by Lisa Jackson
He handed her a glass. “Now, you were telling me about your baby.” Expression unforgiving, he settled into a chair and rested the worn heel of his boot on the top of a barrel near the door. “Our daughter.”
Shelby’s shoulders stiffened a fraction. She wasn’t going to be intimidated and plowed on. “That’s right, Nevada. As I said, I thought she was dead.”
“Weren’t you there—didn’t you see her delivered?”
“I ... I was medicated.”
“Hell.” He tossed her a look that said volumes, then rotated his wrist quickly, indicating that she should continue.
Shelby cleared her throat. “I have copies of a birth certificate and a death certificate.”
“Who gave ’em to you?”
“I got both signed by Doc Pritchart at the hospital.”
“The guy’s a crook.”
“The guy’s missing,” she replied, then took a sip from her tea. Condensation dripped down the sides of the glass.
“He left town not long after you did.”
“Figures.” Fishing in her briefcase, she found the manila packet that had changed her life. “Take a look at these,” she said, handing him the file and wondering why she was making the mistake of letting him look over the documents, letter and picture of Elizabeth Jasmine Cole, the name she’d given her daughter.
“You never saw the baby?” His voice held no inflection, but a muscle worked near the corner of his jaw.
“Never.”
“Why not?”
“I told you, I was drugged, not conscious when the baby arrived.” Tears of outrage stung the back of her eyelids, but she refused to break down. She didn’t have time for self-pity. Not now.
His eyes narrowed. “You’re saying that there was some kind of conspiracy against you, that—what? Doc Pritchart slipped something into your IV?”
“No ... I don’t think so. I mean ...” She didn’t want to go into the details and slid her jaw to one side. “I was stupid, all right? I went horseback riding in my eighth month, took a spill and the baby decided to come early.” She looked away to the haze gathering over the low hills and a solitary hawk circling over a cropping of mesquite. No reason to explain about the pain, the fear, the river of blood that had scared her to death. He didn’t need to know about the ambulance ride that her father hushed up or the fact that Doc Pritchart had smelled of alcohol, or the simple truth that for ten years she’d felt as guilty as sin for the death of her child.
“When I woke up, everyone told me that the baby was dead, and my father, who was still my legal guardian as I was underage, had ordered the autopsy and cremation.”
“And you didn’t question it?”
“I was seventeen.” Turning, she pinned him in her furious glare. “I didn’t think he’d lie.”
“That was your first mistake.”
“Not my first.” Frost chilled each one of her words, and she noticed the muscles at the baae of his neck constrict. “I seem to have made more than my share back then.”
“Didn’t we all?”
Her heart twisted, but she hid it. She’d come to tell him the truth and having done that, there wasn’t a lot more to say.
He studied the glossy picture in his hands as if looking for some kind of evidence that the child was his. “Have you talked to the Judge?”
“You bet.”
“And?”
“He denies it all.”
“But you don’t believe him.”
“Not for a second.”
“You’re learning.”
“Let’s hope so.” She finished her drink in one swallow and set her empty glass on the table. “I’ve grown up a lot since this all happened.” Standing, she reached for the snapshot and papers.
“Who sent these to you?” He took one last look at the smiling girl in the photograph, then slid the photograph and other papers into the envelope.
“That’s why I’m here. To find out.”
Eyebrows coming together thoughtfully, he flipped the packet over and eyed the postmark. “San Antonio.”
“Yep. Not far from here.”
He slapped the envelope into her waiting palm.
“So I can’t help but wonder if she’s around Bad Luck ... if by any chance Elizabeth grew up here or in the next town, or on some ranch in the country, or if the postmark was a deliberate red herring meant to bring me back here when really she’s in California or Mexico or Quebec or God only knows where....” The painful old lump filled her throat again, the same thickness she’d felt throughout the years when she’d thought of the daughter she’d lost. But falling apart now would solve nothing. She slipped the envelope into a side pocket of her briefcase.
“You gonna talk to the police?” He stared up at her from his insolent position in the chair, but, she guessed, despite his outwardly calm demeanor, he was turning every piece of this new information over in his mind.
“The police? I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just received the envelope yesterday. Who would I contact? The San Antonio police? The Sheriff’s Department? The Rangers?” Her headache throbbed as she thought about it. “No ... I think I’ll handle this on my own right now. I don’t want the press involved until I do some checking on my own. I only told you because I ran into you.”
“Surprised you did.”
“Why?”
One arrogant eyebrow raised. “I really didn’t think you had the guts.”
“Then you don’t know me very well, do you?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned his chair back against the weathered siding beneath the porch light and gave her the slow once-over. Down. Up. His gaze finally ended up where it began, at her eyes. “I know you well enough.”
“Did, Smith. Did. I was just a kid then.”
“A pretty nice kid, if I remember right.”
“I was certainly naive,” she said, refusing to be seduced by his words, “and probably stupid.”
He stood and rubbed the stubble of his chin. “You didn’t waste much time gettin’ here.”
“Nine years. Long enough.” She picked up her briefcase as if to leave.
“You stayin’ with your pa?”
She hesitated. “Don’t know.”
“Call me when you make a decision.”
Her spine stiffened and she glared at him through her dark lenses. “Why?”
“I’d like to keep in touch.”
“I don’t think that would be such a hot idea. Really.”
“Well, I don’t see how it can be avoided.”
“The town isn’t that small.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. You just breezed into Bad Luck and dropped a bomb at my feet—told me I might have a kid somewhere. If that’s true—”
“It is,” she said vehemently, feeling her cheeks burn.
“If that’s true, then I’d say I have a stake in it.” Steely eyes assessed her. “I’ll want to meet my daughter.”
“I’ve got to find her first.”
“Correction: we’ve got to find her.”
“But—”
“And we will.” He said it so matter-of-factly. “I want copies of everything you’ve got.”
A drop of dread slid down her spine. She didn’t want to get caught up in the trap that was Nevada Smith again. No way. No how. The man was a loser—still sexy, she’d grant him that, but no one she wanted to deal with. And yet he seemed as immovable as granite, standing in front of her, all male, muscle and determination. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“No, Shelby. You’ll do it.”
Her back teeth clenched. The man’s gall was unbelievable. But then, it always had been. “Let’s get one thing straight, Nevada. You can’t order me around.”
One side of his mouth lifted—as if he enjoyed the challenge. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he drawled. “Could I have copies of everything.” A pause. “Please?”
Blatantly mocking her, he smiled with that thousand-watt Texas grin
she’d fallen victim to so many years before. Pinpoints of amusement suddenly lighted his eyes.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do.”
She reached for the door handle and hesitated. There was business between them yet undiscussed. Cringing inwardly, she said, “The Judge said something about Ross McCallum getting out of prison soon.”
“Real soon.” Nevada’s nostrils flared slightly. “Seems as if ol’ Caleb Swaggert is recantin’ his testimony and claims Ross didn’t kill Ramón Estevan after all.”
“So who did?”
“That, Shelby-girl, is the million-dollar question.”
“One of them.”
“Right. Here’s one that’s bothering me: Why is it, on the very week McCallum is to be released, you get all this information about a child you thought was dead?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“Maybe we should find out.”
“We?” She was instantly wary.
“Oh, yeah.” He placed one arm on the door, holding it closed and cutting off all chance of her leaving. Close enough that she could smell him—mingled scents of sweat and soap and dust—he leaned even nearer. Her heart pumped stupidly and she noticed the few dark hairs on the backs of his hands and the irregular shape of the pupil of his bad eye. His breath was warm and feather-light. Beads of sweat ran down her back. Coming here, being alone with him, had been a mistake. A huge mistake. She swallowed hard and tried not to stare at his lips as he continued, “If the girl in the picture is my daughter, you damned well know that I’m gonna be involved.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s not about obligation, Shelby,” he said firmly, his gaze locking fast with hers. “It’s about blood.”
Chapter Three
Shep Marson parked the cruiser in the shade of a solitary live oak and mopped the sweat from his brow. The little house he’d called home for the past ten years—a three-bedroom ranch with one bath—appeared shabby in the sun’s unforgiving rays. Light green paint peeled near the front door, the television antenna listed to one side and the shingles on the roof had been patched more than once. But there wasn’t a lot of extra money these days, not when there were six mouths to feed. And that wasn’t the worst of it. He could stretch his salary to cover expenses—after all, he’d bought his house on the G.I. bill—but there were other secrets that seduced the cash from his pockets.
He felt like a damned fool—hell, he was one, but maybe he’d find a way out of this trap. He had to. Before he bled to death. At one point, he’d hoped his wife’s parents would bail them out, but then the old man had lost most of his money when the cattle market collapsed.
Scratching his neck, Shep walked around the house to the back yard, where his hunting dog, straining against his leash, barked like crazy.
“Hush!” Shep yelled, then noticed a neighbor’s calico cat slink under the porch. He yanked the knot in his tie and loosened the top two buttons of his shirt.
The scents of cinnamon and nutmeg greeted him as Shep hung his hat on a peg near the back door and was about to step into the kitchen.
“Boots on the back porch! Shep, you hear me?” Peggy Sue yelled from somewhere near the living room over the din of the television and the squabble of the kids. Two of them ran toward him, their bare feet slapping the worn linoleum. “Daddy, Daddy!” Candice yelled, her blond pigtails bouncing over her ears, her younger brother right on her tail.
“Hey there, little missy,” he said, scooping up the six-year-old as Donny pointed a water pistol at her and squeezed the trigger. A squirt of tepid water stained the front of Shep’s uniform. “None of that in the house,” Shep reprimanded him sharply.
His wife, Peggy Sue, wearing faded jeans, a checkered blouse tied under her breasts and a sorry expression marring what had once been a fresh and beautiful face, appeared from the hallway. Her hair was scraped back, showing off cheekbones that other women had said they’d “die for,” and a few freckles that bridged her pert nose and he’d once thought were so damned cute.
“What did I say about yer boots?” she asked, walking to the oven and blowing her bangs out of her eyes. A ponytail swung behind her head, and the first few strands of gray were visible in her brown curls as she leaned over and opened the oven door. Her butt filled out her jeans more than it used to, and Shep hated the thought that his wife, Peggy Sue Collins Marson, once the premiere baton twirler in the county and the cutest piece of tail he’d ever had in the backseat of his old Ford wagon, was beginning to appear shopworn.
Shep set Candice on the floor and wrestled Donny’s water pistol from him, then nudged off one boot with the toe of the other. “Where’re Timmy and Robby?”
Using two frayed oven mitts, Peggy Sue pulled out a bubbling peach pie and set it gingerly on the top of the stove. “Timmy’s fillin’ out applications over to the Safeway and at Cole’s mill, I think.” She picked off the tinfoil that rimmed the pie plate. “And Robby, he mumbled somethin’ about goin’ swimmin’ with Billie Ray and Pete Dauber.”
“I don’t like him hangin’ out with the Dauber boys. They’re always into trouble.” He reached into the refrigerator and found a chilled can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Prob‘ly out smotdn’—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Peggy Sue cautioned, throwing a warning glance over her shoulder, then looking pointedly at the younger kids. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“He should be tryin’ to find him a summer job.”
“He bucked hay last month.”
“And he could be doin’ it still if he hadn’t messed up with old man Kramer.” His bad mood worsening, Shep popped the top of his sixteen-ouncer and smiled as he heard that soft, familiar hiss.
“Water under the bridge.”
“I wants pie!” Donny announced.
“After dinner. Now you run along, pick up them Legos and you, Candice, you help him.” To her husband she added, “Why don’t you fill up the wadin’ pool for ’em?”
“In a minute.” He just wanted to settle into his recliner and watch the news, but the look she sent him would have skewered an angry rattler and he didn’t want to get into a fight, not now. He liked to pick his fights with her later at night and then spend some hours making up in the sack.
When she wanted to be, Peggy Sue could be a wildcat in bed, the best damned fuck in the county. And she was his wife. For whatever reason he felt a sense of pride knowing that she was as horny as a wild mare in season, bucking and screaming on a Saturday night, only to rise early Sunday morning, get the kids cleaned up for Sunday school and lead the church choir with all the piety of an angel. He gave her a playful slap on the rump as he passed, and she turned on him. “Stop that and go fill the wadin’ pool. Now.” Shaking her head, she reached into a cupboard.
“I will,” he promised and killed the Pabst, then tried to wrap his arms around her waist and cop a quick feel of her breasts. He nuzzled the back of her neck and pressed his cock, always at the ready, into that nice little crease in the backside of her jeans.
“Stop it, Shep! I don’t have any time for this!” She wheeled to face him. Her mouth, where only traces of lipstick remained, was set, her jaw hard.
“All right, all right. Hell, you’d think a woman would like a little attention now and again.”
She muttered something under her breath as he found his old pair of sneakers. Neanderthal? Is that what she’d said? Not bothering with the laces, he walked outside and frowned.
Skip strained at his leash and put up a ruckus.
“Shut up!” Shep growled. Then, feeling a twinge of conscience as the retriever lunged toward him, hoping for some sign of attendon, Shep sighed and walked down the dusty path the dog had worn in the lawn to pat his head. “We’ll go out huntin’, you and I. Soon, ol’ boy,” he promised, then ambled to the hose bib, where wasps were hovering over a circle of mud from the leak in the faucet he’d planned to fix for weeks. Swatting away the pests, he pulled out the hose and walked to the po
ol. Week-old water stagnated, and blades of grass, weeds and dead bugs had collected on the surface. He dumped the . old water, filled the pool and figured he’d earned his spot in the recliner for the night.
Donny and Candice clamored down the back porch and, squealing in delight or anger, splashed into the clear water. Candice was a beauty—would look just like her ma, he suspected—but Donny, he was a skinny kid with a nose that was forever running and big, watery eyes. Truth to tell, Shep wasn’t that fond of his youngest son and he felt guilty about it, but there it was. Donny was a whiner, a complainer, and Peggy Sue babied him, wouldn’t ever let Shep put a strap to the boy’s behind when he needed it.
He twisted off the faucet and straightened, then looked past the side yard to the street where an aging El Camino glided past. Behind the wheel, her black hair blowing in the breeze, a cigarette wedged between moist-looking red lips, was Vianca Estevan, daughter of the man everyone assumed Ross McCallum had put into an early grave. Over-sized sunglasses hid eyes that Shep knew glowed like dark coals. In one short glance he caught a glimpse of the tops of her breasts, visible over the low-cut scoop of a white T-shirt.
As he turned back to the house, his damned cock tightened all over again and he clenched his jaw tight.
Inside, Peggy Sue was chopping onions while bacon sizzled in a skillet on the stove. Grease, crackling and popping, spattered over the edges of the pan.
“Smells good.”
She didn’t respond. Lately she’d been testy, he thought, as he reached into the fridge for another beer. She shot him a glance, her lips tightened, but she didn’t nag. She knew better. He watched her work and got hard. How long had it been since they’d gone at it? A week? Two? It had been a while. He’d tried to cuddle up to her each night and she’d told him she wasn’t in the mood, then rolled over in their double bed with the sagging mattress and offered him no more flesh than a severely cold shoulder.