Page 67 of Point of Mercy

“I know, Mom, I invited her,” Rachelle admitted, wincing a little at the hurt in her mother’s eyes. “She’s his wife, whether you like it or not.”

For a second, Heather thought their mother might break down and cry, but Ellen, made of stronger stuff, squared her shoulders. Her hair was freshly done and she was wearing a gold suit. “You look great, Mom,” Heather told her, and kissed her cheek.

“Thanks, honey.” Ellen’s eyes glistened with pride as she looked at her two daughters.

“Places, everyone,” the minister’s wife called through the partially opened door.

Impulsively Rachelle hugged her younger sister. “You and Turner will work things out, I just know it.” The sound of music drifted into the little room, and Rachelle took a deep breath. “I guess this is it.”

“Good luck!” Heather said. She squeezed Rachelle’s hand.

They emerged from the small room near the back of the crowded little chapel. Near the altar, backdropped by long white candles, Jackson Moore fidgeted in his black tuxedo as he waited for his bride. His hair was shiny and black, his eyes anxious, and if he saw Thomas Fitzpatrick sitting in the fifth row, he didn’t show any sign of emotion other than love for the woman who planned to spend the rest of her life with him.

Heather’s throat was in knots. Taking the arm of Boothe Reece, Jackson’s partner in his New York law firm, she began her hesitation step to the music. Soon Rachelle would be starting her new life with Jackson, and Heather would have to begin again, as well—a life without Turner, a life with a new baby, a life of sharing her children with an absent father. Heather forced a smile, and the tears that shimmered in her eyes were tears of happiness for her sister. Nothing more. Or so she tried to convince herself.

* * *

Strains of romanticmusic drifted on the air, and the breeze, smelling of the fresh water of the lake, was cool against Heather’s face. The sun had dropped beneath the ridge of westerly mountains and the sky was ribboned with brilliant splashes of magenta and pink.

Twilight was coming.That time of night—dusk really—when her thoughts would always stray to Turner. Stars were beginning to wink, and the ghost of a crescent moon was rising. She wrapped her arms around herself and began walking along the sparsely graveled path toward the lake, the very same lake she’d sipped from only a few weeks earlier. Drat that darned legend! She’d been a fool to think there was any hint of truth in it.

With a rustle, the wind picked up and the chilly breath of autumn touched her bare neck. Still wearing her raspberry-hued gown, she picked her way along the ferns and stones.

She’d stayed at the wedding and reception as long as she could, watched Jackson and Rachelle exchange vows, witnessed them place rings upon each other’s fingers, smiled as they toasted their new life together and laughed when they’d cut the cake and force-fed each other. All the old traditions. New again.

She’d even watched as Rachelle had tossed her bouquet into the crowd and a surprised Carlie Surrett had caught the nosegay of white ribbons, carnations and baby pink roses only to drop the bouquet as if it was as hot and searing as a branding iron. Rachelle, good-naturedly, had laughed and tossed the bouquet over her shoulder again and to everyone’s joy their mother, Ellen, had ended up with the flowers.

“Can you believe this?” she’d said. “Well, maybe the third time’s the charm!”

The big moment, when Thomas Fitzpatrick had shaken his bastard son’s hand and wished him well,had come afterward. Thomas had seemed sincere, and Jackson, his face stony, hadn’t made a scene. He’d even accepted the envelope Thomas had given him and had said a curt “thanks.” It hadn’t been a joyous father-son reunion, but it hadn’t turned into the worst disaster since theTitanic,either.

Now, as she glanced back over her shoulder, Heather noticed that a crowd had joined Rachelle and Jackson on the portable dance floor they’d had constructed for the ceremony. Tucked in the tall pine trees, with torches and colorful lanterns adding illumination, the old camp was a cozy site for a wedding. A great way to start their lives together.

Heather had her own set of plans. Tomorrow she’d return to San Francisco, the city she loved, and start her life over. Without Turner. Her heart wrenched and her throat thickened. Tears burned behind her eyes. Why couldn’t she find any comfort in the thought that she was going home? Why couldn’t she find any consolation that she wouldn’t have to move back to Gold Creek? Why wasn’t she happy? The answer was simple: Turner Brooks.

Gathering her skirts, she followed the path until the trees gave way to a stretch of rocky beach. The wedding was far behind her now, the music fading, the laughter no louder than the sound of crickets singing in the dusk.

Twilight had descended, and the stars reflected in the purple depths of the lake. “Oh, Turner,” she whispered, kicking a stone toward the water and watching as it rolled lazily into the ebb and flow of the lake.

Again she felt a tickle of a breeze lifting the hairs at her nape.She looked to the west and her breath caught in her throat, for there, just as he’d been six years earlier, was the lone rider, a tall cowboy on horseback, his rangy stallion sauntering slowly in her direction.

Her heart turned over and she wanted to hate him, to tell him to stay out of her life, but she couldn’t. Staring up at his rugged features, her heart tumbled and she knew she was destined to love him for the rest of her life.

She waited, unmoving, the wind billowing her skirts until he was close enough that she could see the features of his face. Strong and proud, he’d never change. Her throat closed in on itself, and it was all she could do not to let out a strangled sob.

She thought for a moment that he was coming for her, but she knew differently. He’d known where she would be and was probably here to tell her that he’d talked with a lawyer and was going to sue her for custody of their children. Oh, Lord, how had it come to this? Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt and she wished she could hate him, could fight him tooth and nail for her children, but a stubborn part of her wouldn’t give up on the silly, irrational fact that she loved him. As much as she had six years ago.

His jaw was set and hard, but his eyes were dark with an inner torment. Heather braced herself, refused to break down. He slid from the saddle and, without a word, wrapped strong arms around her. Pressing his face into the crook of her neck, he held her, and the smells of leather and horse, sweat and musk, brought back each glorious memory she’d ever shared with him.

She clung to him because she had no choice, and tears filled her eyes to run down her cheeks and streak the rough suede of his jacket.Her heart ached, and she wondered if she would ever get over him.

As the night whispered over the lake, Turner’s voice was low and thick with emotion. “I love you,” he said simply.

Heather’s heart shredded. “Y-you don’t have to—”

“Shh, darlin’. Don’t you know I’ve always loved you? I was just too much a fool to admit it.”

“Please, Turner, don’t—” she cried, unable to stand the pain.

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