Unspoken (31 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

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

BOOK: Unspoken
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She walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice. Yes, he seemed to be trying to help her locate their daughter, but what then? What if they did find her? Hadn’t he suggested that it would be better to leave Elizabeth with her adoptive parents?
The juice soured in her stomach. She hadn’t really thought that far ahead. First she’d find her daughter and then she’d figure out what she was going to do.
The phone jangled loudly. She scooped up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Oh,
niña,”
Lydia’s voice was muffled. “I thought I would catch your father.”
“He already took off. Early meeting. Said he might not make it for dinner.”
“He works too hard. Pushes himself. If he is not careful ...” Her voice faded again and then she cleared her throat. “I called because I will be in late this morning. Aloise is in the hospital.”
“Aloise Estevan?” Shelby asked, surprised. She’d thought it would take an act of God to keep Lydia from her chores. Even then, the Almighty might have a fight on His hands.
“Sí. Sí.”
“Is she all right?”
“I do not know. She took the pills. Too many.”
“What pills?”
“Again, I do not know, but when Vianca called, I said I would look after little Ram6n for a few hours so that Vianca and Roberto could be with
their
mother and talk to the doctors this morning ...”
“Of course.” Shelby took another swig of juice.
“But if you need me at the house I will bring the boy along ...”
“Oh, no ... everything’s fine here,” Shelby said and twisted the phone cord to look outside at the pool. The surface was like glass, reflecting the blue of the early morning sky. “Take your time.” She hung up, polished off the rest of the O.J., then, as she was completely alone in the house, hurried outside, stripped off her pajamas and dived into the pool.
The water hit her in an icy blast.
She kicked upward, hit the surface, took a breath and began swimming, stroking to the far end of the pool. As she cut through the water she concentrated, not on her swimming, but on her life and how it had changed. Somewhere she had a daughter. But where? Nearby? Or far away? Or was this all a hoax? Oh, God, who would be so cruel and why?
She reached the edge of the pool, somersaulted under the water and began swimming the length again. Faster and faster, knifing through the bracing water. Her mind, no longer fuzzy with sleep, was suddenly acutely clear. A picture of Elizabeth, the only photograph she’d ever seen, floated through her mind, and as she reached the end of the pool that image changed to that of Nevada and she remembered how easily she’d made love to him last night. It had seemed so natural, so right ... oh, she couldn’t think about their lovemaking; not now. She had more important issues.
Think. Shelby, think. You’re a smart woman. How are you going to find your child? There’s a way. You just have to find it.
Again she reached the edge of the pool. She flipped onto her back and began an easy backstroke, staring up at the sky.
Dollars to donuts, the Judge knows where your daughter is.
Old Judge Cole
Was a nasty old soul
And a nasty old soul was he.
He called for his-
 
The phone rang and Shelby missed a stroke.
Maybe someone had news about Elizabeth!
She cut to the side of the pool, hoisted her naked body out of the water and ran, dripping, into the kitchen. Snagging the receiver, she said, “Hello?”
There was a loud click on the other end.
“Hello?” she said again, but knew whoever had called had hung up. “Hello?” She felt a moment’s anxiety—there had been too many calls when no one answered—but then chalked it up to a misdial, though the person on the other end could have had the decency to apologize. “Jerk,” she muttered under her breath, then dashed up the back stairs to her room. Within fifteen minutes she’d showered, changed into a shorts set, slapped on a little lipstick and mascara and was down the stairs again. She mopped the kitchen with a towel and then, realizing that she might not be alone again in the house for a long while, started the coffeepot and headed straight to her father’s office. Today she’d go through every one of his files. If there was anything to be learned about the whereabouts of her daughter in the Judge’s office, Shelby would find it.
 
“Idiot!” Nevada mentally kicked himself up one side and down the other. What had he been thinking? Making love to Shelby Cole. “Fool. You get what you deserve.” He tossed a forkful of hay into the manger and watched as the broodmares buried their noses in the feed. What was it about Shelby that he couldn’t resist? Years ago he’d convinced himself that he’d been fascinated with her because she’d been Judge Cole’s only daughter, forbidden fruit, the great taboo.
But now?
“Damn it all to hell.” he grumbled, whistling to Crockett and sauntering outside to the sweltering Texas afternoon. God, it was hot. Waves of heat shimmered in the distance, and horseflies buzzed near his head. Dust clogged the air, and yet he loved it here. Once a Texan, always a Texan, he’d heard more than once. Well, in his case, it seemed true. Though for the life of him he couldn’t understand why. All morning long he’d been bothered with thoughts of Shelby, kissing her, touching her, the feel of her skin glistening with sweat as it pressed hard against his. He couldn’t resist making love to her last night, and damn it, he doubted he ever would again.
Mopping his brow with one work glove, he walked to the machine shed, where the heat seemed to settle. Wasps droned in their nests in the rafters, and the smell of oil competed with the ever-present odor of dry dust. Outside a mare nickered softly. Nevada kneeled near the flatbed trailer and scowled at the bald tire that had gone flat in the past few weeks. He found his wrench and began working on the lug nuts while his thoughts ran in circles about Shelby and their daughter. Or Ross McCallum’s daughter.
His stomach turned sour. Bile rose in his throat, and his right hand clenched the wrench so hard that his knuckles showed white through his skin. McCallum should never have gotten out of prison. Never.
Nevada spun one lug nut off and caught it in his left hand. He settled the wrench over the next one. Something was going on in Bad Luck. McCallum was out of jail. Shelby was back in town searching for a daughter she’d thought died at birth. Caleb Swaggert was dead—maybe murdered—and now Aloise Estevan was in the hospital, having nearly killed herself taking an overdose of pills—or so he’d been told at the hardware store this morning. Somehow these events had to be connected. In a town the size of Bad Luck, where nothing much ever happened, it was far too much of a stretch to believe that these incidents were unrelated.
He yanked off the tire and hauled it out to his pickup, then tossed it into the bed.
Who had sent Shelby the picture of the child? Who? The thought tormented him as he walked to the house to grab his wallet and keys. If he could locate that person, then everything else would fall into place, he was sure of it.
Inside the kitchen, he washed his hands, then walked into the bedroom and found his wallet and keys on the bureau. Glancing at the bed, now made, he felt his damned groin tighten. In his mind’s eye he saw Shelby, naked, lying beneath him, her skin white and clear, her eyes as blue as a Texas sky, her hair fanned around her head, the night filled with promise. His jeans were suddenly too tight as he remembered making love to her, and he noticed the scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in some kind of danger, that she’d been lured here with the photo of her daughter as bait. But why? The back of his neck prickled as his thoughts skated to Ross McCallum. Was he behind all this? An ex-con who’d raped her, a man who should still be locked away.
Nevada changed his shirt and slapped his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. Scooping up his keys, he made his way outside and told himself he was going into town to get the flat repaired. But he had other reasons as well. Reasons that surrounded Shelby Cole, the Judge’s princess of a daughter—the mother of his child.
 
The single-wide trailer was a pigsty. Ross crushed his cigarette in an old Jiffy Pop pan and felt the afternoon heat begin to bake the interior.
He’d been living in this old tin can ever since he’d gotten out of the big house. At first he’d tried to fix the place up since his no-good sister, Mary Beth, refused to help him out anymore. Probably because she was out lookin’ for another no-good to make her next husband.
So Ross had cleaned the inside as best he could, but the trailer wasn’t a whole helluva lot better than his prison cell. Long-neglected paneling was falling off the walls, the carpet was worn bare and all the faucets were rusty. Cobwebs, dust and dead insects had collected on the windows, and the counter tops had faded and cracked. The furniture was worn, broken and just plain shot. He’d managed to get the electricity turned on, but the plumbing was giving him fits and it was hotter than Hades during the day. Night wasn’t much better, and as glad as he was to have gotten out of prison, he needed to improve his lot in life.
And he had just the ticket.
Caleb Swaggert was dead and now there wasn’t anyone to give that reporter-gal the inside scoop on what happened the night Ol’ Ramón Estevan had been killed. What better story than straight from the horse’s mouth, from the man who’d been set up and sent away for the murder?
Yep, he’d have to contact the reporter and work himself a deal. And then there were some other old debts that needed to be repaid. He had yet to square off with Nevada, but that day was comin’ and fast. Like a fuckin’ freight train.
He hadn’t paid a call on Shelby Cole yet, but the time just hadn’t been right. He would, though, and soon.
Ross smiled to himself and walked outside to the two weathered steps that constituted the front porch. Some of the garbage had been strewn around the place last night, and Ross thought it was about time he got himself a gun to take care of the coyotes or whatever the hell it was that was marauding around here at night. Aside from that, it would feel good to have a rifle in his hands again. A man wasn’t really a man without a gun. He surveyed the dry landscape. A few scraggly trees, dry grass and hard pan. How the devil had his grandfather ranched here and supported himself, his wife and five kids?
He’d have to find himself a rifle, and soon. Maybe he’d get himself a dog as well—a pit bull or rottweiler would be just the ticket. He needed protection. A lot of strange things were going on in Bad Luck these days. He rubbed the back of his neck, felt the sting of a bee and slapped the hornet hard. Buzzing angrily, it dropped to the rickety step. Ross was quick, grinding the varmint beneath the toe of his boot and feeling a spurt of satisfaction race through his blood.
Yep, he thought, his neck smarting, a lot of strange things were happening in Bad Luck, Texas, and unless he missed his guess, there were gonna be a few more.
 
Shelby slid the last file into its slot in her father’s credenza and silently berated herself. She had read through each one, slipping a few folders at a time up to her room, then studying them and finding nothing that would help her. Whatever secrets the Judge was keeping, they were still safe, unable to be uncovered by any of the papers he’d locked in his den.
Lydia had come to the house sometime after noon, and other than offering to make Shelby some lunch and explaining that Aloise had taken too many sleeping pills, the housekeeper had kept to herself. Her eyes had been red, her usually sunny expression decidedly missing, and Shelby had thought she’d heard Lydia sobbing softly.
All in all, it had been a fruitless and disturbing morning.
It was nearly two-thirty by the time Shelby locked the credenza and pocketed the small ring of keys that her father kept in the dish near his humidor. Surely one of the keys would open the door to his office downtown, and maybe there she would find more information, anything, that would help her find Elizabeth. She’d take the keys to Coopersville this afternoon, find an out-of-the-way locksmith who wouldn’t recognize her, then return the original set to the den. After that, the Judge’s office would be at her fingertips. Hoping no hint of guilt showed on her face, she walked from the den to the kitchen. The keys jangled softly deep in her pocket.
Lydia was crying again, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron and muttering softly in Spanish to herself as she carried a plastic container filled with cleaning supplies toward the dining room.
“Lydia, is something wrong?” Shelby asked as she poured herself a cup of coffee.
“What? Oh,
niña.
No.” Lydia cleared her throat and disappeared through the archway. Shelby followed.
“You’ve been crying. Look, I’m not trying to pry, but I’m not blind or deaf. Something’s bothering you, Lydia. Something big.”
The housekeeper offered a frail smile as she set her bucket on the floor. Last week’s birds of paradise arrangement was beginning to wilt on the table, though the crystal, rarely used, sparkled behind the glass doors of the buffet. “I am just upset to hear of Aloise. She is ... well, a friend, and a relative.”

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