Authors: Lisa Jackson
Tags: #Contemporary, #General, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense Fiction, #Suspense, #Fiction, #Texas
Unspoken (13 page)
“I guess I forgot to thank you,” Nevada drawled and the Judge’s face flushed.
“That’s right. With a record you never would’ve gotten that job with the Sheriff’s Department, never would have disgraced yourself and been thrown out on your ass, never gotten involved with Shelby!” He shot his daughter a condemning glance. “Then we wouldn’t be in this mess we’re in now.”
“Maybe we wouldn’t be in it if you had told the truth to Shelby way back when. You lied, Judge. About your own granddaughter.” The skin stretched tight across Nevada’s cheekbones. “I just wonder why.”
“I did what I thought was best.”
“Seems to me, if the word got out, you would be the one in trouble. Not only your reputation but your professional ethics up for review. There’re laws about falsifying legal documents such as birth and death certificates, Judge.”
“I’m no longer on the bench and I don’t practice law,” her father said, his eyes steady.
“But you could end up in jail.” Nevada didn’t cut the older man a bit of slack. “The way I hear it, there’s an empty cell, now that McCallum’s out.”
“You never did learn, did ya, Smith? All the trouble you were in and you never learned when to quit pushin’, when to keep your sorry mouth shut, when to—”
“That’s enough!” Shelby interjected. “Nevada just came by this morning because ... because he’s going to help me find Elizabeth.”
Her father’s nostrils flared, as if he’d just encountered a bad odor. He shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “You’re both makin’ a big mistake.”
Nevada nodded. “Could be. But I think we’d better try. I’d like to know if I have a daughter somewhere.”
The Judge’s eyes met Shelby’s and she swallowed hard, fighting the doubts tearing her up inside. Silently she pleaded with him not to bring up the horrid subject of Elizabeth’s paternity.
Not here. Not now.
Not here. Not now.
“So you haven’t told him, eh?” her father asked. Then some of his bravado slipped and a profound sadness settled deep in his eyes. “Hell, what a mess.”
Shelby’s spine stiffened. She’d never been one to back down from a battle, but this was tough. Damned hard.
“You should have told me what?” Nevada asked.
“Christ-a-mighty. You’re only working on half-baked information, Smith!” Shelby’s father pulled the cigar from his mouth. “But then, that seems to be your M.O. Bad information and unreliable witnesses.”
“You’re talkin’ about Caleb Swaggert,”
“Damned right.”
“He lied.”
“And now he’s found Jesus and the truth or some variation thereof. You hear that he’s sellin’ his story to the press?” His balding pate wrinkled.
“What’re you talking about?” Shelby demanded.
“Ol’ Caleb has himself an interview or some such nonsense with
Lone Star
magazine, leastwise that’s what I heard down at the coffee shop this mornin’.”
Lone Star
magazine, leastwise that’s what I heard down at the coffee shop this mornin’.”
“Why would he do that?” Nevada asked.
“Money.”
“He’s dyin’.” Nevada’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t matter. He ain’t dead yet and now his pack of lies, the ones that sent McCallum up the river, are gonna be turned into gold.” He scowled. “This is another one of your messes, Smith.”
“Mine?”
“You helped nail McCallum, and now it’s all fallin’ apart. That’s what happens when you count on derelicts and whores as witnesses. It’s a wonder Ross McCallum was ever found guilty in the first place. No murder weapon ever found, and he was drivin’ your truck that night.”
“It was stolen,” Nevada said.
“So you said.”
“I filed a report.”
“Easy to do when you worked for the law.”
Nevada’s lips thinned menacingly. “So you think Ross McCallum’s innocent?” Nevada’s skin was tight, the muscles beneath his shirt bunched.
“Innocent? Hell no. He’s guilty as sin, but it doesn’t matter now, does it, because ol’ Caleb is singin’ a different song and hopin’ to get through the Pearly Gates. Unless I’m forgettin’ the statutes, I believe a man can’t be tried for the same crime twice. In the eyes of the law, Ross McCallum’s a free—if not innocent—man. Hell’s bells, what a mess.” With that he rolled his window up and gunned the engine. The silver car eased around a final laurel-flanked curve as the garage door, clicking loudly, slowly began to open.
Nevada didn’t say another word, but the brackets around his mouth were white in his tanned skin and he looked as if he could spit nails as his eyes followed the path of the Mercedes. “What did he mean, I only have part of the story?” he demanded, turning on Shelby.
“He’s just mad about Ross McCallum getting out of jail,” she hedged.
“Don’t jerk me around.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Your father thought you were keeping something from me.”
“My father thinks a lot of things.”
Nevada seemed about to argue, but glanced at his watch and scowled more deeply. Frustration etched his features. “We’ll talk later. In the meantime try and come up with a list of people who might have sent you the package about Elizabeth.”
“Already working on it,” she admitted. In fact she’d spent all her time on the airplane wondering who would have contacted her and why after all these years—on the very week that Ross McCallum became a free man. “I’d like to talk to your friend—the private eye you hired.”
“I’ll have him call you.”
She swatted at a yellow jacket that hovered near her head. “I think it would be better if I called him,” she said staunchly.
Nevada hesitated. “I said I’ll have him call you.”
“You don’t trust me.” She was thunderstruck at the thought.
“You’re right, Shelby, I don’t. And I really can’t think of one good reason why I should. I said I’d have him call you, and I will.”
“But—”
“As you so eloquently told me earlier, ‘stuff it.’ ”
She shook her head and glared at him. “You really are a bastard, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“And probably the most irritating man in the entire state.”
“Probably.” He climbed into the cab, started the engine and rammed the truck into gear. “But if it’s any consolation, it’s taken years of practice to claim the title.”
“Go to hell.”
“Been there.” He slashed her an irreverent grin that made her temper blister. “Matter of fact, more than one time.” With that he stepped on the accelerator.
She watched as the old Ford gathered speed down the shaded lane, then, fists clenched impotently, turned on her heel.
He can’t get to you, Shelby, not if you don’t let him,
her mind taunted as she strode into the house and headed straight for her father’s den—the sanctuary she was taught long ago not to invade. Well, the old rules were out now.
He can’t get to you, Shelby, not if you don’t let him,
her mind taunted as she strode into the house and headed straight for her father’s den—the sanctuary she was taught long ago not to invade. Well, the old rules were out now.
Judge Red Cole was seated at his desk, one booted foot propped on a comer, his chair tilted back as he talked to someone on the telephone.
“ ... I don’t care what you have to do, just sell the rest of the yearlings or ...” He glanced up and found Shelby staring at him. “Listen, I’ll call you back.” Replacing the receiver, he waved her into one of the cushy leather chairs on the opposite side of his desk. “Have a seat.” Folding his arms across his ample middle, he asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“I realize that this is kinda like beating my head against the wall, but I wanted to give you one more chance to come clean with me,” she said. “It would be so much easier if you would tell me everything you know about Elizabeth.”
“I already did.”
“So where’s Doctor Pritchart?”
“Retired. Last I heard he was in the Florida Keys. Fishing and looking for a place to settle down. He had all sorts of wild notions about a tropical paradise.”
“And he never told you who adopted my daughter.”
“No.” The judge was firm.
“But then, you never asked him, did you?”
“Seems to me we’ve had this conversation before,” he said, dismissing her. “You need to move past this—get on with your life. You just heard me talking to my foreman about selling off part of the herd. There’s a reason. I’ve been talking to my attorneys about my will, and since you’re here anyway, I thought you might want to know what’s in it.”
“What? No. I mean, you’re going to live a long time, and I don’t want to even think about what will happen if you die.”
“Well, missy, you’re just gonna have to,” he said, “because I’m not going to live forever.” He reached into a drawer and she was on her feet. “I have a copy here somewhere—”
“I don’t need to see it.”
“Hell, where is it anyway? I guess it really doesn’t matter. There are a few people who I want to take care of, you know, people who’ve worked for me or helped me get elected and a couple of charities that your mother was involved with ... damn it all, where is that thing?” He sighed and pursed his lips before slamming the drawer shut. “Well, the gist of it is this—you inherit everything. I know you expected that as you’re my only child, but there is a hitch.”
“I don’t care.”
“Just listen, okay?” He was getting angry all over again, his face reddening. “I don’t want you to sell this house or any of the property and—” He leveled his stern gaze on her. “I expect you to live here.”
“What? Oh, Dad, why’re you bringing this up now?” she asked, and seeing his face light up as she acknowledged for the first time in ten years that he was her father.
“Because it’s got to be said, that’s why.”
“I have a life in Seattle—”
“You got a husband?”
“Well, no.”
“A boyfriend?”
“No ... not any longer.” She’d dated, of course, some more seriously than others, but the last man she’d been involved with had moved to San Francisco.
“Not even a pet.”
“No, but my job, my friends—”
“You can work here if you want to, not that you would have to, and you have friends here and can make some more. Maybe not in Bad Luck, but in San Antonio or Austin.” He was warming to his subject, his hands shifting so that his fingers tented over his belly. “In fact, I’ve got invitations to a few things coming up—a charity dinner and some wing-ding down in Galveston—and I want you to go with me. I’ll introduce you around. Lots of men about your age. All of ‘em decent-enough lookin’, some of ’em rich.”
“I won’t be here long,” she said, a bad taste crawling up the back of her throat. “As soon as I find Elizabeth, I’m out of here.”
Some of the wind left his sails. Placing his hands on the desk, he leaned across it. “Don’t say it, Shelby-girl. I know I’ve made my share of mistakes raisin’ you alone as I did, but I’ve missed you, honey. Oh, God, how I’ve missed you.” He cleared his throat, and his eyes watered enough that he blinked and looked away. “You look so damned much like your mother. Oh, shit, I miss her, too. I wasn’t the best husband in the world, nor the best father, but, as God is my witness, I loved your mother like no other. And you ... well, know it or not, you’ve always been the apple of my eye, even when you were hell-bent to rebel against me.”
Shelby’s throat grew thick, but she reminded herself of all the lies that had festered in this house for years, secrets and innuendoes that had been whispered around town. She leaned across his desk and placed a hand over his gnarled knuckles. “I came back here to find my daughter. That’s all. I’d hoped that you would help me.” Then she left, and as she walked into the hallway, she drew in a deep, struggling breath. Only when she passed the mirror mounted over a lacquered table in the front hall did she realize that her eyes were red and brimming with unshed tears.
“Damn it all.” Dashing the foolish drops from her eyes, she silently vowed she wouldn’t let her father get to her. Couldn’t. She had too much to do. She climbed the stairs to her room, intent on calling her office in Seattle to check on her clients and listings, then searching for Nevada’s private investigator on the Internet. But as she walked past the family portrait in the upper hall, a picture commissioned only months before her mother’s death, when Shelby was barely four, her facade of strength fractured. She hardly remembered the woman who had given her life.
No, most of her memories were of another time. Those images, the ones she’d tried so hard to tamp down, assailed her now—vivid, bright, and laced with pain.
Unable to keep them at bay any longer, she walked into her bedroom and wrapped her arms around one of the beveled posts at the foot of her bed, the very four-poster where she’d grieved for months after Jasmine’s death, the same bed where she’d dreamed of making love to a half-breed rebel who had touched her heart and soul, the bed in which she’d lain alone, only her own arms surrounding her as she’d cried silent tears of frustration, pain and fear when she was a seventeen-year-old in the worst trouble of her life.
“Don’t do this,” she warned herself, but it was already far too late. Memories, long hidden away, appeared in her mind’s eye, and she saw herself as she was then, fresh-faced, sassy, unaware of life’s wretched ironies.
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