The Redemption Of Jefferson Cade. Bj James

sent you to the United States to become a Southern lady.”

      “Does growing up tarnish everything, Juan?”

      He stopped her then. A touch at her cheek turned her to him. The sun was just lifting over the crest of a hill, in the sudden sliver of light his Native American heritage was visible in a face that had gown more handsome with time. “Death and guilt have tarnished this land for you. Deaths you couldn’t prevent. Guilt you shouldn’t bear.”

      “I was supposed to be on that plane.”

      “But, because of a sick child, my child, you weren’t. You didn’t send your mother and your father and your husband to their deaths, querida. Whoever planted the bomb did that.”

      “Because the plane disappeared off radar so abruptly doesn’t mean it was a bomb.” Marissa didn’t want to believe explosives had blasted her husband’s plane from the sky. Believing would lay the blame even more irrevocably at her door.

      “I know,” Juan said adamantly. “Just as I know who.” Softly, he added, “As I know why.”

      “No.” Marissa tried to turn away. Juan wouldn’t let her.

      “This is no more your fault than any of the rest. You were married to a man more than twice your age. If love was lacking, loyalty was not. You have no reason to accuse yourself.

      “If a man of power covets all your husband has, his business, his land, his wife, the sin isn’t yours. If he tries to coerce your husband to become a part of something evil, it isn’t your fault. If this man decrees all you love and you must be punished for being honorable and loyal to the principles of a lifetime, it isn’t your dishonor. If he carries out his threat in a way most horrible, the crime is his, not yours.

      “My child lives because of your goodness. Your family died at the hand of an evil man. There is no connection.”

      “That a bomb caused the crash was a passing speculation, dismissed as quickly,” Marissa reminded him.

      “Yes,” Juan admitted. “But there was the threat. And all who knew have been silenced. Or so he believes.”

      “Then, if Menendez should discover I’m alive, that would mean he would also have discovered you’ve hidden me and given me shelter. What more proof would he need to suspect you know everything? Then, my dear friend, your life would be at risk, as well.” Fear trembled in her voice for this trusted man who was more like a cherished brother than a friend.

      “No, querida,” Juan soothed. “To the world, I am merely a gaucho who lived and worked on your father’s estancia. Who would suspect an enduring friendship begun between a girl of five and a boy of sixteen? Who would believe such a grand lady as Señora Rei helped to bring my long-awaited first child into the world. Or that the name he bears is in her honor?”

      “But if they should…”

      “You will be gone from here long before that could happen. And when you’re gone, we’ll be as we were. My Marta, Alejandro, and I,” he promised. “And you, Rissa? You will be safe.”

      Marissa brushed a forearm across her brow as if she would shield eyes that had known too many tears. “Will Jefferson come? After so long will he remember a promise? Will he care?”

      “If he is even half the man you spoke of, he will remember, he will care, and he will come.”

      “We can’t be sure he got a message passed through so many hands. If he did, was it too cryptic? The article on the back of the newspaper may mean nothing to him. He might not read it.”

      “He will read it, querida. He will read each word over and over again. Because he knows he must understand, he won’t stop until he does. He will see the marks and make words of them. Then, he will come to the estancia, and Marta will do the rest.”

      “After that can you be safe, Juan? You or your family?”

      “Yes,” he assured her as he smiled at a secret thought.

      We will be safe and you, Marissa, will be in the arms of the man you love, at last.

      Two

      “What the hell is this about?”

      If Jefferson expected an answer, the buffeting thunder of the helicopter would have made it incomprehensible. With it, the pilot who had introduced himself as Rick Cahill and a friend of Jericho Rivers’s, though courteous and efficient, was closemouthed. His eyes, cold steel, never wavered from the sky.

      As he’d watched the helicopter fly fast and low through the canyon at dawn, Jefferson had known it was in the hands of an expert. When the monstrous machine touched down as gently as a dragonfly, he suspected the pilot could fly anything, anywhere.

      “With his eyes closed.” The growled assessment drew the pilot’s attention. A riveting gaze turned. A lifted brow as black as shorn, curling hair, was the only variant in a calm expression.

      Leaving his silence unbroken, Jefferson answered the question in those keen eyes with a shrug and looked away. But not before he wondered again at the strange turn of events.

      Within hours of opening Marissa’s cryptic message, his ordered life had spiraled into quiet chaos. Plans made, airline reservations secured, the ranch bedded down for the night, he’d been packing a duffel when the telephone rang. Alarmed, he’d answered abruptly. The caller’s voice was familiar, stunned recognition came with Billy Blackhawk’s official preamble and statement of the purpose of his call. Though the sheriff of Silverton was far from a stranger, Jefferson would have questioned the message he’d relayed, were it not for his mention of Jericho.

      Even then, he’d found it difficult to forego questions. But on the strength of Jericho’s name and Billy Blackhawk’s reputation, he had. Billy’s promise that everything would be explained when he arrived at an undisclosed destination didn’t ease his wariness. An astute judgment warned that questioning Rick Cahill would be useless. Preserving the silence between them, Jefferson stared out the window. That the helicopter was capable of astonishing speeds was evident. As they flew toward the sun and deeper into the day, one color of the earth segued into another in the blink of an eye.

      When the chopper landed on an isolated airfield, Jefferson assumed it was to refuel. Instead, Cahill tossed the duffel to the tarmac, signaled his passenger should follow, and climbed from the cockpit.

      In a ground-eating jog, Cahill approached the hangar. With a scarred hand, he signaled Jefferson to wait while he entered a small door and disappeared inside. Sooner than anticipated, the hangar doors rumbled open, and Cahill stepped out, a grin turning the steel of his eyes to smoke. “We made it.”

      “Made what?” Jefferson asked as he joined Cahill.

      “This destination, undisturbed. Which we hope means no one traced the letter to you or the Broken Spur.”

      “Undisturbed.” Blue eyes narrowed. “By whom? Why?”

      Cahill’s grin faded. “The same people who shot Paulo Rei’s plane out of the sky. Why can be better answered when we reach our final destination.”

      Shuddering in renewed horror, Jefferson kept silent.

      “The crew will be back shortly. To return the chopper to its owner, now that its maintenance is finished.” Another grin ghosted over the pilot’s lips. “We should be gone before then.”

      “In that.” Jefferson spoke of a small jet. “Which, I suppose, has been sent for maintenance that will never take place.”

      “Actually, the jet is for sale. The prospective buyer has taken it for a test flight and evaluation.”

      Jefferson nodded. “Too bad he isn’t going to buy.”

      “Yeah.” Respect gleamed in Cahill’s eyes.

      In the air, Rick Cahill was less guarded, but just as intent. While the jet streaked toward the east and a clandestine