Page 15

“I think you’re making a big mistake.” Rachelle eyed her sister in the mirror of her bedroom, grimaced, then adjusted one of the shoulder pads in Heather’s gown. Layers of raspberry-colored chiffon and silk, the dress was to be worn at Rachelle’s wedding. “You can’t let him have the upper hand.”

“What choice do I have?” Heather asked, holding her hair up and frowning at the sight she made. Modeling the elegant dress only reminded her of weddings and just how far apart she and Turner had grown. The city girl and the cowboy. An unlikely combination. An unlikely explosive combination. “He’s holding all the cards.”

Rachelle shook her head furiously. “I saw him with Adam. He wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his son’s well-being. Hold still, will you? I think this should be taken in a little in the waist…what do you think?”

“That you’re being overly concerned. You’re the bride. No one will be looking at me.”

Rachelle’s brow puckered as she slid the zipper down her sister’s back. “If it were up to me, Jackson and I would’ve taken off on his Harley, driven straight to Lake Tahoe and gotten married without all this fuss.”

“So why didn’t you?” Heather asked, stepping out of the dress.

“Because His Majesty wants to make a statement.”

“I heard that,” Jackson called from the living room of Rachelle’s tiny apartment.

“Well, it’s true.” Rachelle’s eyes lighted as she zipped a plastic cover over the gown. “You’re tarnishing your rebel image, you know, by doing the traditional wedding and all.”

“Good! Keeps the people in Gold Creek on their toes.”

As Rachelle hung up the dress, Heather slipped on her jeans and cotton blouse, then slid her arms through a suede vest.

Rachelle arched an eyebrow at Heather’s getup. “Well, aren’t you the little cowgirl?”

“I figured I better look the part.” Together they edged along the hall, past the stacked boxes and packing crates. Jackson was on the floor near the bay window, black hair tumbling over his forehead, his sleeves rolled up as he wrestled with a red-faced Adam.

“I got you, I got you!” Adam chortled triumphantly as he straddled Jackson’s broad chest. “One, two, three, you lose!”

“You’re just too tough for me,” Jackson said with a laugh. His dark eyes gleamed as Rachelle approached. “I think we should have a dozen of these.”

“A dozen?” she said, grinning. “I don’t know. Sounds like a lot.”

“Well, maybe just a half dozen. When do we start?”

“When I’ve got a legal contract, Counselor. One that spells out how many times you change the diapers and get up in the middle of the night and—”

“Okay, okay, I’ve heard this all before.” With a quick movement, he lifted Adam off his chest and rolled quickly to his feet. Adam squealed with delight as he was tossed into the air and caught in Jackson’s strong arms.

“Legally binding, mind you,” Rachelle said. “And I plan to have a real attorney check all the fine print.”

A devilish grin slid across Jackson’s jaw and he motioned to his fiancée as he stage-whispered to Heather, “She just doesn’t trust me. That’s the reporter in her.”

“Give it up, Counselor,” she said, but he grabbed her, twirled her off her feet and left her suddenly breathless when she finally touched down again.

“Never,” he mouthed, his lips only inches from hers.

Heather felt her heart twist when she saw them exchange a sensual glance, the same kind of glance she shared with Turner. Yet, while Rachelle and Jackson were head over heels in love, she and Turner were worlds apart and had no chance of planning a future together. He’d never once said he loved her, and as far as she knew, he still didn’t believe that particular emotion existed. He’d told her as much six years before and Heather doubted he’d changed his mind. She cleared her throat, and the two lovers finally remembered there was someone else in the room. “Well, I guess we’d better get going. Adam can’t wait to see Turner’s ranch, can you?”

Adam let out a whoop. “I’m gonna learn how to break a…” He glanced to Heather for help.

“Break a bronco,” she replied. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

Adam’s eyes were shining. “You can come visit,” he told his aunt. “Turner will probably let you break one, too.”

“I’ll remember that,” Rachelle said with a chuckle. “And while I’m at it, I’ll rope me a steer, brand half a dozen calves and spit tobacco juice!”

“You’re lyin’!” Adam accused, but curious doubts crowded his eyes, and Heather imagined he was trying to picture his trim aunt wrestling with livestock and shooting a stream of brown juice from the corner of her mouth.

“You might be surprised, sport,” Rachelle teased, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Oh, Heather, would you mind dropping these in the mailbox?” She rifled through the papers on the desk and came up with a stack of wedding invitations, already addressed and stamped.

“No problem.” Heather took the stack of cream-colored envelopes and headed down the stairs. A post office was on her way out of town and she was glad to do a favor for her sister. Rachelle and she had always been close, though Heather had kept more than her share of secrets from her sister. Not only had she hidden the fact that Turner was Adam’s father, but she’d also kept quiet about Adam’s illness for a long time, until the doctors had started talking about bone-marrow transplants.

Though Rachelle had known that Adam wasn’t well, Heather had kept the extent of the illness to herself, always telling herself that she couldn’t burden her sister or mother with her problems. They had both experienced enough of their own. Rachelle had been horrified, when six weeks ago Heather had told her the truth.

After strapping Adam into the passenger seat, she wove the Mercedes through the traffic until she reached the nearest post office and pulled into the lane near a series of mailboxes. As she stuffed the thick envelopes through the slot, she saw the names of people she’d known all her life, people who had lived in Gold Creek. Monroe and McDonald, Surrett, Nelson, Patton and…the last envelope surprised her. Addressed in Rachelle’s bold hand, the invitation was addressed to Thomas Fitzpatrick, Jackson’s father. The man who had never claimed him. The man who had almost let Jackson twist in the wind for the murder of his legitimate son, the man who all too late tried to make amends, the man Jackson still professed to despise.

Had he changed his mind? Heather doubted it. No, this had all the earmarks of Rachelle deciding it was time her husband-to-be put old skeletons to rest. And it spelled fireworks for the wedding.

“Oh, God, Rachelle, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Heather turned the invitation over in her hand and a sharp beep from the car in line behind her startled her. This wasn’t any of her business. Heather jammed the envelope into the slot and edged the car back into the flow of traffic. Certainly Rachelle wouldn’t have been so silly as to send the invitation behind Jackson’s back. Or would she?

Rachelle had a reputation for being stubborn and bull-headed. She’d stood on principle once before—for Jackson—and it had cost her the respect of her friends and family and soiled her reputation. But surely she’d learned her lesson….

This was Rachelle’s wedding—if she wanted to make it her funeral, as well, it was her choice. Besides—Heather stole a glance at her son, his face eager, a small toy car clutched in his fingers—she had her own share of concerns.

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