LITMIR.BIZ

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didn’t believe in ghosts. Nor Indian lore. Nor psychics, for that matter. She’d never had her palm read in her life and she wasn’t about to have her chart done to find out about herself.

       And yet here she was, standing on the shores of Whitefire Lake, the source of all sorts of legends and scandals and ghosts that were as much a part of the town of Gold Creek, California, as the Rexall Drug Store that stood on the corner of Main and Pine.

       Hopefully she’d find answers about herself as well as this town in the next few weeks. And when she returned to San Francisco, she’d be ready to settle down and become Mrs. David L. Gaskill. Her palms felt suddenly sweaty at the thought.

       And what about Jackson?

       Jackson. Always Jackson. She doubted that there would ever be a time when she would hear his name and her heart wouldn’t jump start. Silly girl.

       Rachelle tossed a stone into the lake. The first fingers of light crept across the lake’s still surface and mist began to rise from the water. Like pale ghosts, the bodies of steam collected, obscuring the view of the forests of the far shore.

      Just like the legend, Rachelle thought with a wry smile. Impulsively she knelt on the mossy bank, cupped her hands and scooped from the cool water. Feeling a little foolish, she let the liquid slide down her throat, then let the rest of the water run through her fingers. She smiled at her actions and wiped the drops from her chin. Drying her hands on her jeans, she noticed, in the dark depths of the lake, a flash of silver, the turning of a trout, the scales on its belly glimmering and unprotected, as the fish darted from her shadow.

       She felt a sudden chill, like winter’s breath against the back of her neck, and the hairs at her nape stood. She knew she was being silly, that the old Indian legend was pure folly, but when she looked up, her gaze following an overgrown path that rimmed the water, she saw, in her mind’s eye, a figure in the haze, the shape of a man standing not twenty feet from her.

       Too easily, she could bring Jackson Moore to mind. She imagined him as she’d last seen him: dressed in a scraped leather jacket, battered jeans and cowboy boots with the heels worn down; his thumb had been hooked as he started toward the main highway. The look he’d sent her over his shoulder still pulled at her heartstrings.

       “Bastard,” she muttered, refusing to spend too much time thinking of him. The mirage, for that’s all it was, disappeared.

       The sun crested the hills and sunlight streaked across the sky, lighting the dark waters of the lake, turning the surface to golden fire. The mist closed in, pressing against her face, wet and cool.

       She drew in a long breath and wrapped her arms over her chest. Maybe coming home hadn’t been such a hot idea. What was the point of stirring things up again?

      Because you have to. Because of David.

       She smiled sadly when she thought of David. Kind David. Sweet David. Understanding David. A man as opposite from Jackson as a man could be. A man who wanted nothing more than for her to become his wife.

       With one final glance at the still waters of Whitefire Lake, she dusted off her hands and walked up the gravel-and-dirt path to her car. The mist rose slowly and without the fog as a shroud, the forest seemed warm and familiar again. A chipmunk darted into the brambles and in the canopy of branches overhead, a blue jay screeched and scolded her.

       “Don’t worry,” she told the jay. “I’m going, I’m going.” She unlocked the door of her old Ford Escort and slid onto a cracked vinyl seat. Someday soon she’d have to replace the car, she knew, but she had resisted so far. This car, bought and paid for with her first paycheck from the San Francisco Herald, was a part of her she’d rather not throw away just yet.

       With an unsettling grind, the engine turned over, coughed and sputtered before idling unevenly on the sandy road. Java meowed loudly. Rachelle sighed and turned on the radio. A song from years past reverberated through the speakers and she thought again of Jackson.

       Rolling down a window, she breathed deep of the wooded air, then threw the little car into gear and started down the winding road that would lead her back to Gold Creek.

       Jackson Moore. She wondered what he was doing right now. The last she’d heard, he was in the heart of New York City, practicing law, but still a rebel.

      * * *

      “I TELL YOU, THERE’S GONNA be trouble. Big-time,” Brian Fitzpatrick insisted. He tossed a newspaper onto his father’s desk and, muttering an oath under his breath, flopped into one of the expensive side chairs.

       Thomas was used to Brian’s moods. The boy had always been a hothead who didn’t have the mental fortitude to run the logging company, but there’d been no choice in the matter. Not after Roy’s death. At the thought of that tragic night, Thomas set his jaw. God help us all, he’d thought then. And now, as he stared at the Tremont girl’s headline, he thought it again.

       “Back to Gold Creek,” the article was titled. Thomas’s gut clenched. He skimmed the article and his lips thinned angrily. So she was returning. What a fool. She was better off living in the city, burying the past deep as he and the rest of his family had.

       “Thomas? Did I hear Brian’s voice?” his wife, June, called. He heard her footsteps clicking against the marble foyer of the house they’d called home for nearly twenty years. She poked her head into the den and her pale face lit with a smile at the sight of her son. “Weren’t you even going to say ‘hi’?” she admonished with that special sparkle in her eyes she reserved for her children.

       “’Course I was, Mom,” Brian replied. He was putty in her hands. Just as Roy had been. “Dad and I were just discussing business.”

       She rolled her eyes. “Always. So Laura isn’t with you?”

       At the mention of his wife’s name, Brian forced a cool smile. “Nope. I came directly from the office.”

       “She should stop by more often, bring that grandson of mine over here. I haven’t seen Zachary for nearly a month,” June reprimanded gently—with a smile and a will of iron.

       “I’ll bring him over.”

       “And Laura, too,” June insisted, and started for the door. But as she turned, she spied the newspaper, folded open to Rachelle Tremont’s article. Her pale face grew whiter still. “What’s this?” she whispered.

       “Nothing to get upset about,” Brian intervened quickly.

       Wearily Thomas handed his wife the paper. She’d find out soon enough as it was. “Rachelle Tremont’s coming back to town.”

       “No!”

       “We can’t stop her, June.”

       Two points of color stained her cheeks as she read the article. “I won’t have it, Thomas. Not after what happened.” Her throat worked and she clasped a thin hand to her chest.

       “She has family here. You can’t stop her from visiting.”

       “That little tramp is the reason that Jackson Moore wasn’t convicted!” she said, her eyes bright. She collapsed on the couch and closed her eyes. “Why?” she whispered. “Why now?” The agony in her voice nearly broke Thomas’s heart all over again.

       “I don’t know.”

       “If she comes, he won’t be far behind,” she predicted fatalistically.

       “Who? Moore?” Brian asked. “No way. He was lucky to get out of this town with his skin. The coward won’t dare show his face around here.”

       “He’ll be back,” she whispered intently, unnervingly.

       Thomas rounded the desk and sat on the edge of the couch, taking her frail hands in his. “He’s a hotshot lawyer in Manhattan. He probably doesn’t even know that she’s coming back.”

       “He’ll know. And mark my words, he’ll be here.”

      

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