machine while steam rose from the metal pitcher he held.
Jackson laid his hand on hers. “Cheyenne,” he said quietly, and waited until her gaze re-met his. “I apologize if I offended you.”
“You didn’t. You reminded me of something important. To answer your question about where I live, I’m a counselor at Hopechest Ranch. I live in one of the small staff houses there.”
“Hopechest.” His thumb moved lightly up and down the length of her finger. “My aunt and uncle used to be involved with the kids there. They’ve probably lost count of how many kids from Hopechest Ranch they’ve been foster parents for over the years.”
“One of those kids being my boss, Blake Fallon. He thinks a lot of your Uncle Joe. The exact term he uses is ‘walks on water.’”
“I agree with Blake.” Jackson paused. At one time, most people had also held his Aunt Meredith in equal esteem. That was years ago before she’d undergone a personality change that had the whole family wondering what had happened to transform the once sweet, sensitive wife and mother into a woman whose severe mood swings could on occasion rock the entire household.
For Jackson, living half the state away in San Diego had insulated him from the majority of the family tremors caused by his aunt. That is, until his recent discovery that Meredith had blackmailed his father into paying her two million dollars to keep secret the fact he’d fathered her son, Teddy. The revelation had been even more bitter for Jackson because he remembered the caring, generous Meredith who had lavished love and attention on himself and his sister when their own parents left their upbringing in the hands of nannies and housekeepers.
That he remembered—and mourned—the woman he’d once adored was the thing that had prompted him to confront his aunt weeks ago about the blackmail. Maybe he’d hoped to see some regret in the dark eyes that had once sparked with love. Perhaps a softening in the brittle shell she’d built around herself. All sentimental feelings he’d harbored for his aunt had died when she’d displayed even less remorse than his father had over their affair. Faced with her cold aloofness, Jackson had warned her he would report her extortion to the police if she didn’t end it.
And now, he thought, he had his own problems with the police. Serious problems.
“Is something wrong?” Cheyenne’s quiet question told him his face mirrored his grim thoughts.
“Just some things I need to work out.” He massaged his fingers across her knuckles. “Tell me about Cheyenne James. Why did she wind up counseling kids from troubled homes?”
“My reasons have a lot to do with River. Our mother was full blood Mokee-kittuun, our father white. When she died giving birth to me, my father let my aunts raise me on the rez as long as they sent me to Anglo schools. He took River to live with him on his ranch. I lost contact with my brother after that,” she said with an edge of regret. “Before either River or I were born, our mother had another son, Rafe. My father adopted him, but because Rafe is full-blood Indian, my father shunned him when our mother died. From the stories Rafe tells me, our father was an alcoholic. A mean drunk. For years Rafe took the brunt of his anger to save River. That changed after I was born and our father left Rafe and me on the rez and took River away.”
Jackson shook his head. “Rough life for a kid.”
“Yes. One day, River showed up at school covered with bruises. A social worker took him to live at Hopechest. Your aunt and uncle later became his foster parents and River moved to their ranch.”
“So, was it a happy coincidence that you and River found each other again?”
Cheyenne matched his gaze. “Some people have called it that.”
Jackson cocked his head. Those rich, dark eyes held secrets, he realized. Perhaps that was why she was beginning to fascinate him. “What do you call your finding your brother again?”
“Destiny,” she said almost reverently. “Living with the Coltons was the first time River had ever known a real family life. Your uncle encouraged him to work with his horses and that built River’s self-esteem.”
“Uncle Joe’s good with people.”
“Yes.” Cheyenne played her index finger along the handle of her cup. “When I realized the foster care the Coltons gave my brother saved his life, I knew I wanted to help kids who had no control over the circumstances they were born into. I went to college, got a Masters in Social Work. I’ve been at Hopechest about a year. I counsel the kids, help them get the work skills they need to support themselves. I also teach a sport.”
“What sport?”
“Archery.”
“Archery?”
She rolled her eyes. “Go ahead and make your comment. I’m used to hearing them.”
“What comment?”
Her mouth curved. “About how I must have reverted back to ancient days when my people rode swift ponies and hunted with bows and arrows.”
“Now that you mention it,” Jackson said with consideration while his hand stroked hers, “You riding bareback, armed with a bow and arrow while all that dark hair flies behind you conjures up an interesting image.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but an image is all it is. I didn’t learn archery on the rez. I learned it at the college.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Actually, I didn’t think about Indians or bows and arrows when you mentioned archery.” As he spoke, he cupped his hand around her bare, tanned forearm.
She was tense, muscles tight. What would it be like, he wondered, to loosen her, to get to the soft woman beneath the tenseness?
“Jackson?”
He skimmed his thumb up until he felt the pulse inside her elbow skitter. “Yes?”
“I…” She took a deep breath. “What did you think about when I told you I teach archery?”
Hearing her voice hitch gave him a small thrill of power—and pleasure. He smiled. “I thought that you must be stronger than you look.” He squeezed her arm. “You are. You fascinate me, Cheyenne. I’m not quite sure why.”
He saw a brief, uneasy flicker in her dark eyes before she shifted away, forcing his hand from her arm.
“I’ve told you about myself. Why don’t you tell me something about Jackson Colton?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Why are you a lawyer?”
Resigned with her distance for the time being, he leaned back in his chair. “Because my father groomed me to be one,” he replied, then hesitated. He had never thought of things that way, but it was the truth. His mother had barely acknowledged his existence, which had made him as pliable as clay in his father’s hands. Jackson supposed he would have agreed to a career of digging ditches if that would have gained him the love of the one parent who’d paid him any attention.
That he’d never felt
