Wed To The Witness

Of all the atrocities I’ve seen during my sixty years on this green earth—and believe me, I’ve seen plenty!—having my nephew, Jackson Colton, stand accused for my attempted murder has to top them all. The case those dim-witted boys in blue have against Jackson is purely circumstantial. Don’t they see that they are wasting valuable time with these trumped-up charges when the real culprit is still out there? I’ll put a stop to this if it’s the last thing I ever do. Luckily, the star witness, Cheyenne James, is secretly sweet on my nephew and believes in his innocence. Those two put their heads—not to mention their lips!—together and figured out a way to beat the system by getting hitched. So Jackson’s clairvoyant bride won’t have to testify, and the case will surely crumble! Now it’s only a matter of time before those two soul mates fess up their true feelings and make a lifelong commitment….

About the Author

KAREN HUGHES

enjoys writing about men and women who want to commit their lives to each other, share dreams and grow old together. She believes romance lives in everyday life and thinks there is a hero inside every man—he just needs the right woman to bring out his best qualities. Wide open spaces call to her, yet she also likes the bustle and convenience of city life. Experience has taught her that true love can be found anywhere. To research this action-packed thriller, the author drove the California coast and fell in love with the mist-swept, rocky shoreline.

Wed to the Witness

Karen Hughes

Meet the Coltons—

a California dynasty with a legacy of privilege and power.

Jackson Colton: Lawyer on trial. Falsely charged with Joe Colton’s attempted murder, this loner’s only defense is to wed the witness. But now that he’s legally bound to this dark beauty, he can only hope that the judge grants him a life sentence…to love!

Cheyenne James: Native American psychic. This counselor will do anything to stand up for her convictions—even if it means marrying a stranger who appears to have murder on his mind.

Thad Law: Man with a mission. Still assigned to the Colton case, this newly married detective smells something fishy. Could they have arrested the wrong man?

Patsy Colton: The manic matron. Masquerading as her sister Meredith, she’d thought she was on easy street, but now she’s getting cranky as her house of cards begins to tumble….

A special thanks goes to my former colleagues in the Crime Analysis Unit of the Oklahoma City Police Department.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

One

Jackson Colton knew all about how cops operated. Although he practiced corporate law, he’d spent two summers during college interning in the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s office. He knew that, when fishing for suspects or talking to witnesses who might be less than truthful, the boys in blue preferred to conduct interviews on their own turf. Doing so tended to intimidate people and make them feel like they were a captive audience, whether they legally were or not.

By summoning him to the Prosperino Police Department, Jackson theorized that Detective Thaddeus Law had embarked on a world-class fishing expedition. Which was why he now sat across the scarred table from the sharp-eyed detective in a small interview room that smelled of cigarettes and sweat. The only thing Jackson hadn’t yet sorted out was why he was the fish Law had chosen to reel in.

Granted, he’d been at his Uncle Joe’s sixtieth birthday party nearly a year ago when someone took a shot at the Colton family patriarch. Nevertheless, hundreds of people had gathered in the courtyard of Hacienda de Alegria, where white doves soared, champagne flowed and exotic flowers floated in the bubbling fountain. Jackson knew that just his presence that night shouldn’t have put him in a suspicious light. Nor did Law have reason to view him as the guilty party simply because he’d again been at the Colton ranch four months ago when a second shot barely missed his uncle. Yet, for reasons unclear to Jackson, the detective had turned a suspicious eye his way.

“So,” Law said, leaning back in his chair. “Not one family member, staff person or guest at your uncle’s birthday party can verify your whereabouts at the time the shot was fired.”

Jackson regarded the cop. He had a small scar on his left cheek, a bump on his nose from where it had been broken and the bear-size build to knock anything out of his path without breaking stride. A formidable man, Jackson thought. One who obviously believed he had something on him or they wouldn’t now be sparring in the stale-smelling room with stark fluorescent lighting and a single pane of one-way glass.

Since Jackson knew he hadn’t tried to kill Joe Colton, Detective Law was headed for disappointment.

“I didn’t know at the time I would need someone to swear to my whereabouts every minute of the evening.” Jackson raised a shoulder. “So, I didn’t bother interrogating the hundreds of people at my uncle’s party. That was your job.”

“True. I’ve talked to a lot of those people lately. No one remembers seeing you at the exact moment the shot was fired.”

Jackson narrowed his eyes. “That was almost a year ago. Why are you suddenly asking people my whereabouts?”

“It’s my job to get a clear picture of the events that occurred,” Law said blandly, then glanced at the notepad on the table in front of him. “You say you’d cut across the courtyard, then took a shortcut through the service hallway to get to the bar. From the angle the slug hit the column behind your uncle, our ballistics expert figures that the shooter was standing a few feet from that hallway. Kind of a coincidence you were right there, too.”

“If you believe in coincidence, you’re the first cop I know who does.”

Law’s mouth curved. “I don’t. Do you remember seeing anyone on your way to the bar?”

“I saw a lot of people. The courtyard was packed.”

“What about after you reached the hallway?” Law persisted. “See anyone coming or going?”

Jackson slid a look at the tape recorder sitting beside Law’s notepad. During those summers he’d worked at the D.A.’s office he’d learned never to underestimate cops. Now that he knew where the shooter had stood, he realized Law’s seemingly harmless questions were designed to get his taped admission that he was in nearly the same location as the person who made the attempt on his uncle’s life.

Which he had been. And, Jackson reminded himself, a certain gorgeous, sexy woman could place him in that exact location until he’d dropped out of sight.

His thoughts went back to the instant he’d spied the woman whose fall of blue-black hair and bronzed complexion attested to her Native American heritage. As if drawn to her by some unseen force, he’d made his way through the milling birthday crowd. When he reached her, he’d discovered she was nearly as tall as he, and wand-slim in the black slide of a dress that hugged her delicate curves. Her nose was slender, her cheeks softly curved, her eyebrows finely arched above eyes the color of rich earth.

When he introduced himself, she’d smiled coolly while the candlelight flickering around them transformed her face into a compelling play of light and shadow. He’d been surprised to discover she was Cheyenne James, sister of River James who’d been Hacienda de Alegria’s foreman for years. Throughout the night, he and Cheyenne had talked, drifted apart, yet always seemed to wind up back together. They’d been chatting with River and Jackson’s cousin, Sophie, when Cheyenne had turned his way, her mouth curving in a smile he found beguiling. She asked him to get her a drink, then she excused herself to greet a friend. Just then, the band played a flourishing crescendo. Then Jackson’s father stepped into the center of the makeshift dance floor and announced it was nearing time to toast the evening’s guest of honor. With no waiter hovering to refill their empty glasses, and guests lined up three-deep at the small bars set up around the courtyard, Jackson had decided he would make better time getting drinks from the small wet bar in his uncle’s study. With Cheyenne’s subtle, haunting scent in his lungs, he wove his way across the courtyard toward the service hallway—the shortest route to the study.

Just before he’d stepped out of sight, he glanced back through the crowd and saw that Cheyenne’s gaze had tracked his movements. That she was interested sent a primitive streak of male satisfaction through him. He, too, was interested and he planned to learn a lot more about her than just the fact she was River’s younger sister. Maybe, if the chemistry between them was right, he would find out before the night was over exactly what she wore under that curve-baring dress.

Hearing the gunshot’s thunderclap moments later changed all that. With a dry mouth and hammering pulse, he’d dashed out of the hallway into the panicked crowd. Keeping one eye out for Cheyenne, he’d shoved toward the dance floor to check on his family. To Jackson’s relief, the shot fired at his Uncle Joe had shattered his champagne glass and grazed Joe’s cheek, then lodged harmlessly in an ivy-wrapped column behind him. In the resulting confusion, Jackson had tended his shaken family and the panicked guests, then dealt with the swarm of police that had descended on Hacienda de Alegria. He hadn’t seen Cheyenne again that night.

Two harried days later, when no leads developed on the investigation, urgent Colton business had required him to return to his office in San Diego. Although he’d felt an innate curiosity about Cheyenne, he’d told himself that getting to know the dark-haired beauty simply hadn’t been in the cards. Still, hers wasn’t a face a man could easily forget, and he hadn’t. Over the eleven months since the party, he’d discovered he had memorized it, feature by lovely feature.

Jackson scowled. As with each time he thought of Cheyenne, he felt the now-familiar restlessness stir inside him, as if everything in his world was a half beat out of sync.

Maybe it was. After all, he hadn’t returned to Prosperino three weeks ago only to attend his sister’s wedding. He’d taken extra time off from the law office at Colton Enterprises so he could stay in Prosperino until he made a decision about his life. A decision that wasn’t going to get made while he cooled his heels at the cop shop.

Tiring of Detective Law’s innuendoes, Jackson locked his gaze with the cop’s. “Okay, we’ve established I was at the ranch both times someone took a shot at my uncle.”

“You were more than just at the ranch both times. We also recovered the slug from the second attempt when someone fired a shot into your uncle’s bedroom. We know that the shooter was positioned on the south side of the house.” Law angled his chin. “I responded to the call, I found you outside the door. Your Porsche—its engine still warm—was parked near the garage. Which just happens to be on the south side of the house. You say you drove in alone from San Diego and parked there right after the incident. That puts you in the shooter’s vicinity that night, too.”

“Believe me, Detective, I wish I had seen whoever it was who tried to kill my uncle. I didn’t, so I can’t help you.”

A thought occurred to Jackson and he gave the cop a sardonic look. “You jealous, Law? Is that what this is about?”

Law scowled. “I take it you’re talking about Heather,” he said, referring to the daughter of Peter McGrath, the CFO of Colton Enterprises. And the woman who was now Law’s wife.

“That’s right. She was staying at Hacienda de Alegria when the second attempt occurred. As I recall, you weren’t exactly happy that she and I kept running into each other while I was there. We’re friends, Law. That’s all.”

“Yeah, that’s what my wife says.” Law leaned in, his eyes stony. “The fact that you’re here has nothing to do with her, so leave Heather the hell out of this.”

“Fine. Are we finished?”

“Do you own a handgun, Colton?”

Jackson let out a slow breath. “I keep a .32 Walther in my nightstand at home. It’s registered in my name. I expect you’ve done a records check and already know that.”

“Do you have any other handguns, registered or otherwise?”

That Law hadn’t obtained a search warrant for the Walther told Jackson that the slugs recovered from both crime scenes indicated a different model of gun had been used in the two attempts on his uncle’s life. “No, only the Walther.”

“I understand several Colton Enterprise subsidiaries have buy-out clauses. Which means if your Uncle Joe died, you’d be closer to inheriting a fortune.”

Jackson hesitated. He knew Law’s change in rhythm had been intended to throw him off. “My father, Graham Colton, would inherit.”

“I said you’d be closer to the money,” Law countered, then cocked his head. “Are you familiar with a court case titled Amalgamated Industries vs. Jones?”

The hand Jackson rested against his khaki-clad thigh curled into a fist. Knowing Law had checked so deep into his background that he’d found the obscure, years-old case sent a ripple of unease down his spine. “Since you brought up the case, you know I am.”

“Yeah.” Law tapped a finger against his pad. “A CEO’s son has his drug-dependent father declared incompetent and removed from the company’s leadership. Then the son steps in and takes charge. You, Mr. Colton, are listed as the attorney of record on Amalgamated Industries vs. Jones.”

“Make your point, Detective.”

“That case proves you know how to use the law to remove a father from a company and put a son in control. It’s no secret Joe Colton is both the brains and muscle behind Colton Enterprises, not your father. It’s also no secret that Graham Colton likes to drink and party. A lot.”

Jackson learned long ago how to keep his face unreadable, and he did so now. It would only cement the cop’s theory if he found out about the blackmail money his father had been paying to his aunt. According to an unrepentant Graham, the money was in exchange for Meredith Colton’s promise not to reveal to Joe that Graham had fathered the son Meredith had at first tried to pass off as her husband’s.

“To my way of thinking,” Law continued, “if your Uncle Joe were to die and your fun-loving Dad inherited, not much would stand in the way of your removing him from control and taking over Colton Enterprises.” Law raised his chin. “You drive a Porsche. With your uncle dead, you could drive a fleet of them.”

Jackson felt anger growing inside him, a black heat that bubbled in his blood. “Money and power aren’t important enough to me to kill for them.”

“Some people think you can never have too much of both.”

“I’m not one of them. Everything about the Amalgamated case was on the up-and-up. Adam Jones’s father was addicted to cocaine, alcohol and gambling. Left in the man’s control, Amalgamated Industries would have gone bankrupt in less than a year. Adam did what he had to do.”

“And, by doing so, he wound up a very rich man.”

“Are you prepared to charge me with a crime, Detective?”

“Not right this minute.”

Jackson rose. “Then I’m ending this chat.”

He turned and was halfway to the door when Law said, “If money isn’t important to you, why did you take out an insurance policy on your uncle?”

Jackson froze. He blinked, then turned. “I didn’t.”

“This says differently.” Rising, Law drew folded papers out of the inside pocket of his suit coat, then laid them on the table. Locking his gaze with Jackson’s, the cop nudged the papers his way. “A policy for one million dollars on Joe Colton’s life. Sole beneficiary, Jackson Colton.”

A cold fist of dread settled in Jackson’s stomach as he walked back to the table. Through sheer will, his hand remained steady when he lifted the policy. “I’ve never seen this before.”

“The insurance agent who sold it disagrees. I put together a photo lineup using head shots from the newspaper’s society page. Those pictures are public domain, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“The agent picked your photo. Says he’s positive you’re the man who purchased the policy.”

“He’s mistaken.”

“Says he’ll testify to that in court.”

Jackson looked up slowly. “Are we going to court, Detective?”

Law slid a hip onto the edge of the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “Anything’s possible.”

Jackson’s mind worked while he studied the policy. “This is dated three weeks ago. If I’d wanted to collect money on my uncle’s death, I would have had to purchase this policy before the attempts on his life. The first being eleven months ago at his birthday party.”

“And the second four months ago,” Law added. “The timing occurred to me, too. Maybe to deflect suspicion from yourself, the first two attempts on your uncle’s life were intended to be just that. Attempts. You wait awhile, take out the policy, then the next time you shoot, you aim to kill.” Law gave him a slow smile. “Third time’s a charm.”

“You’re way off base.”

“Growing up, you spent a lot of time on your aunt and uncle’s ranch. You and your cousins used to target shoot on the banks of the Noyo River. Word is, you’re proficient with all types of firearms.”

And you’re proficient in doing your homework. “That doesn’t prove I tried to kill my uncle.”

“True.”

“How was this policy paid for?”

“Cashier’s check. No way to track the money.” The cop nodded toward the papers still in Jackson’s hand. “The purchaser’s signature is on the last page. We could clear up all this tonight if you’d give me a handwriting sample for comparison.”

Jackson braced himself as he flipped through the pages. Even before he saw the signature, the sick feeling in his gut told him it would be close to his. It was. Nearly identical.

He replaced the policy on the table. At this point, he would have advised any person in his same situation to keep his mouth shut and seek counsel.

“This isn’t my signature,” he said.

“Looks like yours.”

“It’s not.” The anger already heating his blood intensified. “Apparently the man who purchased the policy disguised himself to look a great deal like me, too. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to set me up.”

Law cocked his head. “Why would someone do that, Mr. Colton?”

“To divert suspicion away from himself. Someone wants my uncle dead. It will be a lot easier to make that happen if your attention is focused on me.”

“An interesting theory.”

“It’s more than a theory, it’s the truth. I know, because I didn’t try to murder my uncle.” Jackson stared at Law, his jaw rigidly set while his mind worked. “There’s no way you stumbled onto that policy,” he said after a moment. “And you didn’t just happen to find out I’m the attorney of record on the Amalgamated case. Someone tossed all that into your lap. Suppose you tell me who that was? That will go a long way in telling me who’s behind this.”

Law kept his gaze locked with Jackson’s. “I can’t give you information acquired during an interview or through investigative procedure. As an attorney, you know that.”

“I also know if you were going to charge me with anything, you’d have done so by now.”

“That law degree of yours is coming in handy. You’re right, I’m not charging you with anything. Not yet.” Law plucked the policy off the table, refolded it. “You planning on leaving Prosperino anytime soon?”

Jackson slid his hands into his pockets, then clenched them into fists. At this point, he wasn’t charged with anything, nor was he a material witness to a crime. Therefore, Law had no power to keep him in Prosperino. If he walked out the door, climbed into his Porsche and headed back to San Diego tonight, the cop couldn’t do anything about it. Legally.

Jackson exhaled a slow breath. All that could change later on. If he did leave town, Law might be able to use his departure as circumstantial evidence that he’d fled the jurisdiction after becoming aware he was a suspect in two attempted murders. Law had the taped proof he’d made his suspect aware of that fact.

“I’m staying in Prosperino,” Jackson said evenly. He turned and headed for the door. Pausing, he looked across his shoulder. “I’ll be at my aunt and uncle’s until I find out who decided I should take the fall for this.”

Law nodded while reaching for the tape recorder. “If your travel plans change, give me a call.”

The anger he’d strapped in broke free as Jackson walked out of the building and into the adjacent dimly lit parking lot. He took exception at being accused of trying to murder a man he loved and respected. And he had one hell of a problem with being set up!

He unlocked the Porsche, climbed inside; the engine roared to life when he twisted the key. Hands clenched on the steering wheel, he pulled out of the lot, swung in and out of evening traffic, then punched the Porsche into high gear when he reached open road.

Dammit, he didn’t need this. He had stayed in Prosperino after his sister Liza’s wedding to decide if he wanted to continue working with his father. Now, here he was, contemplating a future that might involve jail.

Jackson shoved a hand through his dark hair as the red Porsche slashed up the highway like a bolt of fiery lightning. To his way of thinking, things were either right or unquestionably wrong; he disliked intensely any murky in-betweens. This evening, Detective Law had shoved him into dark, murky water. He didn’t intend on getting sucked under.

He was an attorney. He knew how to tear apart a case to get to the facts. His case was no different. All he needed was to figure out where to start.

As he drove, he began to sift his conversation with Law around in his head—pulling it apart, dissecting it. He liked things to fall neatly into place, in their proper order, according to consequence. Habitually, he worked puzzles out through long, quiet contemplation. Slow and meticulous. Over the years, he’d discovered he did his best thinking in the flickering shadows of a movie theater.

Since his very future now lay on the line, Jackson figured the faster he settled in front of a movie and decided on a game plan, the better.

Blowing out a breath, he steered the Porsche around a corner, then headed toward the Cinema Prosperino.

Cheyenne James had better things to do that evening than take in a movie. Gripping the ticket she’d bought—and had yet to use—she glanced around the red-carpeted lobby of the Cinema Prosperino, vaguely aware of the murmur of conversation and warm, buttery scent of popcorn that filled the air.

She knew that the case files on the three adolescents she’d counseled in private that morning sat on her small desk at home, waiting her attention. Her late-afternoon meeting with her boss, Blake Fallon, had resulted in her obtaining permission to submit a grant for funding of a vocational work-training program for several of the teenagers who, like her, lived at Hopechest Ranch.