by Lisa Jackson
He pulled out a half drunk bottle of whiskey. “Perrier? Chardonnay?”
“Very funny. Let’s just get down to it.”
“Okay.” He replaced the bottle and she glanced around the small room. It was clean, but worn, the furniture circa 1980 or before, the coffee table strewn with copies of dog-eared magazines and newspapers. He motioned toward a once-maroon couch tucked under the window just as the phone jangled.
Nevada strode to the kitchen, snagged the receiver from the wall phone before the third ring and said a short, “Smith.” Slowly lowering herself to perch on the edge of a leather ottoman, Shelby watched as every muscle in his body tensed.
“Which island?” he demanded. His gaze found hers and held.
A trickle of dread oozed down her spine.
“And he doesn’t practice anymore?” Nevada demanded.
Her heart thudded. Was he talking about Dr. Pritchart? On her feet in an instant, she closed the distance between them, a dozen questions on her lips.
“... you’re sure. Yeah? Oh.” His voice lowered a bit and irritation hardened his jaw. “I figured as much. Thanks.”
“What was that all about?” she demanded as he hung up.
“Good news and bad.”
“Let’s hear the good.”
“That was my friend, the PI. As I said, I called him and asked him to do some digging. He seems to think that the doctor who delivered your baby is in the Carribean somewhere.”
“But he’s not certain?” Shelby asked.
“Still trackin’ it down.”
“How does he know?” she said.
“Don’t ask. He knows, okay?”
“Listen, Nevada, I just want to make sure he’s on the up-and-up.”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Your definition of ‘up-and-up.’ ”
“I want to know if he’s legitimate.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“I can’t believe we’re arguing about this. When we find Elizabeth, I don’t want any screw-ups, any ... anything illegal that might prevent me ... us from seeing her.”
“Don’t sweat it. He’s an old Army buddy. Worked for the CIA for a while, now he’s freelance. If anyone can locate Pritchart or Elizabeth, he will. That’s what you wanted isn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then live with it.”
“Who is he? I assume he has a name.”
Nevada’s big, calloused hands took hold of her bare shoulders. “Don’t you want to know the bad news?” He was suddenly deadly serious, every muscle in his face tense.
“What?”
“Ross McCallum was released from prison.” She froze. Felt sick inside. “He’s already landed in Bad Luck.”
Her heart plummeted. If not for the steadying hands on her shoulders, she might have started to tremble. But she forced herself to remain calm. McCallum couldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t dare. “Your friend on the phone knew that as well?”
“Nope. I found it out myself, this morning. Shep Marson was kind enough to let me know.”
“Shep Marson is never kind,” Shelby said, shivering inside. Marson and McCallum—both bad news. She stepped out of Nevada’s grasp, didn’t want to feel any part of his anatomy touching hers.
“Can’t argue with that. There’s talk that he’ll be runnin’ for Sheriff in the next election.”
“Great,” Shelby said and then walked the few steps into the living room and reclaimed her position on the ottoman. “I think I changed my mind. I could use a drink right now.”
So this was Bad Luck, Texas!
Katrina Nedelesky jerked on the emergency brake of her Ford Escort and decided that no town on God’s green earth had ever been more aptly named. Small, rural, lacking any grain of character, Bad Luck had no hope of growing.
Two or three streets of storefronts, one gas station, a handful of taverns and just as many churches collected around the heart of a town that appeared sunbaked, tired and shop-worn. Bad Luck wasn’t just a few hundred miles from Dallas; it was light years.
Katrina felt as if she’d been thrown back in time about half a century.
“Get over it,” she grumbled, using the tiny mirror on her visor as she touched up her lipstick from a tube that was determined to melt. The air-conditioning in her Escort was on the fritz and the radiator was making strange hissing sounds, but the little car only had to hang on a few more months and then she’d trade it in on a new Porsche, or BMW, or even a Mustang convertible—something with some class, something that stated, Watch out, world,Katrina Nedelesky has arrived! She’d get a set of custom plates with something printed on them. And it wouldn’t be Bad Luck.
Even though Bad Luck, Texas, was going to be her ticket to the big time. This lazy little dot on the map with its nearly ten-year-old murder mystery was going to bring her some well-deserved fame, get her out of debt and settle some old scores. All in one fell swoop.
And it couldn’t happen fast enough!
Her clothes had wilted from the heat, and she hoped to God there was a motel somewhere. Her throat was parched, and she felt like shit from hours of driving. Fluffing her hair, she climbed out of the car. Night was beginning to fall, and a few streetlights were already glowing, attracting all kinds of insects and washing the main street with fake blue illumination.
It didn’t help. Bad Luck needed more than soft lighting; it was in desperate need of a face-lift. The old saying that if you drove through and blinked, you’d miss the entire town was closer to the truth than the citizens of this part of the state would probably want to admit.
Just around the corner, by the pharmacy, she spied an old hitching post. For the love of God, hadn’t anyone heard that it was a new millennium?
She crossed the street to a small grocery as a bit of wind tugged at her skirt and a couple of kids on bikes blasted past a wheezing truck carrying a load of peaches. Three teenagers with bad attitude carved into their expressions lounged and smoked near the front windows. They gave her the once-over as she shoved on the door. A fan mounted where there had once been a transom pushed hot air around. To the crackle of static and Spanish music, a few customers eyed shelves filled with junk food and small containers of necessities.
On the back wall was an ancient cooler where dozens of soda and beer cans chilled. Katrina yanked out a can of Dr Pepper. Cool air rushed at her in a glorious blast that helped improve her mood.
The woman behind the counter was Hispanic, as were half the patrons within the tiny store, and that was when it hit Katrina like a blow to the head. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Talk about dumb-ass luck! She paid for her Dr Pepper and a bag of M&Ms, then walked down an aisle filled with small-sized boxes of detergents to the front door. Outside she read the hand-painted sign gracing the window. Estevan’s Market.
As in Ramón Estevan.
As in the man who had been murdered and whose killer had just been absolved of the crime.
“Thank you, God,” she whispered under her breath and decided that, at least for another day or two, she’d play it cool. She popped the top of her Dr Pepper and took a long swallow. No one knew who she was or that she had a personal mission here. She’d keep it that way for a while. As if she’d forgotten something, she walked into the store again and inched toward the cash register.
Ignoring copies of newspapers from San Antonio and Dallas, Katrina thumbed through some magazines, appearing to browse the glossy pages as she eavesdropped. One scruffy-looking man with a graying ponytail and too few teeth bought cigarettes and a six-pack of beer. He didn’t say much, but he called the woman Vianca.
Katrina swallowed a smile. Pay dirt. Vianca Estevan, Ramón’s only daughter. With gleaming black hair, expressive eyes, full lips and cheekbones to die for, Vianca flirted and laughed with the customers while making change and checking the mirror for shoplifters.
So where was the wife? Vianca’s mother—wh
at was her name? Aloise, yeah, that was it. No sign of the older woman lurking in the back or stocking the shelves. Probably at the local Catholic church or hiding out at home. Rumor had it, Aloise was a certified nut case—hadn’t been the same since her husband was murdered. But not so Vianca. Sultry and sharp-witted, she seemed to hold down the family business, though why anyone would want to was beyond Katrina. Way beyond. She thought hard. Wasn’t there a brother as well? Roberto—that was it! So why wasn’t he in the store?
Katrina flipped through a month-old copy of Cosmopolitan and kept an ear to the local gossip as people strolled in and out. Half the conversations were in Spanish and she silently cursed Señor Walters, her high-school Spanish teacher, as she couldn’t decipher most of the dialogue. Not that it was all that great. What she did figure out was that someone in town had just delivered twins, the fishing up at a nearby lake was pathetic and there had been a brushfire that had nearly destroyed someone’s casa.
Big whoop.
She was about to leave when she finally heard a tidbit that interested her. Part of it was in Spanish, but the name Ross McCallum rang out as clear as a bell. Katrina glanced over her shoulder and saw the reaction she’d expected. Vianca’s eyes flashed and her nostrils flared.
Katrina listened hard, but she didn’t understand all the words. The undercurrents of emotions, however, were right near the surface. Vianca wasn’t pleased, that much was evident. Her pretty face was suddenly overcome with thunderclouds, and other people in the store muttered their condolences.
Yep, Katrina thought, ambling up to the counter and paying for a couple of magazines she didn’t want as the conversation around her died, she’d have to come back to this miserable town and interview a few people. And not just because of her job. Nope. There was more to it than the simple fact that she was here on an assignment for Lone Star magazine.
Katrina had her own axe to grind.
And it was personal.
Chapter Six
“Damn you, Nevada Smith.” Shelby rolled out of bed and groaned. A headache pounded behind her eyes. She’d tossed and turned all night, her thoughts spinning with images of Nevada, her father, and a baby she’d given up long ago. Other darker, more horrifying images had assailed her as well—a kaleidoscope of ugly memories that she’d spent years trying to erase.
Her muscles were tense, her jaw so tight it ached. As she jerked an old robe off a hook on the closet door, she rubbed the back of her neck. She understood why she was anxious about her daughter, but her feelings for Nevada were unexpected and definitely unwanted.
So she’d been in love with him ten years ago.
So what?
She’d been a kid and a lot of water had run under the bridge since then. She pushed her arms into the sleeves of the terry housecoat, cinched the belt around her waist, slid her feet into a pair of thongs then stopped at the window.
Nevada’s image still teased her—all bronze skin, hard muscles and suspicious glare. “Forget him.” She stared through her window to the pool a story below. Sunlight, filtered and diffused through the branches of the pecan trees, danced upon the water.
She remembered making love to him in the rain, his hard male body joining with hers. The smell of a storm had been in the air and she’d been filled with raw, unbridled passion and the incredible naivete of youth. She hadn’t known where loving him would lead. Hadn’t cared.
“You were a fool. A stupid idiotic child!” She caught her reflection in the mirror above her dresser and noticed the flush of her cheeks, the dilation of her pupils. “Forget it,” she told the woman staring back at her. Picking up a brush, she jabbed it emphatically at her reflection. “You’re not going there ever again. Ever.”
The last thing—the very last thing—she needed was to get involved with anyone from around here, especially some saddle-sore cowboy. No way. No how. She knew what she wanted in life, what kind of man she was looking for, and it wasn’t a rugged, broken-down ex-cowboy in dusty jeans and a faded T-shirt. She’d gone that route before.
If and when she settled down, it would be with a successful businessman, a guy who wore a suit to the office and clean slacks or jeans at home, someone with his own business who was charming and sophisticated and educated, for crying out loud.
She brushed her hair angrily. Why was she even thinking like this? So she had a bad night, so what? So he kissed her. It happened to other women every day. Get over it. She glanced out the window again.
She needed to stretch, to unwind, to clear her mind. Swimming or horseback riding had always done the trick when she was still living at home. In Seattle, she’d taken up jogging, pounding the pavement in the early hours, ignoring the rain, reveling in the wind, and then, to reward herself, stopping off at the local coffee shop for some Northwest espresso before going into the office.
Here, with the heat, jogging was out and the pool, still and cool in the morning air, invited her.
That did it.
Scrounging in her closet, she found a swim suit that still fit. She stripped off pajamas and robe, tugged on the one-piece and wound her hair onto her head before tossing on the terry cover-up. With a towel from the adjoining bathroom, she hurried down the back stairs and was greeted with the scent of strong coffee and the sound of rattling dishes.
“Nina,” Lydia said with a broad smile as Shelby appeared. “You go for a swim?”
“Yeah, I thought it would be a good idea.” Shelby poured herself a cup of coffee from the glass pot on the counter.
“And then breakfast? Waffles and peaches and strawberries. Your father, he went into town to his office, but he said he would be back and I will make him something when he gets here.”
“I usually just drink coffee,” Shelby said with a shake of her head. Then, seeing the disappointment in the older woman’s eyes, she sighed. “Sure, why not, but I’ve really gotten into just a cup of espresso or a latte in the morning. It’s kind of a Northwest thing.”
“You are home now.”
“Well, for a while.” She took the coffee outside with her, and the warmth of morning hit her full force. Leaving her cup on the outside table, she dropped her towel and cover-up by the pool’s edge, then dived in.
Cold water embraced her, took her breath away. She started swimming, long, easy strokes, and felt her blood pumping, the headache clearing. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun bright as it rose toward the tops of the trees. Stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, breathe. She found her rhythm and thought about the day ahead. She’d call Nevada, get the name of his private investigator, see if they could locate Doctor Pritchart—the coward. Surely his medical license could be jerked—well, maybe it already had been. Revenge wasn’t her motive. Knowledge was.
So you’ll have to see Nevada again. Well, that was inevitable. He was the father of her child.
Or was he?
She gave herself a quick mental shake. She couldn’t think like that. Wouldn’t.
Stroke, stroke, breathe.
But there was a chance that Elizabeth’s father was Ross McCallum.
She lost her rhythm. Her stomach turned over and she wanted to throw up. No! It wasn’t possible; it just couldn’t be.
You’ve got to be honest, Shelby. Isn’t that what you’re expecting of everyone else?
Stroke. Stroke. Concentrate on the positive.
Ross McCallum could be—
“Damn it, no!” She yelled as she reached the shallow end of the pool, tossed her head, flinging beads of water from her hair, and stood, leaning against the tile lip of the pool.
“ ‘No,’ what?” As she tugged the rubber band from her hair, Nevada’s voice startled her. For a split second she thought she was seeing things, but there he was, big as life, standing next to the glass-topped table. A second cup of coffee steamed beside hers. Sunglasses guarded his eyes. Clean Levis and a tan shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows covered the rest of him. He’d shaved, and his hair was brushed away from his face, though she didn’t su
spect it would stay that way for long. As she remembered, it had a tendency to fall over his eyes in boyish disarray.
“What’re you doing here?”
“You took off pretty abruptly yesterday.”
That much was true. After hearing that Ross McCallum was back in Bad Luck, Shelby had mumbled quick excuses, left Nevada’s cabin, climbed into her rented Caddy and taken off in a swirl of dust and despair. It was one thing to deal with Nevada, quite another to have to face Ross McCallum. Though she’d known he was coming back to town, the fact that he was actually in Bad Luck turned her insides to water.
“It was upsetting,” she said, placing her hands on the tile and dragging her body onto the edge of the pool. She squeezed the excess water from her hair and grabbed her towel, then squinted up at him. “You didn’t answer my question. What’re you doing here?”
“I thought we were partners.”
“Partners?” She was instantly suspicious; then she understood. She toweled off and felt the weight of his gaze on her. “Oh.”
“Right. In finding our daughter.”
Our daughter.
“It was your idea.”
“I know.” She dabbed at her face with her towel and didn’t consider the topic of paternity as she reached for the short terry robe. “Do you have more news? And who’s the private investigator? I assume he does have a name.”
“Bill Levinson and no, not much more news. But you left yesterday without a game plan.”
Pushing her arms through terry-cloth sleeves, she walked barefoot to the table. He was nearly a head taller than she, and she tried not to notice how long his legs were, how wide his shoulders, how slim his waist. She remembered how he’d grabbed her and kissed her yesterday, the way he’d pounced. Like a cougar on unsuspecting prey. The mere thought of it took her breath away. Too many hours last night her mind had strayed to that one soul-jarring kiss. She cleared her throat. “You have one—a plan?”
“I think so.”
The back door opened and Lydia, carrying a tray, appeared. “I brought breakfast,” she explained with an expansive smile. “For two.”