Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (16 page)

“Mom—”

Ellen held up a hand to hush her daughter. “But I’ve heard that Jackson is back in town.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen him?”

Rachelle’s shoulders stiffened. “A couple of times.”

“Oh, honey!” The words were a sigh, and again tears threatened her mother’s tired eyes. “We don’t have a very good track record, the women in this family. I’ve married twice and never found happiness, and Heather…well, she’s living proof that money isn’t everything. That husband of hers was worth a fortune and still it didn’t work out.” The lines of strain were visible on her face. “But I always thought with you it would be different. You would find Mr. Right.”

“And you think David might be Mr. Right,” Rachelle stated.

“I only know that Jackson Moore isn’t. And I think it’s more than a coincidence, Rachelle, that he’s back in town at the same time you are.”

“So?” Rachelle picked up an apple from a basket of fruit on the counter and began tossing it in the air and catching it, avoiding eye contact with her mother.

“So, I want to remind you of all the pain that man caused you and this family. I’ve made mistakes, I know, but I hope that you don’t follow in my footsteps.”

“By getting involved with Jackson again,” Rachelle guessed, a headache forming behind her eyes. She placed the apple back in the basket.

“He’s no good, Rachelle,” Ellen said, turning off the water and drying her hands on a nearby dish towel before smoking the rest of her cigarette. “We all know Jackson’s bad news, Rachelle. Even you. You can’t forget how you felt when he walked out of town and left you holding the bag. You were the one who had to walk down the streets of Gold Creek and hold your head up while people talked.” She touched Rachelle’s hair and smiled sadly. “Just don’t do anything as foolish as getting involved with him again, baby. I don’t know if you could stand getting hurt a second time.”

* * *

H
ER MOTHER’S ADVICE HAUNTED
her all night and into the next day; Rachelle couldn’t shake the feeling that she was marking time. So far, this Wednesday morning had been a waste. She’d spent some time in the library, doing research, and then had driven to the logging company for her interview with Brian Fitzpatrick.

He wasn’t overly friendly. Seated behind a solid wood desk, he managed a thin smile and motioned her into a chair. He ordered coffee for them both, but he squirmed a little in his chair and she wondered if he, too, was remembering the night when they’d last spoken, the night Roy had attacked her, the night Roy had died.

He was a stocky man, his football physique beginning to sag a little around the middle. His hair was straight and brown and just beginning to recede.

His office wasn’t the plush room she’d expected. His desk was oak, the chairs functional, the decor wood paneling had seen better days. A family portrait of Brian, Laura and their boy adorned the wall behind his desk and the few chairs scattered around the room were simple and sturdy. The portrait bothered Rachelle. Because of Laura. She was smiling, her hands on her son’s shoulders, Brian’s arm slung around her waist. Wearing a wine-colored dress and pearls, her blond hair piled in loose curls over her head, she looked elegantly beautiful, but though she smiled, she didn’t seem happy, as if the painter had forgotten to give her the sparkle, the bubbly, flirtatious personality that Rachelle remembered.

She studied the carpet, which was thin in some areas, and the brass lamps which were showing a little bit of tarnish. The office wasn’t decorated in the flamboyant Fitzpatrick style. But then Brian had never been as flashy as his older brother, or even his father. She’d heard the rumors around town that Fitzpatrick Logging was having some financial difficulties, but she’d dismissed the news as gossip. The Fitzpatricks had attracted attention and speculation—be it good or bad—since they’d first settled in Gold Creek.

“I didn’t think you’d ever come back,” Brian said after they’d gone through the motions of a less-than-enthusiastic handshake and Rachelle had turned on her recorder. Though he attempted to be civil to her, the temperature in the room was cold and he didn’t bother smiling.

“I decided it was time to visit.”

“Why?”

“I’m supposed to be asking the questions,” she replied with a smile.

But he ignored her attempt to change the course of the conversation. His eyes narrowed and he tugged thoughtfully at his tie. “I just thought you were smarter than that, Rachelle. There’s nothing for you here, and any column you write about Gold Creek isn’t going to be all that interesting.”

“We’ll see,” she replied, taking out her notepad.

“You know my family doesn’t much care for you,” he said slowly. “I said I’d do this interview just because I thought a little publicity wouldn’t hurt the company, but no one’s forgotten that you stood up for that lyin’ bastard who killed my brother.” He said the words with such deadly calm that she thought he must’ve rehearsed them a hundred times.

“Jackson didn’t kill anyone,” she maintained, her spine stiffening.

“Sure he did. There just wasn’t enough evidence to put him away. Everyone in Gold Creek knows it and you know it, too. And, from what I hear, he’s back. Probably to make trouble again.”

“Why would he do that?”

Brian threw his hands up in the air. “Who knows? Can anyone figure out why he does anything he does? Look at the cases he tries, for God’s sake. He’s always defending some loser who shot a lover or stole from his boss or forged a million dollars’ worth of checks. I have no idea why Moore does the things he does. As far as that goes, I can’t even figure out why you’re here. Just what is it you want from me, Rachelle?” He picked up a paperweight—a crystal golf ball—and polished its clear surface over and over again with the corner of his sleeve.

“I’d just like some answers about the company. Gold Creek, is, after all, what a lot of people would consider a company town. Or it was when I left here eleven years ago. The Fitzpatricks are an integral part of the town’s history as well as the primary employer. What Fitzpatrick Logging does, affects most of the citizens in town.”

Mollified somewhat, he leaned back in his chair.

“Just tell me, Brian, what’s changed around here in eleven years? You’ve lived through it—you’ve never lived away from Gold Creek, not even when you went to college. Even then you commuted. And you’ve been in charge, right? You were promoted to president of Fitzpatrick Logging the minute you finished school.” He seemed flattered by the statement and relaxed a bit.

“What’s changed around here,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Not a whole helluva lot. I’m the boss now, but everything else is about the same.”

“But the Fitzpatrick organization has stretched into other businesses.”

“Not me. My dad has a little.”

“A little? Just about everything in town has the Fitzpatrick name on it.”

“That’s Dad for you,” Brian said. He told her of the changes at the logging company, which were a result of the environmental issues—clear-cutting timber, water rights and habitats for endangered species. He explained the value of “old growth” timber and reforestation, and talked at length about import problems and quotas. But throughout his well-rehearsed answers, he maintained a distance from Rachelle, keeping his responses short and to the point. He was obviously uncomfortable, not with the subject matter so much as the woman doing the interviewing.

“I’ll still want to talk to your dad,” she said when she’d run out of questions, and Brian had checked his watch for the fifth time.

“I don’t know if he’ll go along with it.”

“Not even for free publicity? Rumor has it he plans to run for the state senate.”

“Rumors can be wrong.” Brian stood, and he paused at his desk, tapping the pads of his fingers along the smooth surface as Rachelle collected her briefcase and recorder.

“You may as well understand something, Rachelle. The night Roy died, my dad changed. Our whole family changed. Mom was…‘inconsolable’ would be putting it mildly, and everyone else paid.” He gazed thoughtfully through the window, to the lumberyard where trucks and men were milling about. “Toni and I—don’t get me wrong, my folks loved us, still do—but Toni and I have never quite measured up. Roy was special—the golden boy. Everyone knew it. Hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. And Mom and Dad have never gotten over the fact that he was cut down in his youth.” Brian leveled hard eyes at her. “As far as my mother is concerned, you gave Jackson Moore his alibi. She figures you lied just to save Jackson’s useless hide. That goes for my dad, too. So don’t be surprised if, when you start asking questions of the old man, you get a door slammed in your face.”

The intercom on his desk buzzed and Marge Elkins’s nasal voice filled the room. “Mr. Fitzpatrick? Your wife’s here.” Her voice grew softer for a minute as if she’d turned her face from the receiver. “No, wait, he’s with someone. You shouldn’t go in there just yet. Mrs. Fitzpatrick— Oh, dear, I’m afraid—”

Before Marge could finish, the door to the office burst open, and Laura, dressed in a royal blue suede skirt and jacket, walked quickly into the room. Her blond hair was cut shorter than it had been in high school, her nails were polished a deep rose and her makeup was perfect. She was as gorgeous as she had been in school, maybe even more so. Her gaze swept the room, paused for a second on her husband, and landed with full glacial force on Rachelle. “I heard you were back in town,” she said, forcing a cold smile. “And I’ve got to tell you, I’m surprised.”

“You and everyone else in Gold Creek,” Rachelle replied with a smile. She stood and offered Laura her hand. “How are you, Laura?”

Laura looked at Rachelle’s outstretched palm, then ignored it. Rachelle, embarrassed, let her hand drop to her side.

“How am I? You really want to know? Well, I’m upset, Rachelle, really upset. I thought we’d put the past behind us, gotten on with our lives.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “My family has been through a lot… .” She glanced up at her husband with worried eyes. “…And now you’re back. You and Moore.” She shook her head. “It’s hard to understand.”

“I came back to write a series of—”

“I know, I know,” Laura replied, waving off Rachelle’s explanation. “But what about Jackson Moore? What in God’s name is
he
doing here?”

“Good question,” Brian said. He’d rounded the desk and stood next to his wife. “What
does
Moore want?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” Rachelle said, deciding she couldn’t be his spokesperson. If the Fitzpatricks wanted to know what was on Jackson’s mind, they could ask him themselves.

“No way. He’s got to stay away from the family,” Brian said firmly. “My mother’s very frail. Her health’s declined ever since Roy died, and I’m sure Dad would refuse to see Moore. There’s just no point to it.”

Laura clutched Brian’s sleeve, but she stared at Rachelle. “Don’t you remember all the pain, all the agony that the Fitzpatricks have been through? Why would you want to put any of us—or yourself for that matter—through it all over again?” She fumbled in her purse, found her lighter and cigarettes and lit up.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” Rachelle said, surprised at Laura’s outburst.

Laura’s lips softened slightly. She touched Rachelle on the arm. “Then take some advice, and let things lie. As for Jackson Moore, if I were you, I’d avoid him. He’s trouble, Rachelle. The man
killed
Roy.”

“He didn’t,” Rachelle replied quickly.

“Oh, Rachelle, it’s over. You don’t have to protect him anymore—”

“I didn’t. He’s innocent, Laura,” she replied quickly. “I can’t speak for Jackson, but as for me, I’ll see anyone I want to while I’m here in Gold Creek.”

“That could be a mistake,” Brian said.

“No doubt, but that’s the way it is.” With a quick “thank you for your time,” she walked stiffly out of the offices of Fitzpatrick Logging and tried to stem her temper. She hadn’t liked being told what to do when she was in high school and now, at twenty-nine, she was even more independent. Where did Laura get off, telling her whom she could see and whom she couldn’t?

Frustrated, she tossed her purse onto the passenger seat and slid into her car.
Calm down,
she told herself. The Fitzpatricks had reasons to be suspicious of Jackson, though she didn’t buy their reasoning. Why, if Jackson really had killed Roy, would he come back here to clear his name? No, it didn’t make sense. The Fitzpatricks were just too tunnel-visioned to think that one through.

She stuck her key into the ignition and the Escort’s little engine turned over. The interview with Brian had gone badly. But she still had to face Thomas Fitzpatrick. Trying to question Roy’s father would probably end up being torture—for both of them.

“More fun,” she said sarcastically, her anger stemming a little as she glanced to the yard where log trucks were being unloaded. She thought she saw a familiar face—a face from the past. Without thinking, she turned off the car, pocketed her keys and climbed back out of her car. Half running across the parking lot, she stopped at the high chain-link fence separating the yard from the business offices. Eventually, one of the truck drivers noticed her. He waved to the foreman, Weldon Surrett, who spotted her and, a sour expression on his face, strode her way.

Beneath his hard hat, Surrett’s eyes were stern, and when he recognized her, his lips pulled into a scowl. “I heard you were back in town,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. Surrett.” Still foreman of the company, Weldon Surrett was a big bear of a man. He was Carlie Surrett’s father, and Rachelle hadn’t seen him in eleven years. He’d aged a great deal in that time.

Near retirement, he was a little stoop-shouldered and he walked with a slight limp, as if arthritis had settled into his hips. His hair was still jet-black and thick, but craggy lines marred his otherwise-handsome face, and a day’s growth of bristly dark beard shadowed his jaw. He yanked off his rough leather gloves, fished in the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a can of snuff.

“I s’pose you’re lookin’ for Carlie.”