Page 28 of Point of Mercy

Though she was only teasing, he knew she was right. He closed his eyes for a second. Damn, he didn’t need either Heather Tremont Leonetti or Thomas Friggin’Fitzpatrick fouling up his life. He was capable of fouling it up himself without anyone else’s help. When he opened his eyes again, he watched Nadine as she waved and moved toward her car, a beat-up old Chevy filled with mops, brooms, soap and wax.

Turner’s gaze followed after her as she climbed behind the wheel, fired the engine and tore off down the lane, leaving a plume of dust behind her. She was a good-lookin’ woman, a woman any man would be proud to claim as his wife, but Turner wasn’t interested. Besides, she deserved better. He took a long swallow of the beer and wiped the sweat from his brow. Leaning both arms over the top rail of the fence, he eyed the stallion. “You are a mean beast, you know,” he said.

A soft nicker whispered over the dry fields, and Gargoyle lifted his head, nostrils extended, ears pricked forward, in the direction of the sound. Turner followed the stallion’s gaze to the small herd of mares, sleek hides gleaming in the afternoon sunlight as they grazed near the ridge. Backdropped by a copse of cedar and pine, they plucked at the dry grass, oblivious to the stallion’s interest.

Gargoyle tossed back his head and let out a stallion’s whistle to the mares. Beneath his dusty, reddish coat, his shoulder muscles quivered in anticipation.

“You poor bastard,” Turner said with genuine regret because he liked the feisty roan. He watched as Gargoyle pranced along the fence line, whinnying and snorting, head held high, tail streaming like a banner as he showed off for the lackadaisical females. “So you like the ladies, do you? It’s a mistake, you know. Can only get you into trouble.”

The stallion nickered again and the mares, flicking their ears toward the noise, continued to graze and swat at flies with their tails.

Turner had seen enough. Wiping his hands on the thin denim covering his thighs, he started for the small ranch house he called home. It wasn’t much, but it was bought and paid for and all Turner needed now that his old man was gone. The mortgage had nearly sucked the life blood from him, but he’d used every penny he’d earned to pay back the bank—Leonetti’s bank. Dennis’s grandfather and father had owned and run the bank and when old John had taken out the mortgage, Turner hadn’t yet met Heather or known of Dennis Leonetti. But once he’d figured it all out, he couldn’t pay off his debt fast enough. The thought that he owed any Leonetti money galled the life out of him.

What comes around goes around, he thought. Now Thomas Fitzpatrick was interested in the ranch again—wanted to run some geological tests on the land beneath the ridge, scouting around for oil—but Turner held firm. This was his place, bought with his mother’s tears and his own blood and sweat. He wasn’t going to allow the likes of Thomas Fitzpatrick to get his hands on it again.

As he headed along the weed-choked path, his body, jarred from two hours in the saddle, ached. Old pains, “war wounds,” as he referred to them, reappeared. His hip hurt so badly he nearly limped again, but he gritted his teeth against the pain. He was barely thirty, for God’s sake—he wasn’t going to start walking like a run-down old man.

Kicking off his boots on the back porch, he swatted at a bothersome yellow jacket, then shoved open the screen door to the kitchen.The house reeked of lemon, pine and cleaning solvent—in Turner’s opinion, a stench worse than horse dung and sweat.

He didn’t breathe too deeply, but as he crossed the gleaming floor, he noticed the white rose propped in a cracked vase, giving the kitchen “a woman’s touch.” As usual. And as usual, the rose would wither and die until Nadine came back and put another flower of some sort in its place. As if he cared.

Settling into one of the chairs at the table, he took a long swallow from his bottle. The beer was cold and slid easily down his parched throat. A little too easily. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He was careful with liquor, because of his old man. He knew how the beast in the bottle could drive a man—how it could break him. But, though he hated to admit it, he had a fondness for beer. One of his weaknesses. His first was—or had been—a woman. He’d given up on one, so he felt no compulsion to forsake the other. But he’d be careful. No way was he going to end up like John Brooks—in and out of the drunk tank all of his life, dying before he was fifty because his overworked liver just gave up and quit.

He took another pull, drained half the bottle and felt his muscles relax. Shuffling through the mail, his hands leaving smudges on the white envelopes, he eyed the sorry stack of bills, advertisements, a magazine and one lone letter—written crisply in a woman’s hand. Heather’s hand.

The return address was San Francisco—where she’d moved to escape the small-town poverty and boredom of Gold Creek. For that, he didn’t blame her. Nothing but trouble ever came out of Gold Creek,California. Including himself.

Memories of Heather skittered like unwanted ghosts through his mind. He finished his beer and reached into the refrigerator before curiosity overcame good sense.

His mouth went dry for just a second.

Heather Tremont. No, Heather Tremont Leonetti. She was married now. Had been for years. Her husband was Dennis Leonetti. Big name; big money. A slick-talking banker who had inherited his money, could give his beautiful young wife anything her heart desired—as long as it had a price tag attached. Even an art gallery. And a son. The same SOB she was supposed to have broken up with when he’d come careening into the yard of the Lazy K in his rich boy’s machine. Well, Heather had shown her true colors, hadn’t she? All that talk about not caring about money. About trust. About love. All BS!

Not that it mattered. Not that he cared. He let the door of the refrigerator swing shut.

Peeling the label from his empty bottle, he noticed the message written on a notepad by the phone—Heather’s name and phone number written in Nadine’s no-nonsense scrawl. In his mind’s eye, he compared Heather to Nadine. Nadine was so simple, so earthy, so straightforward. Heather had always been complicated, beautiful and manipulative. Anartistfor God’s sake—with the temperament to match. So why was it always Heather’s gorgeous face that disturbed his dreams? Why couldn’t he take a chance on a simple, good-hearted woman like Nadine Warne?

He reached again for the refrigerator. This time he didn’t stop when he opened the door.He pulled out a tall, dewy bottle and twisted off the top as he glanced again at the letter.

Heather.

He wondered if she’d found happiness with all her money. Not that he gave a damn. Crumpling the letter in a grimy fist, he lobbed the wadded, unread note into a corner where it bounced off the wall and landed on the gleaming floor, six inches from the basket. Well, he’d never been good at basketball. In fact, he hadn’t been much good at anything besides staying astride a stubborn rodeo bronc. Now, even that was gone.

He glanced through the window to the rolling hills of his ranch; he’d kept it running with the stubborn grit that told him he had to make something of himself, something to break the legacy that he’d inherited from John Brooks. He had all he wanted right here.

He didn’t need Heather Leonetti or her money to remind him of that.

Frowning darkly, Turner took another long tug from his beer. He’d finish this one, take a shower and maybe drive into town—do anything to stop thinking about Heather.

* * *

Heather had neverbeen to Turner’s ranch. Never had the guts. She’d put their past in a neat little package of memories that she’d locked in a closet in her mind and had never dared examine. Until recently.

She’d been married and tried to make the marriage work. It, of course, had been doomed from the beginning. Without love, the walls of her marriage had cracked early on only to crumble later. Now, as she squinted through her sunglasses,her hands were sweating on the wheel of her Mercedes. She’d let the top down and felt the wind tug at her hair and whip across her face.

The landscape was dry; the grass already bleached gold, the dust a thin layer on the asphalt as the wheels of her Mercedes flew over the country road leading north from Gold Creek to Badlands Ranch. Once called Rolling Hills, Turner had renamed it for who knew what reason. Heather didn’t understand why and didn’t care.

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