Wed to the Witness (12 page)

On the far side of the corral, Johnny and his pals continued cheering and clapping for the cowboy atop the livid bull.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson caught movement. He whipped his head around just as the cowboy went airborne. The man smashed onto the ground. Instantly, he rolled several times as the fire-eyed, snorting Brahma went after him, its back hooves shooting up clumps of dirt like bullets.

A murmur went up from the crowd when the angry animal dipped its head and aimed both horns at his former rider. To Jackson, the black, red-eyed bull looked akin to the devil.

“Move! Move!” Cheyenne shoved her way through the mass of watchers. The urgency in her voice invaded Jackson's system as they plowed toward the corral.

He saw the cowboy regain his feet. With fifteen hundred pounds of incensed bull charging after him, the man bolted toward the closest section of fence where the
teenagers sat. The rider scrambled up the side of the corral and over, barely evading the Brahma's horns.

The animal spun, kicking and bucking. Its back hooves smashed into a support post. Once. Twice.

Jackson heard a crack of wood splinter the air. Cheyenne screamed Johnny's name. A look of horror crossed the teen's face as his body teetered. A half second later, he pitched forward into the corral. The bull bucked, a roar of motion and sound as both hind legs kicked into the air.

Jackson saw the hooves crash into Johnny's side, heard the boy's startled bark of pain.

Short, rusty breaths scraped at Jackson's throat. Adrenaline surged through his body like fire. He levered over the corral's top rail, snagged the back of Johnny's belt. Using both hands, Jackson jerked the boy's limp body up at the same instant the snorting bull's deadly hooves trampled the earth where he'd landed.

“Give him room! Give him room,” Cheyenne shouted, shoving people back.

Lungs heaving, heart pounding, Jackson eased the teen onto his back on a patch of grass beside the corral. Johnny's eyes were closed, his mouth slack.

Cheyenne dropped to her knees beside him and swallowed a sob. “How bad is he hurt?”

Jackson looked up. Her face was ice-pale, her eyes filled with pure fear. When he reached and squeezed her shoulder, he discovered his hand was trembling. “One of the bull's hooves caught his left arm. It's probably broken.”

“God.” Blake Fallon crouched beside Jackson, his mouth clamped in a hard line. “Someone saw Dr. Kent getting a drink at the dining hall. I sent a couple of the ranch hands to find him and drive him here.”

Cheyenne's hand shook as she brushed dark hair off the boy's pasty forehead. “We tried to get to you,” she said softly. “We tried.”

Jackson studied her with grim assessment. She had known. She had known ahead of time the cowboy would fall. That the outraged Brahma would surge out of control. That Johnny would topple into the path of its deadly hooves. She had known. How the hell had she known?

He looked toward the corral where several wary-eyed ranch hands twirled lassos over their heads as they approached the bull from all sides. The echo of a memory stirred in Jackson's mind, bringing with it the picture of a young Cheyenne trailing after her brother around the Colton stables. And with that memory came tales, rumors—

“Make way for the doc!” The shout from behind him jerked Jackson back to the present.

“Let's see what we've got here.” Dr. Nicholas Kent was tall and powerfully built with thick silver hair and a matching mustache. A network of lines pulled at the flesh around his blue eyes. Having spent most of his growing-up summers in Prosperino, Jackson had been ministered to a number of times by the man.

“Doctor Kent.”

“Jackson.” Kent crouched just as Johnny's eyelids fluttered open. He thrashed, his eyes half-open, the whites showing, straining.

“Easy, Johnny.” Jackson placed a hand on his chest, held him down.

“Just relax, son. We'll get you taken care of.” Kent's evaluating gaze swept the boy's arm, then lifted. “What happened?”

Jackson used a forearm to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He had to force every word past his dirt-dry throat
as he related events of the accident. “One of the bull's hooves caught him in the left elbow,” he finished.

The doctor nodded. “I sent one of the hands to drive my car over here. My medical bag's in the trunk.”

A thick moan rose up Johnny's throat.

Kent placed a practiced hand on his shoulder. “I know it hurts. I'll give you something for the pain in just a minute. Then I'll drive you to the hospital. I need a couple of pictures of that elbow.”

“Gotta…go…to…hospital?”

“That's right, son.”

The teen's dazed, half-shut eyes met Jackson's. “You…go, too?”

“Sure.” The knot in Jackson's chest tightened. Over the past week, he and Johnny had developed a camaraderie while they'd worked side-by-side.

Dragging in a steadying breath, Jackson inclined his head toward the boy's arm, which was bent at an almost impossible angle. A bloody slice ran down the length of his forearm, which was already turning black and blue. “Listen, Collins, there are easier ways than this to get yourself taken off my paint crew.”

“Yeah. I'll remember that…next time.”

Blake furrowed a brow. “I'll follow you to the hospital and take care of the paperwork.” He looked at Cheyenne. “You'll let the other counselors know what happened? Take care of things here?”

“Of course.” Her voice hitched. “Don't worry about anything.”

A ranch hand barged through the circle of onlookers and handed Dr. Kent a black bag.

While Kent tore paper off a disposable syringe Jackson patted Johnny's good arm. “Cheyenne and I need to talk for a minute before I leave. I have to make sure
she's got everything lined up to judge the target shooting in my place.”

Johnny rolled his head, gazed up though dazed eyes at Cheyenne. “I guess I messed up. Can't…be on your archery team.”

“You're on my team.” She cupped a hand against his cheek. “You just get to take a break from practice for a while.”

Jackson rose, held out a hand to help her up. She hesitated, then slid her hand into his.

He pulled her through the maze of onlookers, stopping a few feet away. Turning, he placed his hands on her shoulders. Beneath his palms, she felt as taut as a coiled spring.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. It's good Johnny asked you to go with him, Jackson.” She kept her eyes on the injured boy while she spoke. “He trusts you. For Johnny, that doesn't come easy.”

“For a lot of people, I think.”

“If someone could call from the hospital, let us know how Johnny's doing…” Her voice broke. “You saved his life.”

“
We
saved his life.” Jackson cupped her chin in his hand, nudged it up until her gaze met his. Her eyes were huge and dark in the pallor of her face. “I'm not sure how we did that. When I get back, you and I have to talk. I need to know what just happened.”

“I know.” For a brief instant, the wrenching sadness in her voice closed around him. “I know you do.”

 

Hours later, Cheyenne stood alone on her dark porch. Under the pale light of the moon, her small front yard was a mix of subdued shades of gray and black, with
occasional patches of white. Leaning a shoulder against the porch rail, she wondered if she had actually thought she could open herself intimately to a man, yet keep secret the gift of her heritage. A gift that coursed through her veins.

“Idiot.” Her quiet voice drifted on the warm night air, blending with the music coming from the far-off bandstand. After Johnny's accident, she had forced herself to work, carry out the duties required of her. Yet, she had drawn the line at going to the dance, so she'd asked another counselor to take her place. She had opted for the coward's way out by refusing to watch couples move beneath the dance floor's twinkling lights while the memory of Jackson's voice replayed in her head.

Save me every dance tonight. After that, I'm going to take you home and make love with you. All night.

Her throat tightening, Cheyenne shrank away from the thought. Instead of dwelling on what might have been she had to face what was.

Johnny would recover, that was the important thing. Blake had called after the teenager had been wheeled out of surgery, with two pins in his elbow. Dr. Kent predicted a full recovery. For that, Cheyenne was grateful.

What made her heart clench was the knowledge that Jackson had witnessed what he had that afternoon. At this point he didn't know any specifics, but he had seen enough to know she had willfully deceived him.

He would walk away, just as Paul had. The blame was all hers. She had intentionally kept the truth from Jackson and fate had taken a hand.

He had been honest with her. He'd come to her, told her the police suspected him of two attempted murders. By doing so, he had given her a choice of accepting or
backing away. Because she'd been afraid of the outcome, she had denied him the truth about herself.

“Idiot,” she said again.

“Are you talking to me or yourself?”

Jackson's voice caught her like a slap in the face, had her spinning around. When he moved across the lawn through a swath of weak moonlight, the grimness in his face had her nerves jittering.

“Myself,” she managed. “How's Johnny?”

“Out like a light.” Jackson came up the porch steps, then paused. “Blake's spending the night at the hospital. Dr. Kent says we can bring Johnny home tomorrow.”

“Good. That's good.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, cupped her elbows in her hands. “I owe you an explanation.”

He moved toward her like a shadow, controlled and observant. “I'm not sure you owe me one, but I would appreciate one.” His voice was even, his eyes intent. Unnervingly so.

She took a deep breath. “I've mentioned to you that my mother died the night she gave birth to me. I never heard her laugh. The only memories I have of her are through the stories River and Rafe tell me. Even so, I feel she is always with me because she passed a gift to me, through the blood. The gift of sight.”

“Are we talking ESP?”

“A form of it.”

“I'd say it's a pretty exacting form. Today you saw the accident before it happened. You knew Johnny was in danger before that bull kicked the fence.”

“Yes. I have visions. I see certain things and events before they happen.” She put an unsteady hand to her throat. “I know what I'm telling you is hard to believe, but it's true.”

“If I hadn't been there today, I wouldn't believe it. But I was a part of what happened. Johnny would probably be dead now if it weren't for you.”

“Us. We were both meant to be where we were.”

Jackson raised a hand, let it fall. “I chose the oak tree as a place for us to meet off the top of my head. I could have just as easily asked you to meet me at the shooting range.”

“You didn't. We were meant to be near the corral.”

“So, you're saying fate put us there so we could save a life?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how incredible that sounds?” he asked, his voice taking on a hard edge.

“Of course I do. And I know you would like me to give you a rational explanation for everything, but I can't. Any more than I can explain why the visions that come to me don't always have a clear purpose, like the one did today. I sometimes don't know why I see the things I do, why I sense them, or what they mean. I just accept what I see and deal with it the best I can.” She pulled in a ragged breath. “I'm sorry, Jackson.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you sorry that you have visions, or that you failed to mention them to me?”

Pride stiffened her spine. “I'm not ashamed of my gift. My mother's people revere my visions for their power to do good. I am sorry I wasn't truthful with you.”

“So am I.” He took a step toward her, his hands clenched. “That first night we ran into each other, when we went for coffee, I told you I remembered something about that shy, skinny little girl who used to follow River around like a shadow. I asked if you read palms or minds.” His fingers flexed, fisted again. “You said no.”

“That's because I don't do either. I can't look at the lines in your hand and predict your future. I can't gaze into your eyes and read your thoughts, only imagine them, like now.”

He angled a rigid shoulder against one of the porch's columns, crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you imagine I'm thinking right now?”

“You're angry that I kept this from you. You feel betrayed and hurt.” She shut her eyes. “I never meant to hurt you, Jackson. My intention was to help.”

“Help?”

“Do you think we met in the lobby of the movie theater by chance?”

“Hell, yes,” he answered, even as something flickered in his eyes. “I walked out of the police department and started driving. I didn't know I was going to wind up at the movie until the minute I whipped a U-turn in the street.” He leaned in. “Why were you there?”

“I was meant to be there,” she answered quietly. “The last thing I planned to do that evening was see a movie. I was at home, writing a grant for funding of a new vocational work-training program for the ranch. Then a vision came to me of a man's eyes, hard and gray. I didn't know whose eyes they were. All I knew was he was in trouble, that he needed my help and that I would find him at the movie theater. I went there, bought a ticket and waited in the lobby. I didn't know the man in my vision was you until I saw your eyes.”

“So you just dropped everything and headed to the movies?” Although his voice remained steady, raw emotion flickered in his gaze. “You didn't know why or how, you just came?”

“My visions are always for good. I don't question them. I accept and respond. I still don't know how I'm
meant to help you, Jackson. The answer will come in time.” She turned and stared out at the moonlit yard. She could smell the poignancy of the yellow roses that edged against the porch. “It always does.”