Unspoken

by Lisa Jackson

  She wouldn’t bother with an appointment. No reason to give him the chance to call her father and tip him off. She threw on a cotton dress and sandals, packed a change of clothes in an old athletic bag she found in the closet, and flew downstairs. He was gone again and she had no trouble returning the files to his credenza. She was about to shut the drawer when she saw a file labeled Our Lady Of Sorrows.

  The hospital where she’d given birth.

  Without thinking twice, she withdrew the thin file and found two letters—one from the hospital administrator, the other from the Board of Directors, thanking Jerome Cole for the endowment he’d made in the name of his late wife. There was no amount of money specified, but the date on the letters was two months after Shelby had delivered her baby.

  She stared at the letters in disbelief. Could this have been some kind of payoff for falsifying the records? Surely not. And yet ... a chill swept through her and she stopped long enough to write down the name of the hospital administrator on the same scrap of paper on which she’d scribbled Findley’s name.

  Why would her father have gone to such lengths to ensure that she never found out about Elizabeth? Or was it all a coincidence? Maybe her father had just needed a tax break, or felt generous or ... no way. This was all part of his cover-up. She stuffed the information in her purse and fought a headache that was beginning to pound behind her eyes.

  As quietly as possible, she closed the drawer, locked it and replaced the key.

  Disturbed by her new knowledge, Shelby walked into the kitchen and found Lydia, back to the room, on the telephone. Soft Spanish music wafted from hidden speakers.

  Unaware that Shelby had entered, the housekeeper had stretched the phone cord so that she could glare out the window at the groundskeeper, who was edging the grass, as she spoke in rapid, nearly unintelligible Spanish. From her posture and the tone of the conversation, it was obvious that Lydia was angry. Shelby couldn’t follow all of the conversation but understood that Lydia somehow felt trapped, and not wanting to eavesdrop, she cleared her throat as she crossed the room and picked a grape from a basket of fruit on the counter.

  Lydia whipped around, and it was obvious that she was furious and had been fighting tears. Her face was red and blotchy, her eyes bright, tiny white lines bracketing her usually smiling lips. “Niña, ” she said, startled. “Dios, you frightened me. Oh—’xcuse me—” She listened again, said a quick, “Esta noche, ” then hung up quickly, as if she were embarrassed about being caught in a personal conversation while at work. She tapped loudly on the glass, causing the gardener to look up, and then shook her finger at him. “That man, he does not know what he’s doing. Just a minute.”

  She was out the door in a flash to accost the man who listened to her rantings as he withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up, waiting patiently while she berated him up one side and down the other in Spanish. A few seconds later she returned, her composure somehow back in place, and Shelby felt that something was amiss here. There were undercurrents she didn’t understand. Usually even-tempered, Lydia wasn’t known to go off the handle so wildly, especially not when the gardener was obviously doing a decent job. Then again, maybe Shelby was making more of it than was there, considering what she’d recently discovered in her father’s file drawer.

  “Hombres! ” Lydia muttered, rolling her expressive eyes.

  “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t shoot ’em,” Shelby said automatically, trying to lighten the mood. Lydia laughed, her tension seemingly forgotten for the moment.

  “Sí, sí. That one I will remember.”

  Shelby slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Is anything wrong?” she asked, hating to butt in, but feeling she should say something. “You seemed upset.”

  “Upset?” Lydia shook her head and reached into the refrigerator for a foil-covered dish.

  “On the phone.”

  “Oh. Uh, family troubles. My niece, Maria, she is having a time with her daughter. Nothing serious,” she said as she set the pan on the counter and opened the foil. The sharp, tangy scents of marinade filled the kitchen as Lydia forked the slab of meat and turned it over several times.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sí. ” Lydia avoided her eyes, and Shelby didn’t press the issue. At times the housekeeper was very open, others she was extremely private. This seemed to be one of those closely guarded personal times, and Shelby decided to leave well enough alone. “You are going out?” Lydia motioned toward Shelby’s bag with her fork.

  “Into San Antonio. I don’t know if I’ll be back tonight.”

  “Business?” Lydia asked.

  “Nope,” Shelby said, still trying to keep the conversation light. “A hot date.”

  “With Señor Smith?”

  Shelby’s smile faltered a bit. “Nah, you caught me. I was just teasing. No date. I thought I’d go into the city and do some shopping.” She plopped the grape in her mouth and swallowed it. “And, just for the record, I’m not dating Señor Smith.”

  Lydia lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. The older woman knew her too well. “You are taking the day off and are going shopping?”

  “Yes, I’ve only got a couple of things with me and, believe it or not, there seems to be a dearth of boutiques in Bad Luck.”

  Lydia managed a smile.

  “So, if anyone from my real estate office in Seattle calls, tell them I’ll call back tomorrow. But if a Mr. Levinson calls, get his number and I’ll call in and get my messages. If you have to leave, just record a message with all the information on the machine, okay?”

  “I will try,” Lydia replied, returning the pan of meat to the refrigerator, pulling out a brick of white cheese, then washing her hands. Over the rush of water she said, “But your father, he will not believe it. You came back here to find your daughter, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were very ... específico—”

  “Specific,” Shelby supplied.

  “Sí. Specific.” She shut off the tap and wiped her hands on a dish towel. I do not think he will believe that you are now interested in a new pair of shoes or a bracelet.”

  Shelby plucked another grape from the basket and plopped it into her mouth. “It doesn’t really matter, Lydia. He can think anything he wants.” She was about to leave, but decided that now was the time to talk to Lydia about the conversation she’d listened to on the stairs. “The other day I overheard you talking to the Judge.”

  “Sí, sí—” Lydia was retrieving the cheese grater from a cupboard.

  “Well, actually, you were talking to him about me and some family secrets. I was on the stairs and you were in the hallway near the foyer.”

  Lydia froze for a second, then caught herself and began unwrapping the cellophane from the cheese. “Sí, ” she said, obviously nervous.

  “What were you talking about—what secrets?”

  One shoulder lifted as she began grating. Curlicues of Jack cheese fell onto the cutting board. “There are many.”

  “Such as?”

  “Don’t ask, niña, for I cannot say.” She lifted her head and her brown eyes were filled with a sadness Shelby couldn’t begin to comprehend. “These things, they are for you and your father to discuss.”

  “Not if they involve me.”

  “As I said, ask him.” The housekeeper looked away.

  “Lydia.”

  “I have said enough. Talk to the Judge.” She glanced at the kitchen clock. “He will be here shortly.”

  “But he won’t ...” Shelby let the argument slide as she saw the determined set of Lydia’s jaw. Lydia’s loyalty to the Judge was fierce and unshakable, though Shelby didn’t understand why. Yes, she was paid well and was given a lot of authority, but it hardly seemed worth dealing with a man as deceitful as Red Cole.

  0l’ Judge Cole

  Was a nasty old soul

  And a nasty old soul was he ...

  Even as a child, Shelby had suspected the truth about her fat
her—that he was a liar and a grand manipulator—but she’d refused to believe it. Now, it seemed, the scope of his influence and exploitations was far broader than she’d suspected.

  “Look, Lydia, I have rights,” Shelby insisted, hooking her thumb toward her chest. “If you have any idea where my daughter is—”

  The phone rang and Lydia scooped up the receiver. “Hello?” she said, wiping one hand on her apron. “Hello?” Her brow wrinkled and her lips pursed. “Is anyone there? Hello?” She hung up. “Dios mio!”

  “What?”

  “The second time this has happened. No one is there.”

  “Probably a wrong number,” Shelby said.

  “Then they should answer. Idiota!”

  Shelby wasn’t about to be deterred. “Listen, Lydia—” But the housekeeper was looking out the window and knocking on a pane with her knuckles. “That Pablo, he is a lazy one. What my sister sees in him, I do not know. He is my cuñado, sí, but he does not know how to work.” She gesticulated wildly to the man who barely looked up as he edged the lawn.

  “Pablo Ramirez is your brother-in-law?” Shelby repeated. This was news to her.

  “Sí, Sí, you know. Carla’s husband.” Lydia clucked her tongue in disgust. “It is a wonder the Judge does not fire him!”

  “Now wait a minute, Lydia,” Shelby said. “I get the feeling that you’re dodging the issue here. We were talking about my daughter.”

  “Niña, please, I know nothing. The secrets I was speaking of were about your mother, God rest her soul.” She made a quick sign of the cross over her ample bosom. “Those you need to discuss with your father.”

  Shelby wasn’t about to drop it, but for now, at least, she’d back off, mainly because she heard the rumble of an engine. Maybe her father had returned. Well, if he had, she was about to give him a piece of her mind. She walked to the archway, where she could see through the windows flanking the front door, but there was no sign of her father’s silver Mercedes. Instead she caught a glimpse of old green paint and spied Nevada’s truck through the window.

  “All right, Lydia,” Shelby said. “You’re off the hook for the moment. I’m not going to argue with you now, but if my father won’t tell me the truth, especially about my daughter, then I hope you will.” She pinned the housekeeper with a determined glare. “It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

  “Sometimes, niña, the world is not fair.”

  “But it should be, Lydia. It damned well should be. Even in Bad Luck.”

  With that she was out the door just as Nevada’s truck ground to a stop near the garage. She told herself she didn’t want to see him. Not now. She had too much to do.

  He swung out of the truck with a purpose, and Shelby’s stupid heart tripped at the sight of him. Why, she couldn’t fathom. So what if she sensed an electricity in him, an animal magnetism that was raw and sensual? Big deal. So it got to her at the most basic of levels. So what?

  He was the father of her daughter and that was it. Nothing more. What they’d shared ten years ago was over. Long over. Even if she’d been foolish enough to react to his kiss, it was just female response. Nothing more.

  And yet ...

  He slammed the door of the truck and looked like he could spit nails. His expression was hard, his eyes unforgiving, his lips compressed. Worn jeans. Wide belt. Dusty boots. A navy blue T-shirt that had seen better days. A real 21st-century cowboy—as raw and rangy as a West Texas bronco. And just as wild.

  She didn’t want him, she told herself, but it was a lie. A bald-faced lie. All her arguments to the contrary, the plain, disgusting truth was that she’d never really gotten over him.

  Worse yet, she was afraid she never would.

  Chapter Ten

  “Going somewhere?” Nevada asked, striding up to her and motioning to the bag slung over her shoulder.

  Shelby braced herself. No doubt they were in for another confrontation. “San Antonio. I’m sick of sitting around here waiting for your friend Levinson to call with more information on Pritchart. I thought I’d try and track down Dad’s lawyer and see what he has to say. He probably knows something about what happened.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  She was astounded. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Maybe I want to.” The words hung heavy on the air, echoing in Shelby’s brain as the gardener’s clippers clicked somewhere behind her.

  “Don’t you have things to do here?”

  He shifted, and she saw the indecision in his eyes.

  “Something happened,” she said and her heart leapt. Maybe he’d found Elizabeth! But, no, he would have said so right from the start.

  Shelby saw a movement to her right and realized they were within earshot of the gardener. Nevada caught her reaction and took her by the elbow, guiding her through an arbor to a bench near the pool. A hummingbird hovered over planters where petunias exploded in vibrant pink and purple blossoms. “What is it?” she asked as they sat down, side by side, in the shade of a flowering hedge. His denim-clad thigh brushed up against hers, and warmth from his body radiated from him.

  “Probably nothing. I got a call a while ago. When I picked up, no one answered. I could hear music in the background, but whoever was on the other end didn’t say a word.” His lips pulled into a thoughtful frown.

  “Lydia took a couple of those here, at the house,” she admitted, feeling edgy.

  Nevada’s head whipped up. “When?”

  “Just a while ago. I don’t know when the first one was.”

  “Hell!” The cords in his neck stood out. “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”

  “Neither do I,” she admitted. “Who do you think it is?”

  “McCallum.” He bit out the name.

  “Why wouldn’t he say anything?”

  “I don’t know, and I’m not sure it was McCallum,” he admitted, “but he’s sure my first guess. And my best.” Nevada glanced at the surface of the pool, his eyes narrowing angrily. “Guess I’m as bad as the rest of the people in town.”

  “Meaning?” she prodded.

  “Everyone’s jumpy now that McCallum’s back, and there’s talk that he’s gonna cause trouble.”

  “That wouldn’t be anything new.”

  “But if he’s calling you—”

  “Hey, wait a minute. Someone called the house. Not me. And we don’t know if it was McCallum.”

  Nevada’s lips pulled over his teeth. “There’s more.”

  “What?” she asked, apprehensive.

  “There’s a reporter pokin’ around, askin’ questions, a woman by the name of Katrina Nedelesky. She writes for Lone Star magazine, and rumor has it she’s going to write a series of articles about the Estevan murder and Ross McCallum’s release.”

  “So it’ll all be dug up again,” she surmised.

  “And then some.” A muscle near the corner of his jaw worked. “I’ve still got a friend in the Sheriff’s Department, and they’re thinking of reopening the Estevan case.”

  “To find the real killer?”

  The brackets at the corners of Nevada’s mouth deepened, and one hand closed into a fist. “We found the real killer ten years ago, Shelby. Trouble is, now he’s a free man.”

  “You think. If Caleb Swaggert lied, maybe Ross didn’t kill Ramón Estevan.”

  Nevada’s face became as hard as granite. “McCallum did it, Shelby. I’d stake my life on it.” He stood abruptly and walked to the edge of the pool. The seat of his Levis was worn, one pocket ripping out, his belt hanging low over a tight rear end that she remembered all too well. Broad shoulders pulled his T-shirt tight across his back, the very back where her fingers had dug deep as he’d made love to her. Suddenly warm inside, she dragged her gaze away from him and glanced back to the house. Silently she chastised herself. It was ludicrous to fantasize about him, especially now, when they had to concentrate on finding their daughter.

  “Any word from Levinson?” she asked, clearing her
throat.

  “Nothin’ new.”

  Shelby had been afraid of that. She climbed to her feet and stood next to him in the shade of an aging pecan tree. The leaves shimmered and rustled in a gust of wind. Scolding noisily, a squirrel leapt from one branch to another.

  “What about other people involved in all this?” he wondered aloud. “The lawyer—what’s his name?”

  “Findley. Orrin Findley.”

  “He’s as good a start as any,” Nevada allowed, “but there had to be other people who knew about the baby. Who are they?”

  She’d asked the same questions of herself. “I spent most of the pregnancy with my father’s aunt in Austin. Everyone thought I’d gone away to school, but I was really taking correspondence courses and fighting with Dad. He wanted me to give the baby up for adoption, and I was bound and determined to keep it. Anyway, my great-aunt knew, of course, but she died three years ago.”

  Nevada’s frown deepened. “Anyone else?”

  “Sure. Everyone who worked here at the house could have overheard the fights between the Judge and me. Of course Lydia knew. But then, she knows everything.” More than you do, her mind teased.

  “None of your friends?”

  Shelby shook her head and brushed her bangs from her eyes. “Not as far as I know. I didn’t tell anyone, and since I left town before I started to show, no one suspected. They all just thought I went off to school early. They could have heard from other sources later, I suppose, but it never came back to me.” She watched the play of emotions on his face and felt suddenly ashamed that she hadn’t confided in him, hadn’t told him that he was going to be a father. All because of her insecurities, pride and jealousy of Vianca. And the rape. She couldn’t have told him about that. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything to you.”

  His mouth turned down at the corners. He stuffed his hands into the back pockets of his Levis. “Water under the bridge now.”

  “But I should have—”