Lisa Jackson: Secrets and Lies: He's A Bad Boy / He's Just A Cowboy

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.