Whispers (21 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Whispers
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Ruby rocked in a chair near the cold grate, her eyes fixed on the braided carpet, staring, as she witnessed visions only she could see. She chanted softly under her breath in a smooth cadence and a language Kane couldn't understand. An aunt, Lucy Something-Or-Other, pried Crystal from his arms.
“The boy brought this on himself,” his father said, stoical as ever.
“Jack wouldn't fall.” Crystal's voice, though trembling, was filled with conviction. “He was as surefooted as an antelope. He'd been on that ridge a million times.”
“He was drunk.” Hank's tone brooked no argument.
“It doesn't matter.”
Ruby closed her eyes, and she spoke sharply, the words that passed through her lips hard and foreign in the language of her elders. When her eyelids raised, she looked directly at Kane. “A curse,” she explained dry-eyed, lips quivering, chin wobbling. “A curse upon the man who killed my boy.”
Hank snorted. “Then you've cursed our own son's soul, Ruby.” He stared at his wife with searching black eyes, but he didn't touch her, didn't offer her so much as a moment's consolation. These two people suffered alone. “Jack-the-fool killed Jack-our-boy. There is nothing more to it.”
 
 
With a final grunt, Weston collapsed, sweating, the image of Miranda planted firmly in his mind as he placed a final wet kiss on Kendall's passionless lips. No wonder Harley hadn't been interested in her. She made love like a rag doll, just lying there, nearly frowning as he'd done all the work. But Weston didn't care. He needed time to clear his head, to think. His life, he felt, was slipping out of his control, and he'd begun to act rashly without thinking things through, and he couldn't afford to foul up now.
He was screwing Kendall, Tessa, and Crystal, a juggling act that was surprisingly less than satisfying, and he was still concerned that his old man had another family tucked away, or at least a son who was poised ready to come forward and demand part of the Taggert estate, and then there was the other thing . . . a darker, more sinister part of him that had come to the surface just last night . . . His blood ran alternately hot and cold thinking of it.
“Get off me.” Kendall pushed on his shoulder.
“You know, you could help out with this,” he teased, slapping her on her skinny rump as he rolled to the side of the bed.
She cringed. “It's so disgusting.”
“What?” he said with a grin as he reached for his crumpled pack of cigarettes, “Oh, Kendall, I'm wounded.” He spread one hand over his chest, above his heart as he shook out a Marlboro with the other. “Deeply wounded.”
“Save it for someone who believes it.” She snagged a beach cover-up from the chair near the bed and flung it over her head.
“You could have fun, if you let yourself.” He reached for his lighter.
“Let's get this straight, Weston, this is
not
fun.” She cinched the tie around her slim waist and walked to the windows, where the shades were drawn. “I just hope it works.”
“It will. Given time.”
She shuddered.
“Is it that bad?” Clicking the lighter, he watched the flame catch on the end of his cigarette.
“You don't get it, do you? I love Harley. He's the only boy I've ever made it with . . . well, until now, but this is different.” Her chin quivered a little, but she had too much steel in her backbone to break down. “I'm just doing this for the baby.”
Cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth, Weston reached for his slacks and slid his legs into the wrinkled khakis. “But you want to keep on, right?”
“Until I'm sure. Yes.” Arms wrapped protectively around her middle, she added, “I thought you were seeing Tessa Holland.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“So you really are,” she said, disgust in her voice.
Slowly, he fastened his buckle. “Yeah, so what?”
“You really are an alley cat, aren't you?” she asked, peering through the blinds to the night outside. “If you're involved with Tessa, why did you call out Miranda's name when you were with me?”
“Did I?” He reached for his shirt. Of course he'd let his fantasies run wild while trying to get some kind of response from Kendall, whom he now considered queen of the tight, dry cunts.
“Yes.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, it's always been a fantasy of mine.”
“A fantasy?” She blanched.
“Yep, doing all three Holland sisters.”
Her nose wrinkled in revulsion. “I don't want to hear this.”
“Well, not all at the same time, of course—unless that's the way they'd want it.”
“Weston, enough. God, how can you even think about that?”
His laugh was brittle. “Now, Kendall, what's this sense of latent virtue all about? You don't have much room to judge since you just fucked me so that you can pass off my kid as Harley's.”
“Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands.
But he didn't stop. Who the hell did she think she was? “Just remember, Kendall, you're balling me so that you can trick Harley into marrying you.”
“I know, but it's because I love him.” She gave out a little sob and hiccup.
“Noble.”
“You hate me.”
“Of course I don't.” Jeez, he hated it when females tried to pull the martyr bit on him. “Listen, just relax. Enjoy what we're doing.” A cloud of smoke rolled up from his mouth. “It could be a lot more fun than you're making it, and you might just learn some tricks for when you're finally with my brother again.”
She actually gagged. Christ, what a mental case she was.
Buttoning his shirt, he took a long drag on his Marlboro. “Tomorrow? Same time, same place?”
She sagged into a chair and hung her head, looking for all the world like the sacrificial lamb being led to the slaughter. “Yes,” she said so softly he could barely hear her.
“I'll be ready,” he promised as he opened the door and slunk into the night. The truth of the matter was, he wasn't enjoying their trysts any more than she was. Weston had always prided himself on his ability to please a woman, to make her come with just the right words or touch. But Kendall wasn't giving an inch. He'd tried everything short of rape to get her attention, and she was just going through the motions, lying on the bed, eyes closed, legs spread, nipples soft while he performed like a goddamned robot. It would serve her right if she didn't get pregnant.
But then that would foul things up. The thought that his seed was planted in Kendall's womb was comforting. Not only would Kendall get Harley to marry her, but the child would actually be Weston's descendant. He could use his paternity as a bargaining chip in making sure Kendall always came to heel, and if the truth came out, he'd claim the kid and whatever parcel of the Taggert inheritance—Harley's inheritance—the child would eventually end up with.
Yeah, screwing Kendall, though not physically charged, was worth the half hour of work.
He slid into his Porsche and tried not to notice the deep gash that ran from the front fender to the taillights—an ugly scar made by a coward. His jaw tightened in silent fury that anyone would have the nerve to maim the sleek machine. With an engine that hummed and paint that looked liquid in the right light, the Porsche was a classic. He felt the engine rumble to life as he switched on the ignition. This sleek baby was a woman you could count on.
He threw the racy machine into first and nosed out of the drive of Kendall's parents' beach house. He should have been sated; it had been a long hard day at the mill, starting with the fight. Jack Songbird had come in late, been stupid enough to try and alter his time card, and then mocked Weston, spitting at his feet. Weston had savored every minute of firing him while his coworkers looked on. Later they'd had it out and . . . poor Jack, a pathetic drunk, had fallen off the cliffs near Stone Illahee. Weston smiled to himself and felt the jackknife deep in his pants pocket—the knife with flecks of red paint on its ugly blade, a perfect match to the color of his car.
Yep, it had been a long emotionally charged day. Too bad that it had ended in Kendall's cold bed. What should have been a hot, satisfying fuck had been a disappointment. Screwing Kendall was as passionless as jacking off—coming dry. He was still keyed up and restless.
He needed a real woman with hot blood and wild imagination. He thought of Tessa; she was always ready, but deep in his heart he knew that she wouldn't cool the fire in his blood. Nope, the only woman guaranteed to satisfy him was her older sister. Miranda.
Just you wait, honey,
he thought with a low chuckle.
Someday soon I'm going to show you what love is all about.
Sixteen
Kendall dialed the phone reluctantly. What could she tell Harley? That she'd just started her period? That after three thrilling days of being late, she'd finally felt cramps and begun to bleed?
Could she put up with another month of doing it with Weston just so that she could trap his younger brother into a marriage Harley didn't want? A tear slid down her face and she wondered why she'd fallen in love with Harley. Why, when she could have dated anyone she wanted, had she set her sights on Harley? She couldn't explain to herself why she'd fallen for him, but she had, and the thought that Claire Holland, a tomboy without any figure to speak of, had stolen him away was a double punch to her already bruised ego.
Her parents didn't help. Her mother's constant questions—“What happened between you and that cute Taggert boy? Why don't you date someone else? Anna Prescott's son has been asking about you, he's awfully good-looking, and his family has money and—” It never ended.
“Taggert residence,” a cool voice intoned.
“I'd like to speak with Harley,” she said.
“Mr. Taggert's out right now.”
She checked her watch, but it was past five, and she knew that Harley never stayed late. “When do you expect him?”
“Later. May I tell him you called?”
“No . . . I'll try again,” she said, and hung up as tears filled her eyes. Harley was with Claire, she could feel it in her bones. Two-timing jerk, that's what he was.
She flung herself onto the bed in the beach house and stared up at the ceiling. Maybe she was going about this all wrong. Thinking she might be pregnant wasn't changing his mind, but if she did something drastic and landed in the hospital, maybe even claiming she'd lost the baby . . . but there were probably tests for that sort of thing. Someone at the hospital would figure it out . . . What was she going to do?
The thought of making it with Weston turned her stomach. She hated herself each time he came over. Her skin crawled at his touch. He'd tried, she'd give him that, touching her and kissing her and attempting to turn her on, but she'd resisted and now sometimes he didn't even take off his clothes, just tore down her panties, opened his fly, and pumped some Taggert sperm into her. When it was over, he always lit a cigarette and smiled down at her lying on the wrinkled sheets, offering her a smoke and making her feel dirtier than ever.
But it would be worth it. If only she'd get pregnant! Well, she'd just have to try harder. Make Weston do it more than once a day.
Bile rose in the back of her throat, but she told herself she could stomach making love with him a little longer. As soon as her period was over. She'd just pretend that he was Harley. And since she was going to make love to Harley, she'd take scented baths, put on her laciest teddy, and light candles in her room. When Weston came by in a few days, she'd kiss and touch him, slowly remove his clothes and seduce him just as she had his younger brother.
Romance was what she needed; not just sex.
But she had to have a backup plan. There was a chance that she couldn't get pregnant, so she had to think of another way for Harley to see the light, to realize that she was the woman for him and that Claire, the bitch, wasn't.
She would need help if she was going to make Claire look bad; otherwise, the plan might backfire. She would have to depend upon someone else to do her dirty work. Someone as dedicated to her cause as she. Someone who would do what she asked without questioning her judgment. Someone like Harley's twerp of a sister. Paige would do anything Kendall wanted.
 
 
The day of the funeral dawned hot and sticky. Storm clouds collected on the horizon, but there wasn't a breath of breeze. Jack's ashes were cast from the very cliffs from which he'd fallen, dusty cinders strewn over the rocky shoals far below.
Claire felt sick inside as she stood with her sisters and mother. Dutch was away on business, but had sent his condolences—a large horseshoe of lilies and a check made out to Ruby's family, to do with what they wanted. As if money would help.
Claire had hardly known Jack, but Ruby had worked for their family for years, and she'd been friends with Crystal, who sat, dry-eyed, staring out to sea, pale beneath her coppery skin. Without makeup she looked young and vulnerable as she twisted a red bandanna—the one Jack wore, Claire supposed—in her small hands.
Tessa rolled her eyes as a man from what had once been a thriving coastal tribe spoke. He looked no more Native American than anyone else, with his short-cropped gray hair and weathered skin, but apparently he had some authority and spoke in terms of the tribe and Jack's position and all young people today. Claire heard nothing but the thunder of the sea and the piercing cries of seagulls whirling and spinning overhead.
It was hard to believe that Jack was dead. Someone so young and vital suddenly gone. She heard the roar of a motorcycle and her pulse leapt. From the corner of her eye, she spied Kane as he parked the bike near a crooked pine tree and stood apart from the crowd, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. His jaw was hard and square, his lips a thin determined line, his gaze focused on the horizon. How many days did he have left in Chinook?
I'd like to do anything and everything I could with you. I'd like to kiss you and touch you and sleep with you in my arms until morning. I'd like to run my tongue over your bare skin until you quiver with want, and, more than anything in the world, I'd like to bury myself in you and make love to you for the rest of my life.
She bit her lip and tried not to think about Kane and the last time she'd seen him, the night Jack Songbird's body had been found.
Believe me, I would never,
never
treat you like that bastard Taggert does.
Tessa, standing next to Claire, shifted from one foot to the other. “Where are the Taggerts?” she whispered.
“Don't know,” Claire mouthed back, surprised that she hadn't missed Harley.
“You'd think they'd be here. Jack worked for their mill.” Tessa's blue eyes scanned the small crowd gathered on the cliffs.
“Weston fired him that day.”
“I know, I know,” Tessa muttered, frowning and wishing she was anywhere else as her mother slanted her a warning glance and raised a finger to her lips. Tessa glowered back, but Dominique turned away, as if she had some interest in this morbid rite. Funerals were just so depressing. Such downers. Besides, Tessa wanted to see Weston again. She'd thought he would be here and had been disappointed when not one member of the Taggert clan had shown up.
“When's this gonna be over?” she whispered to Miranda, who, the last few days, had been more preoccupied than ever.
Miranda didn't answer, and Tessa itched to be anywhere else. Where was Weston? She felt a familiar gnawing in her guts lately and wished she hadn't started to care about him. Seeing him on the sly had been fun. Daring. She hadn't cried any tears over losing her virginity to him, but she hadn't expected to fall for him. He was too old, too worldly, too self-centered, and he didn't give a damn about her. That's what was so maddening.
Finally, the chieftain or whatever he was quit talking and the group started a soft chant. Tessa couldn't believe it. Jack Songbird might have been full-blooded Native American, but she doubted he gave two cents about his so-called tribe and whatever traditions they still embraced. It wasn't as if he'd run around in beads and feathers and rode a spotted pony.
As the foreign-sounding words faded, the group broke up, and Tessa didn't waste any time. She hurried along the path to the road where all the cars were parked. Trucks, Jeeps, a few sedans, and a couple of station wagons were wedged near Dominique's silver Mercedes. Tessa slid into the plush interior while the rest of the family made small talk with Ruby and Crystal.
Tessa wasn't interested in trying to be friendly. What could she say? Of course she was sorry Jack died. His death had to have been horrible. She shivered, imagining that terrifying tumble off the ridge. But there was nothing she could do, no words she could speak, that would change things. On top of all that, she didn't know what to say to Crystal. She slumped lower in the seat, hoping Jack's sister wouldn't see her. The interior of the car was muggy. Breathless. Tessa began to sweat as she stole a glance at Crystal. Jack's sister was staring at her—through her—with an intensity that was downright scary. Christ, Crystal could give a person the willies. Nervously, Tessa reached for the cigarettes she had hidden in her purse. No, that wouldn't do. Her mother didn't know she smoked.
Couldn't they just leave? Ever since Tessa had first started seeing Weston, she'd felt the daggers in Crystal's dark gaze slice into her heart as she'd glared at Tessa, knew the Native American girl despised her, but that was just too bad. Crystal didn't have any claim on Weston.
The trouble was, no one did.
The doors of the Mercedes opened again. Dominique slid behind the steering wheel next to Tessa. Miranda and Claire took their spots in the backseat. “I know this is a terrible loss for Ruby,” Dominique said as she dabbed her eyes with a twisted handkerchief, then found her keys in her purse. “Losing a child . . . well, there's nothing worse.” Engines started and cars rolled past as Dominique turned the key in the ignition. “But, even though you've suffered a great loss, this is no time to make changes you might regret.” She nosed the Mercedes onto the narrow gravel road.
“What kind of changes?” Claire asked, and Tessa rolled her eyes. Who cared?
“Ruby quit,” Miranda said, and Dominique's lips tightened.
“Quit?” Claire echoed.
“Well, I'm sure she'll change her mind.” Dominique glanced in her rearview mirror. “She's just upset right now. In a few weeks, when she's dealt with her grief, she'll realize that she needs the stability of working for us.” Sighing, Dominique adjusted the air-conditioning. “I was going to offer her a raise anyway; maybe that'll change her mind.”
“I don't think this is about money,” Claire ventured.
“Of course it isn't. Not now, anyway, but once life settles down for the Songbirds, Ruby will have too much time on her hands. She's still got a daughter to think about, and Crystal wants to go to college. That's not cheap, you know.” She flipped on a blinker as they approached the highway. “Ruby will be back.”
Tessa didn't really give a rip. Ruby was a pain in the neck, always bossing everyone around. Even though it was her job, it bugged Tessa that one of their employees, a servant, thought she could tell her what to do. In Tessa's opinion, the family was better off without Ruby Songbird and her dark, condemning eyes. It was too bad about Jack, he seemed like an okay kind of guy, but Tessa's life wasn't going to alter just because he'd died.
“Oh, Lord. What now?” Dominique whispered, slamming on the brakes as a motorcycle whipped by. In a blur of black and silver, the bike and its rider sped onto the asphalt, ignoring the blast from a logging truck that was barreling south.
“Oh, God!” Claire cried, her hands flying to her face. “Kane—”
“Was that the Moran boy?” Dominique asked, a hand still over her heart. “I thought he had more sense than that, but then, why would he?”
“Meaning?” Claire asked, her eyes round.
Tessa watched their mother.
“No breeding in that hellion. His father's a drunk, and his mother left him.” She checked the road again as she eased off the brake. “If he doesn't watch out, he won't live to see twenty.”
“Don't even say that!” Claire stared after the disappearing motorcycle.
“Why do you care?” Tessa asked, her interest piqued.
“I don't. I just know that he was a good friend of Jack Songbird.”
“Yeah? How do you know that?”
“I saw them hanging out together and . . .” Claire hesitated a second. “And he told me.”
“When?”
“I don't remember.”
“You
know
him?” Tessa asked, incredulous. She twisted around in the front seat to stare into Claire's pale face. What was going on here?
“Yeah.”
“How well?”
Claire locked gazes with her younger sister. “Well enough,” she said, and turned to look out the window again. “Well enough.”
 
 
Three days after Jack's funeral, Miranda stared at the calendar. Something had to be wrong. She couldn't be late. Couldn't. She'd been careful. So had Hunter. Rarely had they made love without the use of a condom. But as she counted the days on the flat pages of the calendar and realized she wasn't three days late with her period, but ten, she felt the truth hit her square in the gut: She was pregnant.

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