eyes. The gray that had begun peppering his dark brown hair only a few months before his sixtieth birthday lent the Colton patriarch a distinguished air.
As a rule, his uncle worked alone in his study after dinner. Tonight was clearly an exception, Jackson noted. On the far side of the room, his Aunt Meredith curled like a cat on the leather sofa, her beautiful face framed by the wavy, golden-blond hair that cascaded to her shoulders. As she thumbed idly through a magazine, the diamond broach on the lapel of her sleek black jumpsuit caught the flash of the flames in the fireplace.
Jackson remained in the doorway, his brow furrowed. He remembered other long-ago nights when his aunt and uncle sat in silence together in this room. Then, an unspoken contentment had existed between them. The sense of companionship they had once shared had vanished years ago. Even now, Jackson had a hard time accepting that the woman who’d lavished so much love on him and his sister was the same person he’d confronted weeks ago and warned he would go to the police if she didn’t stop blackmailing his father.
As if sensing his presence, Meredith raised her bored gaze from her magazine and glanced toward the doorway. Annoyance flashed in her eyes like lightning, then was instantly replaced by concern.
“Jackson,” she said, laying her magazine aside. “Thank goodness.”
Joe Colton snapped his gaze from the panel of security monitors installed in the wall near his desk. “Glad you made it back, son,” he said, his voice booming across the study.
“Finally,” Meredith added as she uncurled off the couch. “We’ve been worried sick about you.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Meredith repeated, arching a perfect blond brow. “It’s not every day a Colton gets called to police headquarters for questioning.”
Jackson winced. “River wasn’t supposed to tell you about that phone call.”
“River didn’t.” When Joe leaned back in his leather chair, Jackson noted the shrewd assessment in his uncle’s eyes. “Sophie overheard you tell River that the police called and asked you to come to the station. She blurted it out at dinner.”
“Good going, cousin,” Jackson muttered. When he stepped into the room the scent of leather and wood smoke settled around him.
Meredith flicked a wrist. “Never mind about Sophie, Jackson. We’ve been worried to death about you.”
“Sorry. If I’d known, I would have called.”
“You’ve been gone for hours,” she persisted, glancing at her husband. “Joe wouldn’t let me phone the station to check on you. He kept saying you’re a lawyer and if you needed us, you’d call.”
“That’s right, I would have.”
She took another step toward him. “Have the police been questioning you all this time?”
“No. After I left the station, I went to a movie. Then I…”
With thoughts of Cheyenne crowding in on him, Jackson hesitated. It was impossible to pin down what he thought about her, what he already felt about her. Instinct told him she was capable of igniting a spark in him that he wasn’t sure he wanted stirred to life.
“Then you what?” Meredith prodded.
“Stopped and had coffee.”
“You saw a movie,” Joe said, tilting his head. Jackson knew his uncle was aware of his penchant for losing himself in heavy thought while a movie played on the big screen. “Is everything okay?”
“I handled things.” Shrugging, Jackson walked to the desk, slid one hip onto the front edge. “Uncle Joe, there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. Thad Law thinks it’s possible I’m the person who tried to kill you. Both times.”
In the silent seconds that followed, Jackson watched the initial shock in his uncle’s eyes veer to anger.
“Has the man lost his mind?”
“I didn’t get that impress—”
“I don’t care if he is married to my foster brother’s daughter, he’s crazy,” Joe protested. “There’s no way Law has reason to even look at you. I’ve got a good mind to call Peter McGrath and tell him his Heather has married a blockhead. Then I’ll call Mayor Longstreet and let him know exactly what I think about his police force.”
“His police force is doing its job,” Jackson countered. “And Law isn’t a blockhead. He has what he believes are solid reasons to suspect me.”
“What reasons?” Meredith scooted behind the desk to stand beside her husband. “You mean evidence? Thad Law claims he has some sort of evidence that proves you’re the one who shot at Joe?”
“He doesn’t just claim to have evidence,” Jackson stated, then told them about the insurance policy on his uncle’s life and the years-old court case the detective alluded to.
As Jackson spoke, a log in the fireplace broke apart and fell with a shower of sparks. “At the birthday party,” he added, “I was a couple of feet from where the suspect stood only seconds before he or she fired the shot.”
“Can someone say they saw you there?” Joe asked. “In that spot?”
“Yes.” Jackson thought about the undercurrents that had pulled at him while his mouth ravaged Cheyenne’s. Undercurrents, he reminded himself, had a habit of dragging in the unwary. He had spent his life avoiding just that.
“Who?” Meredith asked. “Who told the police they saw you in the same spot as the person who shot at Joe?”
“Actually, I told Law I was near that spot.”
His aunt’s eyes widened. “You told him? Why?”
“Because that’s where I happened to be,” Jackson said, giving her a mild look. “I’d cut through the service hallway to get a drink refill. I was there when I heard the shot.”
Joe shook his head. “Did it occur to Law that hundreds of other people were milling around the house and courtyard that night?”
“I pointed that out. It didn’t seem to make a difference.”
“The man ought to stop harassing innocent people and find some real evidence.” As he spoke, Joe stabbed holes in the air with an index finger. “Like the gun the bastard used to take those shots at me. Find that, and you’ve got some real proof.”
“I agree.” Jackson raised a shoulder. “Meanwhile, someone appears to want me as the scapegoat for the shootings. He or she has done one hell of a job of setting me up. I have a real problem with that.”
“You’re not alone,” Joe huffed. “And we’re not going to stand for it.”
“Of course we’re not,” Meredith said with a flip of her slender, flame-tipped fingers. “Jackson, pour us all a brandy. Joe, we need to get Jackson the best criminal lawyer money can buy.”
Joe’s gaze shot up to meet hers, his brow creased
