Wed to the Witness (5 page)

More money, she thought, fighting back a wave of panic. She needed more money in case she had to leave Prosperino in a hurry. She couldn't support Joe, Jr. and Teddy by herself.

Her eyes narrowed as her thoughts focused on Jackson Colton. He'd been so damn cool and forthright when he'd confronted her about blackmailing his father. Even as Jackson assured her he would go to the police if her extortion didn't end, she had seen a flash of regret in his eyes. It was as if he couldn't believe his Aunt Meredith had stooped so low.

Meredith, who had refused to cover for her own sister when Patsy had killed Jewel's father in a fit of rage. Meredith, who'd been too good to lie to the cops. In
stead, she'd let her twin rot in prison for twenty-five years.

Patsy wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging the silk robe closer to her flesh. She would show Jackson Colton just how low she could stoop when she went after what was owed her. His father, Graham, had sniffed around her for years trying to bed her before she'd given him what he wanted. Now she intended to see that he continued to pay her the money he'd agreed to.

She had no doubt that, with his son cooling his heels in prison, Graham would continue making the payments she'd demanded. He would most likely do anything to keep her from telling Joe that his brother had sired Teddy. After all, the two million Graham had agreed to pay for her silence was peanuts compared to what he would lose if Joe wrote him out of his will.

“Evidence,” she said, her voice a whisper on the still, night air. The evidence she'd already collected and sent anonymously to Thad Law had clearly caused Jackson some bad moments this afternoon.

She intended to cause him a lot more.

Gone momentarily was the feeling of impending doom that had dogged her for months. Having a good, solid plan—along with the Valium and alcohol that had just begun creeping into her system—calmed her nerves.

She smiled as she pictured the scene earlier in the study when Joe stabbed the air with his finger while he pronounced,
“Like the gun the bastard used to take those shots at me. Find that, and you've got some real proof.”

“No problem,” Patsy murmured.

She had the proof. It was a matter of time before she could deliver it to the police.

Then she would have Jackson out of her way and his father's money would start flowing back in.

T
he May morning was bright and clear, with the hills sporting color so bold and vivid that Cheyenne had shoved on her sunglasses the instant she walked out of her house. Now she stood in the center of the small archery range near a rushing stream that cut a jagged path across Hopechest Ranch.

“Stance is everything,” she reminded the tall skinny-as-a-rail teenager standing a yard away. At her side was a high table fashioned out of native stone on which she'd laid the bows and the quiver filled with arrows that she'd picked up from the counseling center on her way to the range.

“Yeah, stance.” Johnny Collins gave her an intense look across his shoulder. Repositioning his right foot a half inch, he raised a bow formed out of a curve of polished hickory. Dressed in faded jeans, a white T-shirt and ball cap swiveled backward to keep his dark shaggy
hair out of his eyes, Johnny was beginning his second month of lessons.

The kid showed promise.

Cheyenne knew Johnny's growing skill as an archer coincided with an increase in the self-confidence that had eroded after his mother abandoned the family. His father started drinking and got fired from his job. Earlier that year, the fourteen-year-old boy had lied about his age to get hired at a fast-food restaurant. Days later, he had been caught stealing money out of the register. When a social worker discovered he'd taken the money to buy food for him and his father, she arranged for Johnny's stay at Hopechest Ranch.

Since then, several counselors and volunteers had worked with Johnny to increase his reading and math skills. Thanks to Drake Colton, he'd learned to ride and take responsibility for a horse's care. Cheyenne knew that with a lot of hard work and equal luck, Johnny Collins's life might turn around.

As hers had when she'd come to Hopechest.

Even though she worked there as a counselor, the ranch provided as much a sanctuary for her as for the young children and teens who wound up there through the efforts of various social workers, cops and the courts. Established by the Hopechest Foundation on vast acres of prime real estate a few miles outside of Prosperino, the ranch sometimes represented the only stable environment some of its occupants had ever known. To others, who associated home and family with physical or emotional abuse or both, Hopechest stood as a safe haven where no one had cause to cower, scared and alone.

Growing up, Cheyenne had sometimes done just that.

Although her mother's people had raised her with love and a deep understanding of the legacy she'd inherited
from the woman she had no memory of, Cheyenne had sensed early that her father had sent her away because she was different. How different became apparent at the first Anglo school she'd attended when she tugged on her teacher's sleeve one sunny morning and predicted an accident would happen on the playground. When the teacher dismissed the warning and the event Cheyenne had seen so vividly in her mind's eye occurred moments later, her classmates had begun taunting her, calling her Princess Voodoo and She-Who-Knows-It-All.

Her most intense memories of that school year were of the hours she'd spent cowering at a desk in the back of the classroom, wishing desperately she were like everyone else.

Over time, she had grown accustomed to being different. She learned the value of using discretion with outsiders, understood that the only people she could trust were those of her mother's blood who accepted and revered her gift of sight. Only once since that day on the playground had she misjudged. During her final year of college she had fallen in love with Paul Porter, a man she had trusted with her heart and her secrets. Like her father, Paul could not deal with the fact she was different, and wanted no part of her after she'd told him about her heritage. So, he'd walked away, leaving her to deal with a raging, tearing hurt. In the year she'd been at Hopechest, her battered heart had healed and she'd settled into a content, safe existence.

Until the night before last when she'd stepped into Jackson Colton's arms. Even now, while she watched her student fit an arrow's nock into the bowstring then slowly draw it back until his right hand came even with the side of his mouth, Cheyenne felt a frisson of need
stir deep inside her. A need she knew well she could not risk feeling.

So, she wouldn't risk. After all, she and Jackson had shared only a couple of kisses in a dimly lit parking lot. Nothing more. Just because she'd allowed her control to slip for a few mind-numbing minutes didn't mean she would ever again try to crawl up the man's chest.

The thought of the blatant way she'd opened her mouth in invitation, of how her body had melted against his put a heated flush into her cheeks that had nothing to do with the warmth of the morning sun that slanted across her face.

She knew next to nothing about the man.

Granted, she knew a lot about his family—her brother had married Sophie Colton—but Cheyenne had no clue what kind of man Jackson was. And there she'd stood, making out with him in a parking lot for God and everyone to see!

Behind the dark lenses of her glasses, Cheyenne narrowed her eyes. Sophie had once mentioned that Jackson had broken an ample number of hearts after he'd graduated from law school and moved to San Diego to work in the law offices of Colton Enterprises. Cheyenne didn't doubt it. With his arresting good looks and charmer's grin—and the talent to kiss a woman until her bones melted—Jackson was a man countless women would be drawn to.

Just because she was drawn to him didn't mean she had to act on that attraction. She had no intention of winding up on the list of another man's spoils.

If it had been anything other than fate that had brought them together, she would have phoned Jackson and canceled this morning's breakfast plans. Only her deep understanding of the responsibilities that went hand in hand
with her gift had prevented her from making the call. The vision that had slid inside her head and sent her to the Cinema Prosperino had told her the man she would meet there was in trouble. That he needed her help. She could not turn her back on Jackson any more than she could reject her gift.

So, she would deal with her responsibilities. This morning she and Jackson would share a civilized meal. Eventually she would know why the vision had sent her to him. She could then act accordingly, do what was in her power to help him.

After that, she would settle back into her calm world with her secrets safe and her heart intact.

“How's that?” Johnny asked.

Feeling a tug of guilt, Cheyenne forced her thoughts back to her pupil. Taking a step forward, she focused her gaze on one of the straw-filled targets positioned on an easel in the distance.

“I'd say three arrows a quarter inch from a target's bull's-eye is a great way to end today's session,” she said, her mouth curving. “I'd like you to compete on my team at the Memorial Day competitions,” she said, referring to the county-wide event Hopechest Ranch sponsored each year. “If that's what you'd like to do.”

Wariness slid into Johnny's eyes as he laid the bow on the stone table beside her. Even now he didn't quite believe in his ability.

“Maybe I could do that. No big deal.” Lowering his gaze, he began unhooking the elastic straps of the leather guard that covered the inside of his right arm.

“It is a big deal, Johnny.” While she spoke, Cheyenne pointed a finger toward the target. “See those three arrows a hair away from the bull's-eye?”

After a moment, the teenager's gaze followed hers. “What about 'em?”

“
You
put them there. And if you think I ask all my students to be on my team, think again. You've got a real talent for this sport. You can be as good an archer as you make up your mind to be.”

“The audience thinks that, too.”

At the sound of Jackson's voice so close behind her, Cheyenne nearly gasped. The rush of the nearby stream had prevented her from hearing his approach. Taking a deep breath that did nothing to settle her pulse, she turned to face him.

One glimpse of the grin on his tanned, rugged face—and those incredible gray eyes—made her knees weak.

“I…didn't know you were here.” He wore crisply starched jeans and a blue polo shirt opened at the neck to expose dark curling hair. The thought of swirling a fingertip through that hair had her shoving her sunglasses higher up the bridge of her nose. “You didn't need to come all the way out here to find me. I'd have met you at the dining hall.”

“I ran into Blake Fallon out repairing fence. He told me I could find you here.”

“The boss is working on the fence line?” she asked.

“Not just the fence. One of the regular ranch hands is down with a stomach virus, another has a broken arm. With Memorial Day less than a week away, repairs can't wait.” Jackson angled his chin while his gaze did a slow slide down her body. “I let Blake coerce me into helping him and his dad repair hail damage to the horse barn's roof after you and I finish breakfast. You look great,” he added quietly.

She felt her flesh heat beneath her khaki shorts and
red T-shirt monogrammed with the Hopechest Ranch brand.

Clearing her throat, she nodded toward her student. “Jackson Colton, this is Johnny Collins.”

“Great shooting,” Jackson said, extending his hand.

“Thanks,” the teenager muttered, returning the handshake.

Cheyenne looked back at Jackson. “While your cousin, Drake, was home on leave, he taught Johnny to ride.”

“Is that so?” Jackson asked. “Can the tough Navy SEAL ride a horse these days without getting tossed off onto his butt?”

“Yeah. He gave me some good tips.”

Nodding, Jackson narrowed his eyes. “Are you the Johnny who Teddy and Joe, Jr. keep harping about? The one they say can rope almost anything?”

Johnny raised a shoulder. “Drake gave the three of us some lessons. I can sometimes get a rope around stuff.”

“Like you can sometimes put an arrow into the center of a target,” Cheyenne commented, then glanced at her watch. She knew Johnny had a reading lesson in less than an hour. “Go ahead and head for breakfast. I'll take care of stowing the equipment.”

“Okay.” Sticking his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans, the teenager turned and headed up the dirt trail that led to the dorms and dining hall.

“Seems like a nice kid,” Jackson commented.

“He is.” Cheyenne watched until Johnny's gangly, stoop-shouldered form disappeared from sight. “No one ever believed in him, so it's no surprise he has a hard time believing in himself. He still has trouble accepting the fact he can accomplish something worthwhile.”

Jackson cocked his head. “Was what I just witnessed an archery lesson or a counseling session?”

“A little of both. With kids, you can only sit so long in an office and talk. You have to
do
something. Show them there's a way to deal with their problems, even sometimes solve them.”

“So, you use archery to build Johnny's self-esteem.”

“Archery, riding and roping lessons and other skills along those lines. Like all the kids at Hopechest, he has daily chores to do, too. Everything is geared to teach them a sense of responsibility, accomplishment and self-worth.”

“From what I saw this morning, things appear to be working for Johnny.”

“I hope so. I hate to think about what might have happened to him if a social worker hadn't referred him to Hopechest.”

Jackson's gray eyes measured her for a silent moment. “Your job makes a difference. That must be a nice feeling.”

“It is.” She thought of how his father had groomed him to be an attorney, that one of the reasons he was staying in Prosperino was to decide if he wanted to continue his work as a lawyer. Her brow furrowed. Did the aura of trouble she had sensed so strongly in her vision stem from his uncertainty over his career? Or was it something unconnected?

The thought had her angling her head. “How was your trip yesterday to L.A.?”

“A waste of time.” His eyes narrowed as he shifted his gaze to the table. “So, these are the tools of an archer's trade.”

His change of subject had her hesitating. Clearly, he didn't want to discuss his trip. “Some of them,” she
said after a moment. “I use other types of bows, depending on a student's progress and strength.”

When he slicked a fingertip along the curve of the bow Johnny had used, Cheyenne felt her stomach turn over. Two nights ago, Jackson had brushed that exact fingertip down the length of her cheek just moments before he'd kissed her.

“What type is this?”

She blinked against the memory. “What?”

“The bow. What type is it?” The slow smile he gave her just about stopped her breath. “Since there's an expert handy, I might as well learn something about archery.”

“Sure.” Struggling to pick up the thread of the conversation, she lifted the bow off the table. “This is called a recurve.”

Jackson regarded the bow's curved ends. “Looks like Cupid's weapon of choice.”

“Exactly. Have you ever used a bow and arrow?”

“Sure, when I was a kid, playing cowboys and Indians with my cousins, Rand and Drake. Even your boss sometimes joined us. Our arrows had rubber suction cups on the ends, which was a good thing since Drake's aim was deadly.”

Cheyenne smiled at the image. “Real archery is a little different.”

“It appears so.” Pursing his lips, Jackson slid one of the arrows from the quiver then tested its sharp metal point with a fingertip. His gaze slowly raised to meet hers. “You any good, teach?”

She lifted her brow. “Extremely.”

Taking a step toward her, he offered the arrow. “How about giving me my first archery lesson?”

“My pleasure.” As she accepted the arrow, the warm
breeze stirred, bringing his remembered subtle scent into her lungs. She took a deep breath to calm her jittery nerves, stepped away then turned toward the row of distant targets.