Part 23 (1/2)
”I think you may be right about her loving him,” Blackjack admitted reluctantly. ”She agreed to come home if I'd get him his job back.”
”Think of all the trials that boy has suffered and still managed to triumph. That's your blood in him.”
”He did have quite a reputation with the TSCRA. His boss had twenty fits when I said I wanted him fired. Told me I was a jacka.s.s for depriving the a.s.sociation of someone as talented and whip smart and steadfast as Billy Coburn. Not a 'bad' word about him,” Blackjack admitted.
”He's a fighter, Jackson. You'll never put that boy down for long.”
”I don't want to put him down. I just want him to leave Summer alone.”
”Why not help the two of them, instead of standing in their way?” Ren said.
”That boy would as soon spit in my eye as take any help from me,” Blackjack said.
”Surely a clever man like you can figure out a way to get him to accept it.”
”I'll think about it,” Blackjack said. ”Come here, Ren, and kiss me.”
He slid a hand around her nape and she willingly bent over him, their mouths meeting in a kiss as tender as any they'd ever shared.
The sound of a horn outside the window made her jerk away. She jumped off the bed ahead of him and raced to the window to look out. ”It's the sheriff's car,” she said. ”What do you suppose he wants here?”
”Best way to find out is to go down and ask,” Blackjack said.
Ren grabbed for her bra and struggled to get it back on, while Blackjack headed down the stairs ahead of her. He shoved open the screen door and invited the sheriff inside, surprised when his deputy stepped in behind him.
”What's going on, Sheriff?” he asked.
”Jackson Blackthorne, you're under arrest for the murder of your wife Evelyn DeWitt Blackthorne.”
”Aw, come on, Grady. Can't this wait till after the funeral?” Blackjack said in disgust.
”I have to cuff you, Mr. Blackthorne. Turn around,” the deputy said.
Blackjack felt the hot flush start on the back of his neck. ”It's Sunday, Grady. It's going to be d.a.m.ned hard to find a judge to come to a bail hearing before Monday morning.”
”Put your hands behind your back, Mr. Blackthorne,” the sheriff said, ”so my deputy can cuff you.”
Blackjack wanted to resist, but he could hear Ren coming down the stairs, and he didn't want her involved in some ridiculous fracas. He turned around and felt the cold metal cuffs being ratcheted down tight on his wrists.
It wouldn't be the first night he'd ever spent in jail. He'd gotten in trouble once in his misspent youth and his father had left him in the Bitter Creek County Jail overnight to think things over. It wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat. The place was lit up too brightly, and it smelled of vomit from the Sat.u.r.day-night drunks who were its usual tenants. But he wasn't being given a choice.
”I want to call my lawyer,” Blackjack said as he turned to face the sheriff.
”You can call him from jail,” the sheriff replied.
By then, Ren had reached the kitchen. She stared in alarm at his cuffed wrists. ”What's going on?”
”I've been arrested a day early,” Blackjack said.
”Why?” she asked, her eyes wide with fright.
”To keep the two of you from fleeing, ma'am,” the deputy blurted.
The sheriff glared at him, but the cat was already out of the bag.
”What are you talking about?” Blackjack said.
The sheriff straightened his gunbelt nervously, then said, ”We know about the trip you planned with Mrs. Creed, Mr. Blackthorne. Once the NTSB confirmed that your helicopter had been tampered with, we had the FAA check to see if you'd booked a flight anywhere. You hadn't booked a commercial flight, but your corporate pilot had filed a flight plan based on an e-mail you sent him last week.”
Blackjack stared at the sheriff blankly, then exchanged a look with Ren, whose lower lip was clasped in her teeth. It took him a moment to figure out what Ren had apparently already divined. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n that woman,” he muttered.
”A trip going where?” Ren asked, when Blackjack didn't.
”Costa Rica, ma'am,” the deputy supplied. ”They don't have an extradition treaty with the U.S.”
”Bad move, Mr. Blackthorne,” the sheriff said. ”You're going to have to stick around to stand trial for murder. And since it's doubtful bail will be allowed when you've proven yourself a flight risk, you're going to have to wait for trial in jail.”
Blackjack was sorry now that he'd allowed himself to be handcuffed, because he thought he might have been able to take the two men and escape with Ren. Costa Rica didn't sound like a half-bad idea, especially when Eve had arranged to leave a hanging noose so tightly knotted around his neck.
”Let's go, gentlemen,” he said.
”What can I do?” Ren asked frantically.
”Call my lawyer Harry Blackthorne, at DeWitt & Blackthorne in Houston,” Blackjack said. ”Tell him what's happened. Then get some sleep. And don't worry about me. I'll be fine.”
He left her standing in the kitchen, her eyes forlorn. She knew how high the odds were stacked against him. And fate seemed determined to keep them apart.
He had to hand it to Eve. Her trap had been cleverly baited, artfully sprung. And he was well and truly caught.
Sam felt relieved at his mother's narrow escape. Jackson Blackthorne was in jail. With the wealth of evidence mounting against him, it didn't look like he'd be getting out in this lifetime. Sam had been shocked, however, when he learned his mother had planned to run away with the blackguard. He hadn't foreseen that. He just thanked his lucky stars it hadn't happened.
Eve Blackthorne's funeral had been held that afternoon, and the town was full of mourners from all over the country who'd come to pay homage to the famous artist. Sam had seen her art up close, and while it was technically amazing, it left him emotionally cold.
When the knock came on his kitchen door, Sam hurried to answer it, grinning broadly when he saw his older sister Callie standing there with his nephew Eli, his niece Hannah, and his littlest niece Henrietta. He saw them every Christmas, but it wasn't often enough.
”Come in, come in,” he said, waving them inside.
”Hi, Uncle Sam,” Eli said.
”Good Lord, boy, you must've grown six inches since I saw you last!” At fifteen, Eli looked more every day like the Blackthorne he was.
At eight, Hannah was too old to climb into his lap the way she used to do. But she helped three-year-old Henrietta scramble into his arms. ”Hey there, Henry. How ya doin'?” he said.
”Take me for a ride,” Henrietta said. ”Go fast!”
Sam laughed and said, ”Let me greet your mother first.”
He looked up at Callie and realized, now that she was no longer standing behind her children, that she was pregnant. ”Looks like you've been busy,” he said with a smile.
She patted her round belly and smiled at him. ”Should be here before Christmas.”