Unspoken (30 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

Tags: #Contemporary, #General, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense Fiction, #Suspense, #Fiction, #Texas

BOOK: Unspoken
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Shelby handed her a five-dollar bill, waited for her change and walked to the counter where three chrome coffeepots marked with differing blends sat. She poured decaf into her cup and split open a packet of powdered creamer. The door opened again but Shelby, stirring her coffee, barely noticed.
She lifted the cup to her lips, tasted the hot brew and wondered how she was going to get into her father’s office. She could try to break in, or steal his keys, or pay him a visit and then hide in the restroom or—
“You’re Shelby Cole!”
Shelby jumped at the sound of the woman’s voice. Hot coffee slopped over the rim of her cup, burning her fingers as she looked up and stared into the eyes of a petite woman she didn’t recognize.
“Katrina Nedelesky,” the woman said, extending her hand.
“The reporter.”
“Right.
Lone Star
magazine.” She took Shelby’s palm in small, strong fingers and gave it a quick, perfunctory shake.
“I’d like to talk to you.”
Shelby glanced up to the curved mirrors mounted near the ceiling. In the distorted reflection she saw Vianca watching from the cash register. “About what?”
“Everything. You’ve probably heard that I was doing an exclusive with Caleb Swaggert, but he died this afternoon.”
Shelby stared into the woman’s blue eyes. Though she’d never seen her before, there was something about Katrina that was familiar, and a long-buried memory threatened to surface, but, like her own image in the security mirror, it was misshapen and just out of reach. “I don’t know how I could help,” Shelby said, feeling the weight of Vianca’s gaze upon her back.
As if Katrina finally got the message that this wasn’t the place to discuss the Estevan murder, she said, “I’ll call you. You’re living with your father, aren’t you?”
“For the time being.”
“How long will that be?”
“I’m not really sure.” She took another sip of coffee and felt beads of sweat gather on her scalp.
“Then I’ll give you a call.”
The door banged open and Roberto, Vianca’s brother, stormed in. He was rattling off Spanish so quickly that Shelby couldn’t understand more than a few words, but his face was red, his hands shaking as he shoved them through his hair, and the one word that kept cropping up was madre. Shelby couldn’t make out much of the conversation, but the names McCallum and Swaggert were hard to misinterpret. At one point Roberto said something about a
cabrón,
but Vianca cut him off and sent a harsh glance Shelby’s way. Roberto didn’t take the hint and railed on in Spanish, the names Swaggert, Smith and McCallum punctuated by curses. Vianca’s face drained of color. She began speaking wildly, slung the strap of a beaded leather bag over her shoulder and flew out the front door. Roberto was still muttering in short bursts of angry Spanish.
Katrina watched the drama with elevated eyebrows. “I wonder what all that was about,” she said, following Vianca’s hasty exit with her interested gaze.
Through the smudged glass, Shelby saw Vianca slide into the interior of her El Camino and tear out of the parking lot. “I couldn’t hazard a guess.”
“I bet I could. Isn’t her mother kind of ... well, to put it kindly, a little off?”
“As in off her rocker.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve never met her.”
“Well, I’ve been talking to quite a few people here in Bad Luck. The word is that Aloise—that’s her name, right? The mother’s name?”
“I think so.”
“That she’s a few cards short of a full deck.”
“As I said, I don’t know the Estevans,” Shelby replied, and again Katrina focused those hard blue orbs on her. “So, how about tomorrow?” Katrina asked. “I could meet you in the early afternoon.”
“I really don’t think there’s anything I can tell you.”
Katrina smiled. “You might be surprised,” she said with a mirthless gleam in her eye—as if she was hinting that she knew something Shelby didn’t, something important. “See you then.”
“Call first.”
“Oh, I will.” Katrina turned and walked to the counter while Shelby tried to shake the feeling that the reporter was just plain bad news.
 
The Estevan house was in an uproar. An ambulance, lights strobing the night, was parked haphazardly on the street, a police car idling nearby, one officer on the radio, the other, presumably, in the house.
A child was crying and voices shouted as Shep pulled up and climbed out of his truck. He’d been off duty for a couple of hours and had lingered in the White Horse sipping suds and listening to Lucy flirt with some of the regulars while country music crept through the bar and Shep kept coming up with excuses not to go home to his sorry-assed house and pregnant, cranky wife. Peggy Sue was really putting the screws to him these days, insisting he get a vasectomy and nagging him about officially running for sheriff. On top of all that, she had a hundred and one reasons why she wouldn’t let him touch her, wouldn’t even let him cop a quick feel. “Not until you git yourself fixed,” she’d insisted through clenched teeth, “and while you’re at it, take Sport in with you. He’s drivin’ me nuts, barkin’ and tryin’ to run away cuz the Fentons’ springer is in heat agin.”
No amount of talking had dissuaded her. She was pregnant, it was Shep’s fault and all men—including male dogs, it seemed—needed to be neutered. Well, no one was gonna make a soprano outta Shepherd Belmont Marson. Not yet.
As he started up the steps, pushing his way through a small crowd of neighbors who had gathered on the lawn, Vianca flew out of the house and down the steps. Packing little Ramón on one hip, tears streaming from her beautiful eyes, she tried to quiet the screaming toddler while she herself looked about to collapse.
“What’s goin’ on here?” Shep asked. On his way home, he’d heard that an ambulance had been dispatched to this address, one he’d known by heart. He’d pulled a quick U turn and hadn’t thought twice about his own family.
“Madre, oh, poor, poor Madre. She is ... ”
Vianca broke down altogether as two paramedics rushed from the house. They carried a gurney with Aloise Estevan strapped to it. Her face was the color of paste, her bony fingers clutching a rosary, her lips moving in silent prayer. Vianca chased after the paramedics, and Shep’s heart nearly broke for the poor girl. Still clutching her nephew, holding his little body close to hers, she tried to grab her mothet’s hand as the paramedics shoved the gurney into the back of the ambulance and the onlookers whispered among themselves.
“Madre ... oh, Dios, Madre ... ”
The ambulance doors slammed shut. The paramedics climbed inside. The siren screamed. Colored lights flashed. The red-and-white rig took off in a squeal of tires.
“I’ll drive you,” Shep said to Vianca and placed a comforting arm around her slim shoulders. Good God, she felt good—such smooth skin. “Can someone take care of the boy?”
“No—”
“I’ll see to him,” an elderly woman in a bathrobe and slippers offered. “I live three doors down and—”
“No!” Vianca spat. Her expression turned as hard as concrete. “Ram6n stays with me.”
“But it might be a while,” Shep said.
“Roberto will come for his son.” She was emphatic. “He will close the store and come to the hospital.”
“But ...”
“We are family. Maybe you do not understand.”
Little Ram6n was still clinging to his aunt. His head was buried in the crook of her neck, and his chubby arms held on tight.
“Fair enough,” Shep said, realizing she wasn’t going to budge. He turned to the crowd and lifted his hands to get their attention. “You can all go home now. Everything’s all right.”
He didn’t wait for the throng to disburse, just guided Vianca toward his truck and helped her inside. She strapped herself into the passenger side of his bench seat, did the same for her nephew in the middle, and Shep experienced a pang of guilt. He should go home to his own family. Peggy Sue was sure to be tired after
chasin’
Donny and Candice around all day. She was always cranky and worn out when she was pregnant and now, carrying their fifth, she had to deal with the older kids, Timmy and Robby, who were fast becoming holy terrors. Timmy was already in trouble; Shep had caught him smoking dope with his friends once or twice already, though Shep had shoved the kids up against the side of the garage and hadn’t let on to Peggy Sue. Then there was Robby, always hanging out with those damned Dauber kids. In Shep’s opinion, Robby had never been quite right, not from the day the kid was born. He just seemed about two beers shy of a six-pack. Or maybe three. Not that he’d ever admit it to a soul. Candice was a cutie, but Shep had caught her pushing her little brother around, and Donny was a sniveling, sickly whiner—no backbone in that kid. And now there was another one on the way. Shit. Shep couldn’t think about his kids right now. Didn’t want to.
The smell of Vianca’s perfume filled the cab, and he slid a glance her way, saw a tear glide down the slope of her cheek and wished to hell he could kiss it away.
“So what happened?” he asked as he threw his truck into gear and edged around a couple of straggling neighbors still strolling back to their homes.
“Madre,
she ... she swallowed too many pills.”
“Pills?”
“Sí.
For sleeping.”
“On purpose?” he asked as he took the back streets out of town.
“No.” Her pretty red lips pursed. “She ... she gets confused. Sometimes, if I am not there, she forgets she has taken some and then ... she takes more. This time ...” Her voice trailed off and she made a quick sign of the cross over her breasts. Shep tried not to stare. It just wouldn’t do. Nor would the hard-on he felt deep in his britches. No, he’d turn his thoughts elsewhere, but he couldn’t help wondering, as the big truck headed through town toward Coopersville, what Vianca was wearing beneath her black T-shirt and jeans.
That red bra again?
Or maybe a black one.
Hell, his old cock was really straining now, so he stared through the bug-spattered windshield to the oncoming headlights, drove twenty miles over the speed limit and reminded himself that he was married.
Like it or not, Peggy Sue, once the best damned baton twirler in all of Blanco County, was his wife.
Chapter Thirteen
 
“I think we need to talk,” Shelby said, flying down the front stairs. Her father was at the door, sliding his arms through the sleeves of his suit jacket and she was still in her pajamas, her hair wild from a fitful night’s sleep.
He chuckled without so much as the trace of a smile. “Since when do you have anything to say to me?”
The muscles at the base of her neck tensed. “Since I don’t have any other options.”
“Can it wait?” He checked his watch and scowled. “I’ve got to stop by the office, then the ranch before a breakfast meeting in Coopersville with some investors.”
“I think you know where Elizabeth is.”
He adjusted his jacket and reached for his ivory-handled cane propped in the umbrella stand near the front door. “We’ve been over this before.”
“I know, but I think you’re lying. She’s alive, and you know where she is.”
“Let it drop, Shelby.”
“I can’t!” She grabbed his sleeve, her fingers digging into the lightweight fabric. “Don’t you see, Dad? This is important. The most important thing in my life. I have to find Elizabeth and I’ll do anything—anything—to find her. That’s why I’m begging you to help me.” She was desperate, at the end of her rope. Her father was the only link she had to her child. “Please ...” Her throat caught. “Please, Dad.”
He sighed. “There’s nothing I can do, Shelby.” His old shoulders slumped and he seemed tired, suddenly ancient. “Let it rest. You’re young. You’ll marry a nice young man and you’ll have more children. I told you I had some men I wanted you to meet. There’s a lawyer up in San Antonio. Thirty-two. Never been married. Good lookin’ and smart as a whip. If you ask me he’ll get into politics and—”
“No!” Her fingers recoiled from his sleeve and she took a step backward, her rump touching the newel post at the end of the staircase. “You don’t get it, do you?” She stared at him as if he were a stranger. “You don’t know what it’s like to know you have a child somewhere and not be able to locate her.”
“I know what it’s like to have a child you love so much you want only what’s best for her.”
“Even if she disagrees?”
“Even if she despises me for it.” He picked up his briefcase and opened the door. “When Lydia gets in, tell her I won’t be back in time for dinner. I don’t know what time I’ll get home, but
it’ll
probably be late.” As he walked out the door, Shelby knew he’d never help her. She was on her own if she wanted to locate her daughter.
Not entirely
alone. You’ve
got
Nevada.
He’s on your side.
Or was he? Could she really trust him?
A headache nagged at the back of her brain. Too little sleep and too many worries had kept her up most of the night. Why had she flirted with Nevada? What had possessed her to kiss him? And, oh, Lord, why had she made love to him? What they’d shared before was long over; they both knew it, and yet she hadn’t been able to stop herself.

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