getting started because he’d woken up wanting her. And she’d provided the service she’d agreed to provide until September. He’d lingered over the matter, taking the time to arouse her fully, taking the time to make sure she was incoherent with pleasure before finally taking his own.

  It was Saturday, but one of the first things Jocelyn had learned was that there was very little leisure time on a ranch. There was too much to do. In addition, North had other businesses here and in Wyoming he was managing. She wondered sometimes how he handled all the responsibilities she saw resting on his shoulders. But he never complained. And he certainly never asked for help. From anyone.

  Within the first few days of moving in with him, she’d offered to help, but he’d refused. Jocelyn wasn’t sure why she persisted in spending her days with him, when he never asked for her company. But North already had a housekeeper and cook, neither of whom he’d been willing to let go, since her stay was only “temporary.” And she needed to be doing something useful.

  Jocelyn found herself enjoying the time she spent outdoors with North. She loved everything about the ranching life, especially starting the day when it was still dark outside, so she got to watch the sunrise every morning. The work was constant and endless, and she was always amazed at how well North managed the ebb and flow of maintaining so much land and so many animals.

  She glanced at North’s broad shoulders, remembering how he’d looked yesterday with his shirt off, straining with a ratchet to pull a strand of barbed wire tight, his powerful muscles moving beneath smooth flesh, his back glistening with sweat in the sunshine. She’d wanted to lick his skin, to see if it was as salty as it looked.

  Jocelyn flushed guiltily at her thoughts, glad North couldn’t read her mind. She might be committed to stay with him for the summer, but she had a life to return to when this episode was over. And a man she loved.

  She was rinsing out her cup when she heard a knock on the screen door. She leaned back to see past North, but the rising sun obscured whoever was outside the door. She glanced at North and flushed again when she realized his gray eyes were focused on her, letting her know that he didn’t care if they kept the whole world waiting outside.

  Jocelyn shivered as her body reacted to his. They’d been living and sleeping together—having sex—for two weeks, and the tension between them was worse now than it had been the day North had opened his door to her. Oh, yes, her body wanted his. Craved it, despite so many nights of lovemaking.

  But Jocelyn had yet to see a sign of compassion in the man, a sign of vulnerability, anything that would allow her to believe that he cared for her—or anyone else in this world. She was merely a pawn in a despicable game between Blackthornes and Grayhawks.

  “Expecting company?” he asked.

  Jocelyn shook her head. “No one knows I’m here.” Except Clay, of course, and it wasn’t likely he would have knocked politely.

  North called out, “Who’s there?”

  No one answered. The knock came again, more insistent.

  “I’ll see who it is,” Jocelyn said, heading for the door.

  “I’ll go,” North said, setting down his coffee cup.

  Jocelyn reached the screen door the same time he did. She was about to push it open, when he grasped her wrist and stayed her hand.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Sassy?” North said brusquely.

  Jocelyn stared through the screen door at a young, very pretty, model-tall blue-eyed blond. She was wearing three-inch heels and a tailored pink suit cut in a deep V to reveal generous cleavage. For a devastating moment, Jocelyn thought the woman must be one of North’s paramours.

  “I’ve been
hunting you for a week, North,” the tall blond said. “The least you could do is tell people where you’re going to be.”

  “What do you want, Sassy?”

  “Who are you?” the woman asked Jocelyn.

  “She’s none of your business,” North said.

  “I’m Sassy Grayhawk,” the woman said to Jocelyn. “North’s stepmother. His middle stepmother, I should say. I came between Leonora and Jill. Although I don’t think King—or anyone else—ever counts Leonora, since that marriage was annulled, on account of—”

  “Sassy!” North interrupted.

  Jocelyn’s diplomatic training stood her in good stead, and neither her voice nor her face showed her shock at the young woman’s revelation. Sassy Grayhawk didn’t look a day over thirty. A second look revealed a tautness to her skin, beneath very carefully applied makeup, that suggested plastic surgery.

  Although the day had just begun, Jocelyn recognized the smell of gin on the woman’s breath. Then she noticed how tightly Sassy was clutching her pink snakeskin purse against her substantial bosom. Whatever the woman wanted, it hadn’t been easy coming here to ask for it.

  Jocelyn took one look at the stony, indifferent face North presented to his stepmother, and her heart went out to the woman. “Would you like to come in?” she asked, pushing open the screen door with the hand North wasn’t holding.

  “I don’t have time to visit,” Sassy said, actually taking a step back. “I only came to ask a favor.”

  Jocelyn felt North’s body tense beside her.

  “How much do you want?” he said in a flat voice.

  “I don’t need your money,” Sassy replied indignantly.

  North stared at his stepmother, who stared back only a moment before her glance wavered and finally slid toward something to her right.

  Jocelyn turned at the same time as North to see what had caught Sassy’s attention. Standing just beyond the open screen door was a lanky teenage boy, with too-long, raven black hair. His strange, almost silver eyes were sullen, his chin jutting. He was posed with his hip cocked and his arms crossed defiantly—or protectively—across his narrow chest. His bronze skin, sharp cheekbones, and blade of nose reminded Jocelyn of some long-ago Sioux warrior.