Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (4 page)

Carlie shrugged. Obviously her worry for Jackson was long gone. “I say we go.”

Rachelle’s only other option was to walk to the school and call her mother and explain why she was stranded, since Laura had the keys to her car with her and Rachelle’s overnight bag was locked securely inside the trunk. The thought of bothering Ellen Tremont and telling her about being abandoned by Laura in favor of a party at the lake wasn’t appealing. Rachelle would probably end up grounded for life.

“Looks like we don’t have much of a choice, do we?” Carlie asked, echoing Rachelle’s thoughts. “And once we connect with Laura, we’ll have these guys drive us back to the dance and no one will be the wiser.” Carlie was already climbing into the cab of Erik’s pickup. Her black hair gleamed, and she even managed a grin. “Let’s not let this spoil our fun.”

She had a point, Rachelle supposed, but it still didn’t feel right. She slid into the truck from the driver’s side and Erik followed her. Carlie perched on Scott’s knees, bumping her head, trying to avoid more intimate contact.

Erik started the pickup and Carlie was thrown against Scott’s chest. He was quick. His arms surrounded her and her backside was pressed firmly to his lap. Carlie giggled as Erik rolled out of the lot and turned east.

“Why is there bad blood between Roy and Jackson?” Rachelle asked, and Erik shot her an unreadable glance. She wasn’t about to be put off. “Well?”

“Yeah, why does Roy hate Jackson?” Carlie asked, but Scott was tracing the slope of her jaw with one finger.

“Jackson’s a nobody.”

“But Roy almost ran him over!” Rachelle protested, her back stiffening. She’d always taken the side of the underdog and though Jackson had started the altercation with Roy, she felt that somehow he’d been wronged. “You don’t run over a ‘nobody’ without a reason.”

Erik pressed in the lighter and fumbled in his pocket. He withdrew a crumpled pack of Marlboro cigarettes and lit up. “Let’s just forget it. Okay?”

Scott reached behind the seat to find a couple of bottles of beer. He opened them both by hooking the caps under the lip of the dash and yanking hard. Foam slid down the bottles and onto the floor. He tried to hand the first bottle to Rachelle.

“I don’t think so,” she said dryly.

“Your mistake.” Erik grabbed the bottle and began drinking as he took the smaller streets to avoid the center of town.

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink while you’re driving,” Carlie said, but Erik just laughed.

“Boy, are you out of it.”

Rachelle’s stomach twisted into a hard ball. This was all wrong. She’d made a big mistake in getting into this truck and now, as they headed out of town, she didn’t know how to get out without completely abandoning Laura.

She abandoned you, didn’t she? Took off with Roy and left you with these two creeps.

She stared into the rearview mirror, half expecting to see a single white light from Jackson Moore’s motorcycle drawing up behind the truck. If the rumors surrounding Jackson’s temper were true, Roy and his friends would have to answer to him sooner or later, which was probably why sweat had collected on Erik’s upper lip. He took a long drag on his smoke, the tip of his cigarette glowing brightly.

“Forget about Moore,” Erik advised, as if reading her mind. “He’s nothin’ but trouble.”

* * *

W
ITH THE TASTE OF HIS OWN
blood in his mouth, Jackson seethed. He slowed the Harley down and turned into the trailer park where his mother still lived. He’d moved back for a couple of months, but already this town was getting to him—Gold Creek was like a noose that tightened, inch by inch, around his neck. And he knew who held the end of the rope—who was doing the tightening. Roy Fitzpatrick.

He thought of Roy and his blood boiled again.
Ignore him,
one part of his mind said, but the other, more savage and primal male part of him said,
teach him a lesson he’ll never forget!

The pain in his shoulder had lessened to a dull ache and he knew his knee would bother him come morning. He’d been thrown hard from the bike, and his body would hurt like crazy tomorrow. He wanted Roy to feel a little of his pain. Roy was a stupid, spoiled brat and had been the bane of Jackson’s existence for as long as he could remember. Roy hated him. Always had. Pure and simple, and though it sounded crazy, Jackson suspected that Roy was jealous of him. But why?

Roy had grown up in the lap of luxury, having anything he wanted, doing whatever he pleased. Jackson, on the other hand, had been dirt-poor, had never known his father and had spent most of his life helping support his mother. So why the jealousy?

It didn’t matter. Jackson usually avoided Roy.

But tonight he’d had it. His mother had let the cat out of the bag. Her sister’s girl, his cousin Amanda, in Coleville, had turned up pregnant last year while Jackson was still in the Philippines under the employ of the U.S. Navy. Rumor had it, the kid belonged to Roy. Amanda had dropped out of school, had the baby and given it up for adoption. Now she was regretting her decision and was involved in a messy court battle that was costly and gut wrenching for everyone involved.

Wincing, Jackson rubbed his shoulder.

Roy, of course, had denied his paternity and somehow, probably by Thomas greasing the right palms, Roy had come out of the sordid situation with hardly a scratch. But Amanda and the baby, and the couple who had adopted the boy, were paying and would be for the rest of their lives.

Roy deserved a beating, and Jackson intended to thrash him within an inch of his silver-spooned life. He cut the engine of the bike at his mother’s door and stared at the black windows of the trailer. His shoulder was bruised from his embrace with the gravel, his leg hurt like a son of a gun, and the Harley’s fender was bent and twisted. Other than that, the only thing wounded was his pride. And it was wounded big-time. Who the hell did Roy think he was?

Jackson knew the answer: Prince of Gold Creek. Keeper of the keys to the city. All-mighty jerk.

It was time Roy Fitzpatrick learned a lesson. And Jackson intended on being Roy’s teacher. Roy and his father, Thomas, worked on a premise of fear and awe. And most of the comatose citizens of Gold Creek were either scared stiff of the old man or thought they should bow when he entered a room. It made Jackson sick.

Thomas Fitzpatrick believed that he could buy anything he wanted, including judges, doctors and sheriffs. Yeah, the old man was a piece of work and, in Roy’s case, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. That went for the rest of the Fitzpatrick offspring, as well. The second son, Brian, was a snot-nosed wimp, and the daughter, Toni, though quite a bit younger, was already on the red-carpeted path to being a spoiled princess.

Sandra Moore’s single-wide trailer showed no signs of life—no light in the window, no sound of radio or television. She was out again and she didn’t confide in him where she went—just “out.” Jackson supposed she was with a man and he only hoped that whoever the guy was, he’d treat her right. She’d never quite made the trip to the altar, though she’d come close a couple of times. But the love of her life had been his father, a sailor she’d met and planned to marry, but who had died before the wedding ceremony. Matt Belmont. She still carried his faded and well-worn picture in her wallet.

Jackson glanced up at the sky. The moon was nearly hidden by slow-moving clouds. The air was oppressive and hot. His cheek throbbed, his shoulder ached, and somewhere up by the lake Roy Fitzpatrick was having the time of his life with yet another girl. He supposed he shouldn’t care, but the thought made his blood boil.

Tonight Roy was with the blonde—the Chandler girl, a flashy, big-breasted cheerleader who was just Roy’s type, but soon Roy would get restless and bored and he’d move on. But to whom? Some college coed at Sonoma State where he went to school, or another small-town girl who thought the world began and ended with Gold Creek and the Fitzpatrick money? Maybe Roy would take a shine to one of the others who had been in his group. Perhaps the girl with the long red-brown hair, the one who had seemed genuinely concerned when Roy had tried to clip him.

Leaning forward, he rested his forehead on the handlebars.

He knew where Roy was. He’d heard about the party at the summer home of the Fitzpatricks. His chin slid to one side as he considered his options. Sweat trickled down his neck. He thought again of the girl who had run over to him to see if he’d been hurt. She was beautiful, as were all of the girls to whom Roy was attracted. Her hair was straight and thick, a glossy auburn sheath that fell nearly to her waist. Her face was small, with high cheekbones and eyes that were a shade between green and gray. Funny, how he’d noticed those eyes. They’d studied him with such intelligence, such clarity, that he couldn’t imagine she was one of Roy’s women. Still, he’d given her a rough time; tossed off her concerns. She was, after all, with Roy. Just another Gold Creek girl who wanted to get close to the Fitzpatrick money. They were all the same.

He spit blood onto the gravel drive and ran his tongue over his teeth. None chipped. He’d been lucky. Roy’s fender had just clipped him, though Jackson doubted that Roy would really risk denting his expensive car. Or maybe he would. Daddy would always buy Roy a new one.

Closing his eyes, he rotated his head and heard his neck crack a little. A headache pounded near his temples. He should just leave Roy and Old Man Fitzpatrick alone. But he couldn’t.

He kick-started the bike and wheeled around. No reason to stay in the dark trailer when he could settle things once and for all with the Fitzpatricks.

CHAPTER TWO

T
HE
F
ITZPATRICK “CABIN”
was a mansion. Hidden behind a brick fence and wrought-iron gates, the rustic building was nestled in a thicket of pines on the shore of the lake. A sweeping front porch, awash with lights, was flanked by cedar-and-stone walls rising three stories.

Rachelle climbed out of Erik’s pickup. The night smelled of pine, fir and water. Clouds gathered in the sky, blocking out the moon. The wind, too, picked up and rifled across the water, promising rain.

Music was throbbing through the open windows. Laughter and loud conversation were punctuated by the beat of a classic Eric Clapton tune. Though the night was muggy, Rachelle drew her jacket around her more tightly as she hurried up the stone path to the front door. She just wanted to find Laura and go home.

Even Carlie was getting nervous. She shot Rachelle a worried glance. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

“It’s a great idea,” Scott said, throwing his arm over Carlie’s shoulders. “Besides, Roy would be disappointed if you two didn’t show up.”

“He’d never miss us,” Rachelle predicted.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Erik drawled. He and Scott exchanged a look and a smile that made Rachelle’s blood run cold.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.” Erik herded them onto the porch.

The door was ajar, and they walked into a two-storied foyer resplendent with Oriental rugs tossed over polished hardwood floors. Objets d’art and antiques were positioned carefully in the entry hall. A spinning wheel stood near the coat closet, a loom bearing a half-woven rug had been pushed into the far wall of the living room and a suit of armor stood near the staircase, a can of Coors clutched in its iron-gloved hand.

Laughter and music wafted from the back of the house.

“This way,” Scott said, as he and Erik turned a corner and headed toward the rear of the house. Reluctantly Rachelle and Carlie followed. Rachelle regretted ever getting into the truck. What if someone called the police? What if no one was in any shape to take Carlie and her back to town? What if Laura was having such a good time, she didn’t want to leave? Well, Rachelle could always call her mother. She winced at the thought and decided that if worse came to worst, she could hike the seven miles back to town.

The party was in full swing in the game room. Glassy-eyed heads of deer, moose and elk were mounted on the walls. In one corner, a player piano stood untouched, in another a Wurlitzer jukebox, straight out of the fifties, was playing records. A pool table, covered in blue felt, was centered on the gleaming floor and Foosball and darts were arranged in other parts of the room. A wall of windows, two stories high, offered a panoramic view of the lake, while against the interior, a set of stairs led to a loft. Smoke filled the air and glasses clinked.

Looking for Laura, Rachelle recognized some of the faces of the boys standing around a keg and telling jokes. Others were playing pool. Through sliding doors, to one side of the game room, steam rose from a glassed-in pool where a couple, dressed only in their underwear, was splashing and laughing.

“Have you ever in your life seen a house like this?” Carlie asked in an awed whisper.

“Never.” Under other circumstances, Rachelle would have thought the rustic old house beautiful. Compared to the small cottage she lived in with her mother and sister, this “summer home” was palatial. Of course, the Fitzpatricks were the wealthiest family in town. They wouldn’t have settled for anything less than the largest house on Whitefire Lake. But tonight the place gave her the creeps.

She kept telling herself to relax and lighten up, that she’d made the decision to come here, and she had to make the best of it. She sat on the piano bench, her fingers curling over the chipped edge, and tried to smile. But her lips felt frozen, even when she saw kids she recognized: older boys—Evan and Jason Kendrick—rich kids who knew the Fitzpatricks, and were playing pool while Patty Osgood and Nadine Powell were hovering nearby, ready to laugh at the boys’ jokes and smile easily. Patty was drinking from a paper cup. She appeared a little unsteady on her feet and Nadine, the redhead, was leaning over the table, her face flushed as she flirted with Jason Kendrick. Both girls were wearing tight jeans and too much makeup. Patty, the reverend’s daughter, was rumored to be fast and easy, though Nadine usually kept out of trouble. But tonight, both girls were definitely interested in the rich boys.