Читать книгу Secrets and Lies: He's A Bad Boy / He's Just A Cowboy - Lisa Jackson - Страница 10

CHAPTER ONE

THE NIGHT WAS WARM, a harvest moon glowed behind a thickening layer of clouds and there was excitement in the air—a sense of adventure that caused Rachelle’s seventeen-year-old heart to race. The football field shimmered green under the lights, the crowd loud and anxious and yet there was more: an undercurrent of electricity that seemed to charge the atmosphere.

Maybe it was because tonight was homecoming and the parade of students had serpentined through town. Maybe it was because the Tyler High Hawks were taking on the rivals from Coleville. Or maybe it was because Rachelle, after spending her life doing exactly what was expected of her, was about to step out of her quiet, studious, “good-girl” image. She’d already unwittingly lied to her mother and felt more than a tiny twinge of regret.

But she wasn’t turning back. It was time to experience life a little, walk on the wild side—well, at least touch a toe on the wild side; she wasn’t ready for out-and-out rebellion yet.

With an earsplitting shriek, feedback whined from the speakers.

Rachelle winced, but aimed her camera at the plywood platform that had been set up for the pregame ceremony. As a reporter for the school paper, she sometimes took pictures and tonight, because Carlie, the staff photographer, was scouting out drinks at the refreshment stand, Rachelle was stuck with the camera. She didn’t mind. Looking through the lens sometimes gave her a clearer view of the person she was interviewing and actually helped her write her article.

She zeroed in on Principal Leonard, who, with a big show to the packed stands, turned to one of the students operating the public-address system.

“…And I want it on now! Oh. Testing, testing. Uh-oh, there we go.” He managed a foolish-looking grin as he tapped the microphone loudly and his voice boomed into the stadium. “Well, now that we worked out all the bugs in the PA system, let’s get on with the festivities.” He droned on about Tyler High for a minute, then added, “I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Thomas Fitzpatrick for his generous donation to the school.”

Across from the stands on the far side of the field the new electronic scoreboard flashed with a thousand lights. Fitzpatrick Logging was scripted across the top of the scoreboard and the company insignia was stamped boldly across the bottom. No one who ever witnessed a football game at Tyler Stadium would forget the Fitzpatrick name. Not that anyone in Gold Creek could, Rachelle thought with a wry smile.

Click. Click. Click. She snapped off several shots of the new lighted display and a few more of the small crowd in the middle of the field. Short and round, Principal Leonard was going on and on about the generosity of the Fitzpatrick family. Rachelle grimaced. The Fitzpatricks were one of the wealthiest families in Gold Creek, and Thomas Fitzpatrick never passed up an opportunity to show off his philanthropy.

The two men shook hands. Fitzpatrick was tall and handsome. With broad shoulders and black hair shot with silver, he looked like a politician running for office. It was speculated widely that with all his money, he would someday enter state politics—all the better for Fitzpatrick Logging, the primary employer for the town. And therefore, all the better for Gold Creek, California.

A roar of applause rippled through the stadium as Fitzpatrick flashed his often-photographed grin and hugged his wife, June, who stood, along with her three children, next to her husband.

Yep, Rachelle thought, rewinding the film, the Fitzpatricks looked exactly like what they were—the royal family of this California timber town. June was a tall, blond woman with delicate features, haughty brows and sculpted cheekbones. Her firstborn, Roy, was blond, as well, but solidly built, like his father. Just the year before, Roy had been the star quarterback for the Tyler High Hawks. Now his younger brother, Brian, was leading the team. Brian stood with the family. He dwarfed Roy because of the thick padding beneath his uniform and he carried his helmet under one hand. The youngest Fitzpatrick, a girl named Toni, stood a little apart from the family. She was only fourteen, but already promised beauty, and was rumored to be more trouble than both the boys put together.

“Rachelle. Hey, get a load of this!” Carlie sang out as she balanced two soft drinks and wended her way through the ever-thickening throng of people standing on the sidelines. Some of the soda had sloshed over the rim and she was licking her fingers. “Here’s your Coke.”

“About time you showed up,” Rachelle teased. “You’re supposed to be responsible for the pictures—”

“I know, I know,” Carlie replied, her blue-green eyes dancing merrily. “Now, come on, there’s something you’ve got to see.”

“Just a minute.” Rachelle finished taking her shot, then traded her camera for the cup. The Coke was cold and slid easily down her throat.

“Look to the north of the field. Here, use these.” Carlie stuffed her camera into her oversized bag and withdrew a small pair of binoculars. “No, no, not there. North! Now, see over there?” She pointed toward the far side of the stands.

Rachelle peered through the glasses. She swung her gaze past the green turf shimmering beneath the floodlights and the track surrounding the playing field. Beyond the track was a chain-link fence separating the athletic facility from the parking lot.

“You see him?”

“Who?”

Exasperated, Carlie gently grabbed Rachelle’s chin and swiveled her head slightly. Rachelle’s gaze landed on a motorcyclist straddling a huge black bike.

“Oh,” she said, her throat suddenly dry.

“‘Oh’ doesn’t do him justice.”

Carlie was right. The boy—well, nearly a man—on the bike was tall, maybe six feet, with hair as black as midnight and harsh features that were drawn into an angry scowl of determination. His skin was tanned, but not dark enough to hide the cut beneath his eye or the bruise on his cheek. Backdropped by the lights of a strip mall, and set apart from the festivities by the fence, he seemed sinister somehow, as if his being ostracized were as much his idea as the rest of the crowd’s. He stared through the mesh of the security fence, to the center of the field where the Fitzpatricks were posed like the quintessential family unit. The biker looked as if he’d like to personally tear into the whole lot of them.

Rachelle’s heart drummed a little faster.

“It’s Jackson Moore,” Carlie told her, as if Rachelle didn’t know the name of Gold Creek’s most notorious hellion.

“What’s he doing here? I thought he left town.” Rachelle focused the binoculars again, until Jackson’s rough features were centered in stark relief. For a second she thought he was handsome with his knife-sharp features and thin lips, but it wasn’t so much his looks as his attitude that made him seem mysterious—even sexy. Wondering if she were out of her mind, she let the binoculars swing from her neck, grabbed the camera and snapped in the zoom lens before clicking off several shots of the bad boy of Gold Creek.

“Print one for me,” Carlie said as she lifted the binoculars to her own eyes.

Rachelle ignored her. “So you don’t know why he’s back?”

“Haven’t you heard? He’s in trouble big-time with the Fitzpatricks,” Carlie said. “That’s why he’s giving them all the evil eye. My dad’s a foreman for the logging company and he’s usually up in the woods, but he had to come into the office for something—to fill out forms for an accident that happened the other day.

“Anyway, it was kinda late and Jackson was there, raising some sort of stink about his mom working for ‘dirty Fitzpatrick money’ I think was the quote. It’s not like she’s there all the time. She just puts in a few hours a week doing filing or something. Everybody thinks the old man hired her out of pity—they went to school together, I guess, and he’s into causes, you know. Part of his political thing. Anyway, supposedly Jackson objected to his mother being another one of Fitzpatrick’s charities.”

Rachelle took another swallow of Coke, her throat parched from staring at Jackson.

Carlie rattled on. “It probably has something to do with the fact that Thomas Fitzpatrick gave Jackson a job a couple of years ago, then fired him. No one, not even my dad, knew why, but my dad figures Jackson was stealing tools or something and that Fitzpatrick didn’t want to press charges.” From the corner of her eye, Rachelle noticed the guilty look that passed over Carlie’s face. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything—”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Rachelle replied, but wondered how many other people Carlie had told. Carlie loved gossip, and short of wiring her mouth shut, there was no way to keep her from spreading rumors. The news of Jackson Moore’s confrontation about his mother was probably all over school.

Rachelle bit her lower lip and stared openly across the field to the spot where Jackson, balanced on the idling motorcycle, still stood. Suddenly his head swung toward her, his eyes searching the crowd. His gaze landed on her with a force that sent a jolt of electricity through her. Her throat tightened and her hands were clammy. She looked quickly away, then finished her Coke in one swallow.

It was stupid, of course. He couldn’t pick her out of a throng; he had no idea that she was thinking about him or had even glanced his way, but when she slid another glance toward the fence, he was still staring at her and her blood seemed to pound at her temples.

Touching her throat with her fingertips, she felt tiny drops of perspiration collecting against her skin. She couldn’t help a little feeling of fascination for the boy with the blackest reputation in Gold Creek. He was almost twenty-two, and though he was rumored to have straightened out some of his lawless traits, there had been a time when he’d raised nothing but hell. He lived with his mother on the outskirts of Gold Creek in a rusting single-wide mobile home. He didn’t have a father—well, none that anyone in town could actually name—and he’d been in trouble with the law for as long as Rachelle could remember. As a minor, he’d stolen gas and hubcaps and shot mailboxes and had been kicked out of Tyler High for fighting on the school grounds. Somehow he’d managed to scrape together enough credits to get his diploma, though no one in Gold Creek thought he’d amount to anything.

He’d joined the navy for a hitch and had disappeared from town for a while. But now he was back—dressed in black leather and riding a thrumming Harley-Davidson, his tattered image of the troubled kid from the bad part of town still very much intact.

“Oh, Lord, he’s looking right at you!” Carlie whispered loudly. “You know, he’s got a face to die for.”

“He’s dangerous,” Rachelle replied, crushing her cup.

Carlie’s eyes widened and her blue-green eyes glinted impishly. On a sigh she said, “Of course he is. That’s what makes him so attractive.”

* * *

“LAURA SAID SHE’D MEETus in the parking lot—after she changed out of her cheerleading uniform,” Carlie told Rachelle as they climbed out of the emptying bleachers an hour later. They’d stayed at the stadium to take some postgame pictures of the star players and get some quotes for the next week’s edition of the school paper. Carlie had snapped a couple of pictures of Brian Fitzpatrick and Joe Knapp, the team’s all-league wide receiver, who, after catching a wobbly pass from Fitzpatrick, had run fifty-three yards to make the winning touchdown. Carlie had taken the boys’ pictures while Rachelle had gotten a few quotes from Coach Foster. Now they were to meet Laura, Carlie’s friend and one of the most popular girls in school.

“There’s her car!” Carlie said, pointing to a yellow Toyota. “She must be around here somewhere—oh, look, over there—”

Rachelle searched the lot and saw Laura standing next to a shiny red Corvette. Two boys were seated in the car, and another was leaning against the fender of a pickup parked next to the sports car.

“Oh my God, that’s Roy Fitzpatrick!” Carlie whispered. “Do you think he’s the new boyfriend she’s been hinting about?” Before Rachelle could answer, Carlie was dashing through the few vehicles left in the parking lot and Rachelle was beginning to think that her new rebellious streak wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Roy Fitzpatrick? He’d earned a reputation for smooth words, quick hands and fast goodbyes. Rumors of his sexual appetite had filtered through the hallways of Tyler High and there had been gossip of a pregnant girlfriend in Coleville. Lately he’d been dating Melanie Patton, his best friend’s sister.

Rachelle had met Roy only a couple of times—when she’d had to interview him for the school paper. She was probably the only girl in the entire school who didn’t have a crush on him.

Ignoring the apprehension that followed her like a cloud, she wended her way through the parked cars, careful of the vehicles backing up and trying to find a way out of the crowded lot.

The night was muggy, the clouds overhead dark and threatening rain. Over the odors of exhaust and hot engines, a thinner smell, of stale beer and cigarettes, wafted on the breeze that rustled the dry leaves dancing across the asphalt.

The Corvette’s glossy red finish shone under the glow of the security lights. Roy, the crown prince of Fitzpatrick Logging, was seated behind the wheel, his toe tapping restlessly on the throttle, the powerful car’s engine thrumming anxiously.

Scott McDonald, one of his friends, sat in the passenger seat and Erik Patton leaned against the fender of his metallic blue pickup.

“Roy wants to take us for a ride,” Laura said as Rachelle approached. She tossed her a triumphant glance, as if she’d caught a prize all the girls in town were wanting.

“Where?” Rachelle asked, feeling suddenly awkward. Though Roy and his friends were only two years older than she, they seemed so much more mature.

“Remember I told you I knew someone with a cabin on the lake?” Laura reminded her.

The Fitzpatricks did have a home at Whitefire Lake, but, in Rachelle’s estimation, it was hardly a cabin. The house had to be four or five times the size of the small cottage in which she’d grown up. But then Laura had grown up with higher standards. Both her parents worked and she’d never had to go without anything she really wanted.

And now, from the looks of things, Laura wanted Roy Fitzpatrick. As if reading Rachelle’s hesitation, she said, “Come on, Rachelle, why not?” Her eyes were bright and eager as she sneaked a peek at Roy.

Roy tossed them all—Rachelle, Laura and Carlie—his well-practiced all-American smile. His wheat-blond hair was clipped short, his athletic physique visible beneath the thin layer of yellow cotton in his polo shirt. “Yeah, why not, Rachelle?” Roy said, his gaze moving slowly up Rachelle’s body with a bold familiarity that caused her stomach to turn over.

She swallowed hard. Until the past couple of weeks since she’d begun hanging out with Laura, not many boys had noticed her, and certainly not older college boys who practically owned the whole town.

“Yeah, why not?” Carlie chimed in. “We already planned to ditch the dance.”

Laura had told Rachelle that if the dance was boring they’d go out cruising around town, maybe drive over to Coleville as none of the girls were dating anyone special from Gold Creek, then return to her house for a sleepover. But she’d never once mentioned going to the lake with Roy and his friends.

Rachelle hesitated. Everyone was staring at her. “Still the prude?” Roy taunted, and Rachelle’s cheeks flamed. How would Roy know anything about her?

“I told my mom we’d be at the dance—”

“So?” Roy cut in a little irritably. “What your mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Laura shot her a scathing glance. “We already worked out our story, Rachelle.”

Rachelle bit her lip. This was her chance. She’d always been considered a “brain,” a girl who’d rather study or work on the school paper or paint scenery for the drama club than show any interest in boys. But lately, with Laura’s help in the makeup and hair department, boys had been calling and asking her out. She liked the feeling. But she didn’t trust Roy.

“Well, what’s it gonna be?” Roy asked, his smoldering blue eyes touching hers. “A mama’s girl—or ya gonna have some fun? We can’t wait around here all night.”

“That’s right,” Erik agreed, glancing over his shoulder. His vintage truck didn’t compare to Roy’s sleek machine, but the Pattons didn’t have the kind of money that had been passed down from one generation of Fitzpatricks to the next. As long as there had been people in Gold Creek, there had been money in Fitzpatrick hands.

“Come on,” Carlie urged.

“Yeah, let’s go with the guys,” Laura agreed, smiling at the three college boys. She fanned herself with her fingers. “It’s so hot tonight. The lake would be great.”

Roy flashed his rich-boy grin—a slow-spreading smile that had been known to melt the most formidable ice maiden’s resistance.

Laura leaned against the fender of the Corvette, her hands braced against the gleaming hood of the car, her heavy breasts outlined against her sweater. “I know I would love a ride.”

“That’s more like it. I was beginnin’ to think that you girls were afraid,” Roy drawled, his blue eyes flickering devilment at Rachelle. He pushed the throttle with his toe and the Corvette’s engine rumbled eagerly.

“Yeah, come on, we’ll show you a good time,” Scott agreed. Whereas Roy was blond and blue-eyed, the all-American boy, Scott was shorter, more muscular and had thick brown hair and freckles.

Erik, unlike Scott and Roy, didn’t seem as interested in Laura or her friends. “Let’s get outta here,” he grumbled. “There’s no action. Everybody’s takin’ off.”

He was right. The line of cars that had been streaming from the stadium lot had dwindled to a trickle. Even some of the boys from the team, freshly showered, were climbing into vehicles and heading back to the school for the postgame dance, the dance Rachelle had promised her mother she’d attend before spending the night with Laura. But Laura, it seemed, was only interested in Roy Fitzpatrick.

“There’s action here,” Roy replied, sliding a cocksure glance Rachelle’s way. “All the little ladies have to do is say ‘yes.’ We’ll guarantee them the ride of their lives.”

“Now what kind of ride are you talking about?” Laura asked in a sexy voice, and Rachelle nearly choked.

Scott chuckled deep in his throat, and Erik looked embarrassed.

Rachelle was flabbergasted by Laura’s behavior. The girl was asking for trouble, more trouble than Rachelle thought she could handle.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Rachelle said, feeling Roy’s hot gaze on her. She didn’t want to be a wet blanket, but she could smell trouble. A walk on the wild side.

“Loosen up,” Carlie said in a soft whisper. “When do you ever get a chance to go joyriding with Roy Fitzpatrick?”

“Three of us, three of you—we could have a party,” Roy said.

“A private party?” Laura replied, flirting outrageously. Rachelle wanted to drop through the pavement, but she didn’t move. There was no place to go. By now the parking lot was nearly empty. Except for a lone motorcycle rider astride his thrumming machine.

Rachelle’s heart nearly stopped as she recognized Jackson Moore. He parked his bike about twenty yards away and didn’t move. Just sat there…waiting, the Harley’s engine idling loudly, the growl of a metallic beast.

Roy blanched at the sight of him. “Get lost, Moore,” he yelled, but Jackson didn’t flinch.

Rachelle couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“We didn’t finish our discussion the other day,” Jackson said, and his lips curled into a sardonic smile as he rubbed the bruise beneath his eye.

“We’ve got nothing to talk about,” Roy replied testily. “Get out,” he muttered to Scott McDonald, reaching over his friend and flinging the passenger door open. An old Doors song blared into the night.

Jackson didn’t let up. Over the rumble of engines and Jim Morrison’s deep-throated lyrics he yelled, “You and that old man of yours keep insulting my family.”

Roy pretended not to hear. As Scott climbed out of his car, Roy crooked a long finger at Laura. “Let’s go,” he said. He took up the conversation where it had been dropped. “You said you’re lookin’ for a private party, well you found one. Hop in.” His gaze moved quickly up and down Laura’s curves as she climbed into the convertible. Roy’s mouth twitched. “Now that’s what I like—a girl who knows her own mind.”

“We’re not through, Fitzpatrick,” Jackson reminded him.

“That does it. I’m sick of you, Moore. Just butt the hell out of my life!”

“As soon as you stay away from my family.”

“Your family? God, that’s rich. You’re a stinkin’ bastard, Moore. Or didn’t you know? Everyone in Gold Creek but you knows that your mother’s the town slut and that she probably can’t even name the man who’s supposed to be your father!”

Jackson’s expression turned to fury. “You lying—”

Roy tromped on the accelerator. The Corvette lurched forward with a spray of gravel. Tires squealed and Roy wrenched hard on the steering wheel, heading the car straight at Jackson and his bike.

Rachelle screamed.

Laura, in the seat beside Roy, turned to stone.

Jackson gunned the engine of his Harley, but not before the fender of the Corvette caught the back wheel of the bike. The motorcycle shimmied, tires sliding on the loose gravel. Jackson flew off. With a loud thud he landed on the ground and his bike skidded, riderless, across the lot.

Roy laughed, shifted into a higher gear and tore out of the lot. Rachelle started running to Jackson’s inert form. He can’t be hurt, he can’t be, she thought as panic gripped her heart. He lay flat and still on the gravel while the sound of a disappearing engine and the lyrics of “Light My Fire” faded on the wind.

Erik tried to grab her. “Leave him alone,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction and his face was sheet-white. “He’s okay. Only scared a little. That’s all.”

“I hope to God you’re right.” Heart in her throat, Rachelle jerked her arm away and ran to Jackson’s inert form.

With a groan, he rolled over. His jacket was ripped down one arm and his pants, too, were torn. “Bastard!” Jackson groaned. “Damn bloody bastard.” He slowly pulled himself to his feet and though he limped slightly, he headed straight for his bike.

Relief flooded through Rachelle’s veins and she managed a thin smile. “Then you’re okay?”

“Compared to what?” he muttered, righting his bike and frowning as he noticed broken spokes. Lips flattening angrily against his teeth, he winced painfully as he swung one leg over the motorcycle and switched on the ignition.

“But at least you’re all right,” Rachelle said, nearly sagging with relief.

“No thanks to your friend.”

“He’s not my—”

“Sure.” Jackson sucked in his breath, as if pain had drawn the air from his lungs, then shoved hard on the kick start with his boot heel. With a roar and a plume of blue exhaust, the Harley revved.

“You…you might want to see a doctor—”

“A doctor?” he mocked. “Yeah, sure. I’ll go check into Memorial. Have them patch me up.”

“It was only…a…suggestion.”

“Well, I don’t remember asking for your advice.”

Stung, she stepped back a pace. “I was just concerned,” Rachelle said lamely, flustered at his anger. “Look, I’m on your side.”

Dark, impenetrable eyes swung in her direction. His lips curled sardonically, as if he and she shared a private joke. “Let’s get something straight. No one in Gold Creek is on my side. And that includes you.”

“But—”

“You know Fitzpatrick, right?”

“Not really. He’s not my friend and—”

“In case I don’t catch up to him tonight, you can give him a message for me. Tell Roy-boy that if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll leave my family alone. And that goes for his old man. Tell the old coot to quit sniffin’ around Sandra Moore. Got it?”

“But I don’t know—”

“Just do it,” Jackson ordered, his square chin thrust in harsh rebellion as he flicked his wrist and took off in a spray of anger and gravel. She watched him streak out of the lot and onto the street and listened as the bike wound through several gears. Her heart was racing as fast as the motorcycle’s engine, but she attributed the acceleration to the near collision of sports car and cycle and the fact that she’d been talking to the bad boy of Gold Creek. His reputation was as black as the night and anyone in town would tell you that Sandra Moore’s son was just plain bad news.

“Rachelle, come on!” Carlie called. She seemed to have shaken off her own fears that Jackson was injured and was deep in conversation with Scott and Erik.

With realistic fatalism, Rachelle glanced around the deserted parking lot. Aside from Laura’s car, the acre of asphalt was empty. Rachelle sighed and shoved her hair out of her face. She knew she was stuck with Roy’s two best friends. Not a pleasant thought. The wild side suddenly seemed like something she should avoid—unless she was with Jackson. Oh, but that was crazy. Jackson was no better than Roy and he carried a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Whitney. Uncouth, rebellious and just plain nasty—that’s what he was.

Still, she listened to the sound of the cycle, the engine whining in the distance. There was something about that boy that was just plain fascinating. Probably because he was so bad.

Despite the mugginess of the night, she stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her jean jacket and retraced her steps.

“Was he okay?” Carlie asked, looking worriedly past Rachelle’s shoulder to the spot where Jackson had been thrown.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“He’ll get even with Roy somehow,” Erik predicted, and Rachelle thought about Jackson’s cryptic warning. Erik looked nervous. He searched his pockets for his keys.

“Let’s get out of here.” Scott was already opening the door of the pickup and glancing anxiously around the empty lot, as if he expected Jackson Moore to come back and wreak his vengeance on Roy’s friends. “We’d better find Roy.”

“Roy? You want to find Roy after what he did? He nearly killed Jackson! On purpose.” Rachelle wrapped her arms around her torso and felt herself shaking from the inside out.

“He didn’t, did he?”

“No, thank God!”

“You don’t understand,” Scott said a little impatiently. “Moore’s been asking for trouble—begging for it—for weeks. There’s always been bad blood between Jackson and Roy. It goes way back. But it’s over tonight.”

Rachelle wasn’t sure. “Maybe not. Jackson could press charges.”

“His story against Roy’s.”

“But we all saw it. Roy tried to run him down!” Rachelle pointed out.

“If he would’ve tried to run him down, he would’ve,” Scott said. “Moore would be in the hospital now. Instead he and his bike are a little scratched up. No big deal.”

“But it was a big deal!”

Erik, sullen, frowned darkly. “Come on,” he ordered the girls. “Get in.” He must’ve seen Rachelle’s stubborn refusal building in her eyes because he added, “Unless you’d rather ride on the back of Moore’s cycle, but you don’t much look like a biker babe to me. Besides, he already took off.”

Carlie didn’t look convinced, but the night was drawing close around them. “We have to get hold of Laura.”

“We could call—” Rachelle ventured.

“No phones at the summer house,” Scott said.

“I don’t think this is a great idea.”

Scott lifted his hands, palms up to Rachelle. “Look, I’ll admit it. Roy’s a hothead. And when it comes to Moore, well, he just sees red. But that goes two ways. And Roy shouldn’t have scared the hell out of Jackson, but then Jackson shouldn’t have come nosing around, telling Roy what to do.” He offered Rachelle a smile that seemed sincere. “Look, it was a bad scene, but it’s over and everyone’s okay. Now let’s go and try to find Laura. If you want to come back later, I’m sure that Roy or Erik—” he glanced up at his friend for confirmation, and Erik gave a reluctant nod “—will bring you home.”

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.”

* * *

WITH 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.