Page 52 of Point of Mercy

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.

* * *

“I already saidI wasn’t interested,” Turner said, irritated beyond words. He’d made the mistake of picking up the phone as he’d walked through the house and ended up in a conversation with God himself: Thomas Fitzpatrick. Now the guy wasn’t even working through his real-estate agent.

“I’m willing to pay you top dollar,” Fitzpatrick argued smoothly. “Why don’t you think it over?”

“No reason to think.” He could almost hear the gears grinding in Fitzpatrick’s shrewd mind.

“Everyone has a price.”

“Not everyone, Fitzpatrick,” Turner drawled.

There was an impatient snort on the other end of the line. “Just consider my offer. Counter if you like.”

“Look, Tom,” Turner replied, his voice edged in sarcasm. “With all due respect, I’m busy. I’ve got a ranch to run. If you wanted this place so badly, you should never have sold it in the first place.”

“I realize that now. At the time, I wasn’t interested in diversifying. I had timber. Now I’ve changed my mind. There might be oil on the land and I’m willing to gamble. I’m offering you twice what the land is worth, Mr. Brooks. You couldn’t get a better deal.”

“Good. ’Cause I don’t want one.”

“But—”

“Listen, Fitzpatrick, you and I both know you never cut anyone a deal in your life.”

“But—”

“The answer is ‘no.’ Well, maybe that doesn’t quite say it all. Let’s make it ‘No way in hell!’” With that, Turner slammed the receiver into the cradle, turned off the answering machine and strode to the bathroom. He didn’t want to think of Fitzpatrick with his starched white shirts, silk ties and thousand-dollar suits. The man couldn’t be trusted and Turner wasn’t interested in doing any kind of business with him.

Still bothered, he cleaned the dirt, grime and horsehair from his face and hands, then noticed the smell of oil that lingered on his skin from this morning, when he’d had to work on the fuel line of the tractor. Damned thing was always breaking down.

Scowling, he glanced at his watch. Three-thirty. She’d be here any minute. Calling himself every kind of fool, he stripped quickly, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor, twisted on the shower and stepped under the cool spray. Within a minute or two the water warmed and he scrubbed his body from head to foot. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he headed down the hallway and nearly tripped over Nadine, who was walking through the front door.

“Oh—God—I… Oh, Turner… I knocked but no one answered.” She flushed at the sight of his naked torso and legs. “I didn’t mean to—”

He grinned. “Sure you did, Nadine,” he teased, and saw her face turn several shades of red.

“Believe me, Turner, I’m not that hard up,” she threw back, her chin angling defiantly, though her eyes caught his mischief. “I haven’t reduced myself to bein’ a Peeping Tom, and even if I had,youcertainly wouldn’t be on the top of my list.” Her eyes shifted away from his,though, and he felt that same uncertainty he had in the past. He guessed that she was half in love with him. The poor woman. Beautiful and bright, she could do better than Sam Warne or himself.

Through the window, he saw Heather’s Mercedes roll to a stop. “Look, Nadine, I’ve got to change.” Without another word, he half ran into the bedroom, slammed the door, let the towel drop and changed into clean jeans and a work shirt. He ran his fingers through his hair and was opening the bedroom door as the rap of a small fist banged against the screen door.

“Turner?” Adam’s voice rang through the ranch house as he pushed the door open. Quick little steps hesitated in the entry hall.

Turner felt a strange tightness in his chest as he turned the corner and saw his son standing in the hallway of his house, looking confused and worried. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Any child of his should feel at home on the ranch, know every rock and crevice in the land, spend hours in the barn or astride a horse or exploring the wooded hillsides. Any child of his should live here, no matter what the sacrifice. Turner could barely find his voice, and when he finally spoke, his words sounded hushed, choked by emotions he’d never experienced before. “I wondered when you were gonna git here, cowboy,” he said.

Adam’s freckled nose crinkled and he giggled. “I’m not a cowboy!”

“You are now.” Turner reached onto the scarred wooden coatrack, where on the highest spindle a small brown-and-white Stetson had been placed. “All you need is this hat—” he plopped it on Adam’s head “—and a pair of boots.”

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