by Lisa Jackson
Shelby didn’t waste another second. “Mr. Findley?”
He turned, and a broad smile stretched across his tanned jaw. “Something I can do for you, miss?”
“I hope so. I’m—”
“Shelby Cole,” he supplied, his smile falling away as he recognized her. “I’d know you anywhere. You look just like Jasmine.”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she charged, and he had the good grace not to deny it. “I need to talk to you about my baby.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Of course you do. You’re my father’s attorney, and your firm deals with adoption.”
“Legal adoption.”
“So what happened to my baby?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t even know you had one.”
“Sure you did, Mr. Findley,” she insisted as traffic on the street backed up at the light. “I’m sure my father confided in you.”
“Even if he did, it would fall in the category of attorney/ client privilege. I couldn’t discuss it with you or anyone else.”
“But she was my daughter and I was told she died at birth!” Shelby planted herself next to the Jaguar’s door and wouldn’t budge. She barely noticed the pedestrians walking by or the traffic that began to move when the stop light turned green. Her eyes, behind dark lenses, were focused directly on the smooth lawyer whose smile was more snake-like than the silver-toed boots covering his feet. “I had rights, too. Rights that were forgotten or ignored.”
With a quick glance over his shoulder, he scanned the street, then said between teeth that barely moved, “Let me tell you somethin’, Miss Cole. I don’t discuss business in the middle of the street.”
“You wouldn’t talk to me in your office.”
“Because I had nothin’ to say,” he drawled, his eyebrows lifting pointedly. “Nothin’.” He wanted her to shut up, to keep quiet, to maintain some kind of propriety, but she wasn’t about to be snowed by his reputation or good-ol’-boy charm.
“I think you do. You know about the baby, you know about my father’s gifts to Our Lady Of Sorrows Hospital, and you probably even know why the Judge thinks it’s his damned right to run my life by his rules.”
“No. What I know is that you should give up this quest you’re on. If you’ve got a baby, she’s a child now, living with parents who love her—”
“How would you know that?” she demanded, leaning her hip against a shiny fender and folding her arms over her chest.
“Excuse me?”
“If you don’t know where she is, then how can you surmise that she’s living with two parents, that they’re happy, that she’s being taken care of? Unless you’re privy to inside knowledge about my daughter—where she is and who she’s living with—everything you’re saying is supposition, and I think I have the right—no, I’m damned sure I do have every moral, legal and ethical right to find out that my daughter is safe and happy!”
His eyes turned frosty. “Then, Miss Cole, talk to your father,” he said as if to dismiss her.
“I’ve tried that. It hasn’t worked. I guess my only other option is to hire my own attorney and go through the courts. You’ll be subpoenaed.”
Findley’s face turned to stone. “That would be difficult, Miss Cole. As I understand it, your baby died right after birth. I believe I’ve seen a death certificate to that effect in your father’s papers. Good day.”
He was lying. Shelby would bet her life on it, but he was also practiced in his art of deceit and unshakeable in his convictions. As she watched him walk to the driver’s side of the Jaguar, unlock it and slide inside, she felt helpless and frustrated.
Yep, she thought as the sleek car eased away from the curb, this entire trip had been a fruitless waste of time.
“You’re sure about that?” Ross asked, eyeing the blond barmaid suspiciously. It was just after the dinner hour, and a handful of good ol’ boys, regulars from the looks of them, had wandered into the White Horse after working all day to down a beer or two before driving home to their tired, nagging wives, runny-nosed kids and sorry-ass lives. Hoisting a bottle of Budweiser to his lips, Ross didn’t envy a one of them. The way he figured it, each man lived in his own kind of prison.
Lucy twisted off the top of a long-necked bottle of beer and eyed her reflection in the mirror mounted over the bar. She dabbed at a smudge of mascara at the comer of her eye before sliding the second bottle to him. “I heard Shelby tell Nevada myself. They were talkin’ a few days ago, right over there”—she nodded toward a booth where a couple of women with long hair, bright earrings and tight jeans were smoking cigarettes and checking out the action—“and she said clear as a bell that the two of ’em, they had them a kid.” Lucy propped an elbow on the bar and leaned closer. “Well, let me tell you, he hustled her out the back door real quick, and that’s all I heard.” She nudged a basket of popcorn Ross’s way.
“Well, don’t that beat all.”
“Thought you’d want to know.” She began mopping the counter with a white towel.
Ross did want to know. He wanted to know anything that had to do with Nevada Sum-bitch Smith and Shelby Cole. Lucy was the one friend in town he could count on. Everyone else had treated him as if he had a bad case of lice or worse.
He gulped his beer in one swallow, left Lucy a meager tip and ambled outside. He was itchy—ready for a fight, or better yet, a woman. Just about any woman would do, but at the mention of Shelby Cole’s name, he felt a particular satisfaction. He’d only been with her once and, well, in all truth he’d forced her, but he’d love to do it again.
Hell, mounting her had been the rush of his life. Even jabbing his jackknife into Smith’s eye hadn’t given him the same sense of power and satisfaction that fucking the Judge’s daughter had. He’d never felt more like a man than he had pinning the princess to the seat of her daddy’s truck and nailing her. He’d been scared as hell, sure, but the risk had been worth the feeling of raw power that had lingered with him for months. Even when Nevada Smith had come at him and they’d ended up fighting, one on one, he’d felt no drop of remorse. Not one. Sure he’d ended up in the hospital—Nevada had beat him up good—but he’d given a little back. Smith’s vision would never be quite the same.
He climbed into his grandfather’s truck, listened as the ancient Dodge’s engine ground, barely catching, then fired. The old gears creaked, the tires were bald and the windshield was cracked, but he didn’t have too much choice when it came to transportation. At least the sorry-assed pickup ran.
He checked his watch. Ruby Dee got off work at eight, according to one of the locals. He’d checked with a few of the men who knew her years ago. They claimed she worked at the Safeway store in the next town over, and Ross had called the grocery earlier, investing thirty-five cents to find out about her shift.
Now he had plenty of time to drive to Coopersville, a town four or five times the size of Bad Luck and twenty-five miles south.
Lighting a cigarette and checking the rearview mirror to see that he wasn’t being followed by the law or anyone else, he drove out of town. Never once did he break the speed limit. No reason to call any attention to his rattletrap of a truck.
Less than an hour later, he had parked in the asphalt lot of the Safeway and waited. Shoppers and bag boys pushing rattling carts walked in and out of the store while half-a-dozen cars found parking spaces. Crows flapped around looking for morsels, and a rangy dog meandered through the cars, finally lifting his leg on the tire of a fancy sports car.
Good shot.
On his third Marlboro, Ross looked through the plateglass window and recognized Ruby as she was getting ready to leave. He watched as she talked to a few of the other cashiers and untied her apron. With a wave to the poor stiffs still manning the registers, she pushed open the glass door and stepped into the sweltering evening.
Ross smiled slowly. He tossed the butt of his cigarette onto the asphalt
Ruby was still a pretty little thing, and Ross remem
bered what she was like in bed. That had been years ago, before she’d turned on him, but at the time she’d been a spitfire in or out of the sack. He wondered if she still gave good head. His cock got hard just thinking about it.
She’d cut her hair. It was shorter now, cut in curly mahogany-colored layers that framed a pixie face with huge brown eyes. Some folks claimed she looked like a shorter version of Audrey Hepburn, but Ruby Dee was too full-figured for that.
His hard-on made him squirm. It had been years since he’d been with a woman. Years. He was long overdue. He’d been fighting a hard-on since the minute he’d gotten out of prison. Just about any woman looked like a ready piece of tail to him these days. He was so damned horny, he thought he’d go out of his mind.
He waited until she had pulled her keys out of her purse and started to unlock the door of her Ford Escort. Then he was out of the old truck like a shot. Long strides took him past a few maverick grocery carts that weren’t in their appropriate chutes, and he circumvented a green El Camino with a “For Sale” sign plastered to one window.
“Ruby,” he said and she visibly jumped, turning and holding her keys as if they offered some kind of protection.
She said something under her breath. It sounded like, “God help me.” More loudly, she said, “Ross. I—I heard you got out.” She looked for the life of her like a doe caught in headlights.
“No thanks to you.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.” But fear shone in those big eyes.
He leaned a hip against the door of the Escort, making sure she couldn’t unlock the car. “Sure ya do, honey. Your testimony sent me to the big house.”
“No, Ross, that wasn’t the way it was. I—um, I just told the court what I saw. That’s all.”
“Did ya, now?” Ross knew his gaze was menacing. He reached forward and twined one of her saucy curls around his finger.
She jerked away as if his touch was fire. “Yes, sir, I sure did. You were in Nevada Smith’s pickup. Drunk as a skunk. I saw you in it when I came out of the White Horse. You were pullin’ into the parking lot of Estevan’s store.” She stopped suddenly. “Look, Ross, I don’t want no trouble. I don’t see any reason to go over this again. You’re out of prison now, so what do you care?”
“What do I care?” he repeated, tossing the question over in his mind. “What do I care?” Rage started flowing through his blood. “I lost ten years of my life because you lied, Ruby. Ten years. Two fighting the damned case and eight in prison. Do you have any idea how long that is? Do ya?” When she didn’t answer, he glared hard at her. “Well, that’s what I care.”
“I—I didn’t lie.”
“You might have seen Smith’s truck that night, but I wasn’t behind the wheel. The way I figure it, Smith and Estevan had it out, probably over the fact that Smith dumped Estevan’s daughter for Shelby Cole. Ramón had a temper—everyone in town knew it. He probably came after Smith with a knife or gun and things got out of hand. Smith blew him away.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Ruby said, her spine stiffening a bit. “Nevada didn’t kill anyone.”
“Well, neither did I, but I paid, didn’t I?” His eyes narrowed on Ruby, and she visibly trembled. A surge of power swept through his bloodstream; he liked the way her skin had turned white at the sight of him. He reached for her, but she drew away.
“Don’t touch me, Ross, or I’ll call the police. Just because Caleb changed his story and now he’s gonna make big bucks sellin’ it to that woman reporter doesn’t mean a thing. I told the truth about that night.”
Ross ignored her show of gumption. He grabbed hold of her arm and his fingers curled over bones so small he thought he might be able to break them with a simple twist. “What reporter? What’re you talkin’ about?”
“The reporter from Lone Star magazine. Katrina Something-Or-Other. She’s got herself a deal with Caleb.”
“That lying sum-bitch is gonna make money off my story?” His temper notched up another degree or two. “Well, don’t that jest beat all. First he sends me to fuckin’ prison and then he’s gonna get rich. Fer what? He’s gonna die, ain’t he?”
“I—I don’t know.” Ruby struggled but he wouldn’t let go.
“That really pisses me off.” He gave her a shake and she cried out.
“I swear I’ll call the cops,” she warned.
“Will ya now?” he taunted, moving closer so that there was only a hairsbreadth between her cheek and his lips. He could smell her fear, and it worked like an aphrodisiac, making him as hard as a rock. “Seems to me you should be callin’ a lawyer instead. You lied on the stand, Ruby.”
“I didn’t. I said I saw you driving Nevada’s truck and I did.” With more pluck than he’d given her credit for, she yanked her arm free. Then. rather than bolt like a frightened filly, she reached behind him and inserted her key in the lock. She tried to pull the door open, but he didn’t budge. Instead. he grabbed her arm again.
She swallowed hard. “Get out of the way, Ross,” she snarled. “And don’t ever bother me again.”
“Is that what I’m doin’? Botherin’ ya?” He liked that idea and smiled inwardly when he noticed how pale she’d become. Despite her brave words, she was about to pass out from fear and that was just fine. In fact, it brought a heady feeling to Ross. One he liked. Maybe he should haul Ruby back to the trailor, liquor her up and—
A police cruiser swept down the street, and Ross let go so fast that Ruby nearly toppled over. Nope, this wasn’t the time or the place. He had to slow down a mite and be patient. He wasn’t ready for the kind of trouble the cops could bring. Not yet. Ruby could wait.
Besides, he had bigger fish to fry.
Chapter Eleven
“I found your doctor.” Ben Levinson’s voice sounded as if he were in the next room rather than thousands of miles away and connected only by fiber-optic cable.
“Where?” Nevada demanded. He’d been chewing on a toothpick, but stopped.
“Six feet under.”
Damn. “What happened?”
“Drank himself to death, it appears. Lived in Jamaica and had a love affair with rum. Been gone about two years.”
Another dead end. “You’re sure it’s the same guy?”
“Checked and double-checked the records. I’ll scan ‘em in and fax ’em to you, if ya want.”
Nevada didn’t doubt him; Levinson had proven himself trustworthy in the past. But it was best to have the records. “Send ’em,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Sorry it wasn’t better news.”
“Me, too.”
“Say, I tried to call Shelby Cole. Didn’t get through.”
“She’s out of town,” Nevada said, then asked Levinson to do a little more checking. On Ross McCallum.
“Your old pal,” Levinson joked. “I’ll see what I can come up with, but he’s been clean for the last eight or nine years.”
“Probably ten,” Nevada allowed, “but see what kind of stuff he was into before that.”
“I thought you checked this all out.”
“I did. But I’ve been told I’m not objective. And while you’re at it, there’s someone else—”
“Let me guess. Judge Jerome Cole.”
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
“Never does,” Levinson agreed with a satisfied smile in his voice. “You got it.”
Nevada hung up, and a bad taste rose in his throat. He walked to the bedroom where, on a small table, he had a laptop computer and printer set up. Sure enough, within ten minutes, the printer spewed a report and death certificate for Ned Charles Pritchart, M.D., who, as stated by the local doctor, had died of natural causes at the age of seventy-one. Along with the report, Levinson had included a bill.
“Great,” Nevada mumbled to himself just as he heard the crunch of tires in the gravel drive. Crockett began to bark his fool head off.
“Quiet!” Nevada ordered as he snapped off the computer and hoped that Shelby had stopped by. He’d been ne
rvous ever since she’d taken off for San Antonio; he had even considered chasing her down and had mentally kicked himself for not finding out where she was staying. Like it or not, he was worried. Even though she’d been away from Bad Luck for years without him worrying about her, things had changed. Now there were anonymous letters, harassing phone calls, McCallum on the loose. Ever since Shelby had driven up Nevada’s lane about a week ago, she’d been on his mind and hell, yes, he was concerned about her.
And it wasn’t just because she was the mother of his child. Nope. His feelings for her ran deeper than that. In fact, too deep. He didn’t want to think about the way she messed with his mind.
Hoping to find her climbing out of that white Cadillac she’d rented, he walked outside to spy a small blue car roll to a stop near the pump house. A woman was behind the wheel. She wasn’t Shelby.
Crockett, hairs on the back of his neck bristling, growled deep in his throat and bared his fangs.
“Easy, boy,” Nevada warned as he stood on the porch and watched as the woman, one he couldn’t place, dragged out a briefcase. The muscles at the base of his skull tensed. He wasn’t used to having visitors, and lately he’d had more than his share. This one, a petite, no-nonsense woman with red hair and eyes much older than her years, slung the strap of the briefcase over one slim shoulder and strode up the front walk. A pair of sunglasses had been pushed to the top of her head. At the bottom step she slid the shades off and slipped them into the side pocket of her briefcase.