Wed To The Witness. Margaret Price
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“I don’t blame him.”
Jackson caught the whiff of Cheyenne’s warm scent and thought of the tea roses that bloomed in his aunt’s garden. His gaze dropped to the hand Cheyenne rested on the table beside her cup. Her fingers were long and as wand-thin as the rest of her. Her nails were oval and perfect, with the gleam of clear polish. She had hands made for rings, he thought, but wore none.
“It’s a shame you and I didn’t meet until my Uncle’s party. And that I was out of the country on business when River and Sophie got married. I would have liked to have seen you again.”
Cheyenne arched a brow. “Actually, you and I met years ago, Jackson.”
“We did?”
“Yes. River and I grew up apart. He was nearly sixteen when he came to live on your family’s ranch. That was the same year he and I reunited. Your uncle used to pick me up from the reservation on the weekends and bring me to Hacienda de Alegria so I could spend time with River. You and your sister stayed at the ranch on some of those same weekends.”
Jackson narrowed his eyes. “I have the image of a skinny girl with long legs and a dark ponytail trailing around the stables on River’s heels. That was you?”
“Yes.” Cheyenne tilted her head. “I was about eleven years old when you and I first met. You were in high school. Some of your friends used to come to the ranch to ride horses when you were there. Your taste seemed to run to voluptuous blond cheerleaders.”
Chuckling, Jackson leaned his forearms on the table. After the hours he’d spent in Detective Law’s presence, it was hard to believe someone could make him laugh. “Miss James, are you implying I have a reputation to live down?”
“It depends on if what I heard about you when I got to high school is to be believed.”
“What did you hear?”
“Among other things, that you always dated a handful of girls at the same time. You had a Monday night girl, a Tuesday night girl and so on. One time you got your days confused and showed up at your Tuesday girl’s house on the Wednesday girl’s night.”
“Although I’ll point out all that is hearsay, I’d better plead the fifth,” Jackson countered, resting one of his hands near hers. “With the stipulation that things get blown out of proportion over time.”
But not too much out of proportion, he thought wryly. He’d learned early not to take relationships seriously. After experiencing firsthand his parents’ farce of a marriage, then watching his aunt and uncle’s relationship slowly disintegrate, he’d resolved to never bring that kind of misery down on his own head. Even in high school he’d made a point to get involved only with females who knew how to laugh and to love without undercurrents. Whatever emotions came into play in those associations only skimmed the surface. That was the way he’d always wanted things. Nothing had happened over the years to change his thinking.
Until now. Now, he found himself incomprehensibly drawn to a woman who seemed to hold some underlying mystique for him.
Although that knowledge sent a stab of unease through him, Jackson pushed it back. Those moments he’d spent with Cheyenne at his uncle’s party had played in his mind too often for him to shrug off her having walked back into his life.
“I’m remembering something else about that skinny little girl who followed her brother around like a shadow.”
“That she was desperately shy?”
“That, and she read palms.” He creased his brow in thought, trying to bring back the long-ago memory. “Or maybe it was minds?”
The words were barely out of his mouth when her eyes went cool and remote. Her chin angled like a sword. “I don’t do either.”
“My mistake.” He’d hit a nerve. Which nerve, Jackson had no idea. All he knew was that it was a sensitive one. Judging from the absolute stillness about her, he knew it would be wise to change the subject.
“You said my Uncle Joe used to pick you up at the reservation. Do you still live there?”
“No.” She looked away, her gaze settling on a glass display case that bulged with cakes and cookies. Beside the case, a waiter worked a hissing espresso machine while steam rose from the metal pitcher he held.
Jackson laid his hand on hers. “Cheyenne,” he said quietly, and waited until her gaze re-met his. “I apologize if I offended you.”
“You didn’t. You reminded me of something important. To answer your question about where I live, I’m a counselor at Hopechest Ranch. I live in one of the small staff houses there.”
“Hopechest.” His thumb moved lightly up and down the length of her finger. “My aunt and uncle used to be involved with the kids there. They’ve probably lost count of how many kids from Hopechest Ranch they’ve been foster parents for over the years.”
“One of those kids being my boss, Blake Fallon. He thinks a lot of your Uncle Joe. The exact term he uses is ‘walks on water.’”
“I agree with Blake.” Jackson paused. At one time, most people had also held his Aunt Meredith in equal esteem. That was years ago before she’d undergone a personality change that had the whole family wondering what had happened to transform the once sweet, sensitive wife and mother into a woman whose severe mood swings could on occasion rock the entire household.
For Jackson, living half the state away in San Diego had insulated him from the majority of the family tremors caused by his aunt. That is, until his recent discovery that Meredith had blackmailed his father into paying her two million dollars to keep secret the fact he’d fathered her son, Teddy. The revelation had been even more bitter for Jackson because he remembered the caring, generous Meredith who had lavished love and attention on himself and his sister when their own parents left their upbringing in the hands of nannies and housekeepers.
That he remembered—and mourned—the woman he’d once adored was the thing that had prompted him to confront his aunt weeks ago about the blackmail. Maybe he’d hoped to see some regret in the dark eyes that had once sparked with love. Perhaps a softening in the brittle shell she’d built around herself. All sentimental feelings he’d harbored for his aunt had died when she’d displayed even less remorse than his father had over their affair. Faced with her cold aloofness, Jackson had warned her he would report her extortion to the police if she didn’t end it.
And now, he thought, he had his own problems with the police. Serious problems.
“Is something wrong?” Cheyenne’s quiet question told him his face mirrored his grim thoughts.
“Just some things I need to work out.” He massaged his fingers across her knuckles. “Tell me about Cheyenne James. Why did she wind up counseling kids from troubled homes?”
“My reasons have a lot to do with River. Our mother was full blood Mokee-kittuun, our father white. When she died giving birth to me, my father let my aunts raise me on the rez as long as they sent me to Anglo schools. He took River to live with him on his ranch. I lost contact with my brother after that,” she said with an edge of regret. “Before either River or I were born, our mother had another son, Rafe. My father adopted him, but because Rafe is full-blood Indian, my father shunned him when our mother died. From the stories Rafe tells me, our father was an alcoholic. A mean drunk. For years Rafe took the brunt of his anger to save River. That changed after I was born and our father left Rafe and me on the rez and took River away.”
Jackson shook his head. “Rough life for a kid.”
“Yes. One day, River showed up at school covered with bruises. A social worker took him to live at Hopechest. Your aunt and uncle later became his foster parents and River moved to their ranch.”
“So, was it a happy coincidence that you and River found each other again?”
Cheyenne matched his gaze. “Some people have called it that.”