by Lisa Jackson
“Don’t ask questions. Meet me there.”
“Don’t see why.”
“It has to do with Shelby. And Ross McCallum.”
The warning hairs on the back of Nevada’s neck prickled upward; then he reminded himself whom he was dealing with. He wouldn’t put it past Red Cole to play the melodramatic trump card just to force the issue. “And you can’t tell me over the phone?”
“Nope.”
“Look, Judge, I’m not buying into all this cloak-and-dagger crap. Whatever it is you have to say to me, just spit it out.”
“I will. At ten.”
The phone line clicked, then went dead.
Nevada hung up and checked his watch. He had two hours to kill before his date with the devil.
“I need to talk to you.” Vianca’s voice had been firm on the phone. Though Shep had been at the office, he’d felt the top of his ears turn red and had imagined everyone within earshot could hear her. He glanced nervously around the room with its once-green walls. Where there used to be a wide-open space littered with desks, now the room was chopped up by cubicles made of portable and supposedly soundproof walls.
“It is ... it is concerning my father’s murder,” Vianca had said, and he’d recognized the hesitation in her voice.
“I’ll be right there.” Just the sound of her voice had caused his spirits to rise. The paperwork he’d been going over was instantly forgotten.
“No! I am still at the hospital. Come later. To the house.”
His foolish pulse had skyrocketed.
“Now I must work at the store, then see to Madre. She is coming home from the hospital today.”
Shep’s inflated ego nose-dived. So the old lady would be there. No chance of being with Vianca alone.
Yet Vianca’s request had hung with him the rest of the day, flitting through his mind while he’d visited the lab and gone over the case files of the Estevan murder.
Now, as he nestled his truck against the curb across the street from the Estevans’ bungalow, he smiled inwardly. He was about to get lucky—one way or another. He could feel it, like the sizzle of lightning in the air.
He’d taken the time to shave, even gone so far as to brush his teeth and put on a clean shirt before driving across town and fighting with his conscience. He had business here, true enough. Even if Vianca hadn’t called, he needed to interview all the members of Ramón’s family yet again. But the reason his boots gleamed, his breath was fresh and he’d even gone so far as to spray on a couple of shots of Right Guard wasn’t because of his job. Nope. It was because he wanted Vianca to see him for the man he was.
He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror and slicked down the ends of his moustache, frowning as he noticed more gray than red in the bristles. Hell, he was pushin’ fifty. His gut hung over his belt, his hair was thinning and he’d never in his life cheated on Peggy Sue. Never thought he would, what with her being so pretty and all, but here he was, feeling like a schoolboy again. All because of Vianca.
To be honest, Peggy Sue had changed. Lost interest. Was always too tired for a quick roll in the hay and somehow, over the fifteen years they’d been married, had forgotten how to laugh.
Shep sighed and wondered if he was about to screw up the rest of his life. He knew he had a reputation for being a mean sum-bitch when it came to his job, and in all fairness, it was deserved. Something he’d once been proud of. Hell, he’d cracked more heads, punched more bellies, snapped his share of guilty spines with his billy club often enough. He’d even gone so far as to “adjust” the evidence if he needed it to convict the right man and had looked the other way when one of his friends had broken the law.
He had his own set of rules and they were flexible. For the right price. He didn’t see it as a bad thing to take a few dollars off a friend for a favor. Hell, if he hadn’t cleaned up that mess when the Johnson kid, who, all liquored up and pissy, had been shooting at stop signs and somehow killed old man Cowan’s prized bull, the kid would’ve ended up in jail and probably never would have finished college. Shep had talked to him hard, slapped him around a little, told him what a piece of shit he was, then accepted a token of appreciation from his father.
It had all ended up fine. Cowan’s bull was insured and the Johnson kid became an accountant—a straight-arrow, even married a Methodist girl and had him a set of twins. And Shep’s oldest son, Timmy, had gotten the braces he needed.
The Johnson thing had worked out. Had it been payola? A bribe? Who the hell cared? In Shep’s mind, justice had been served, it hadn’t cost the taxpayers a dime and the worst thing about the whole business was that old man Cowan had eaten the thickest, toughest steaks this side of Amarillo.
It wasn’t that Shep was dishonest. No, sir. He was just practical. A practical man saw to things.
But never once had he cheated on Peggy Sue. Not that he hadn’t had the opportunity. There had been plenty of women interested in him. Plenty. But he hadn’t wanted to risk losing his wife and kids.
Until now.
Until Vianca.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and watched a stray dog, tail tucked between his legs, hurry down the street. Shep opened the door and stepped into the muggy air. It wasn’t just Vianca needing to see him that put a lift in his step. No, sir. He’d called in all his markers on this case, and the boys in the lab had come through, rushing the ballistics and fingerprint tests on the .38 he’d found in the old mine on the Adams place. Sure enough, the tests had established that the gun was indeed the weapon that was used to kill Ramón Estevan. As expected, the .38 was registered to Nevada Smith and the only set of prints on the gun were Smith’s. Not one other smudge.
The lab boys had checked the plastic in which the gun had been wrapped and found no traces of prints, nor hair samples, nor anything that would help them. How long the gun had been on the rafter was yet to be determined and might not ever be discovered, but for now, Nevada Smith was the number-one person of interest in this case.
And that bothered Shep. He’d thought a lot of bad things about Nevada, had even suspected that Smith had bribed Caleb Swaggert and Ruby Dee to testify against Ross McCallum. There was definitely some bad blood between Smith and McCallum. But murder? A frame-up? Shep found that a bitter pill. In his own way, he liked Nevada.
But he’d been wrong before, and right now Nevada Smith’s ass was on the line.
He climbed the steps to Vianca’s house, and the thought nagged him that someone else had known about the gun; the anonymous tip had come from somewhere. Had Nevada shot off his mouth? Bragged? Or inadvertently, maybe even drunkenly, revealed the whereabouts of the weapon? That didn’t seem right.
As he reached the door, the calico cat jumped from its spot on the windowsill and disappeared around a terra-cotta pot of blooming bougainvillea.
Shep rapped on the screen door and peered into the darkened interior. The television was turned on, glowing in one corner, turned to a station airing a Spanish program.
“Momento, ” Vianca called from inside. Shep’s pulse shot to the stratosphere at the sound of her voice.
She was at the door in an instant, her dark eyes sober as she held the screen open. “Thank you for coming.”
“No problem.” He pulled off his hat and held the brim in fingers that were sweating.
“Here, let me—” Taking the hat from his hand, her fingers brushed his, and he felt a tingle all the way up his arm to the spot where his shoulders connected to his spine. The smells of spices and cigarette smoke mingled with the scent of her perfume. “Would you like something to drink? I have soda or coffee or—”
“I’m fine,” he lied, his mouth completely dry of spit. Her hair was dark and shiny, soft curls framing a heart-shaped face. Luminous eyes stared at him above a straight, short nose and the fullest lips he’d ever seen. She was dressed in white jeans that looked painted on, a wide black belt with silver trim and a hot-pink tank top that stretched over her breasts. “You said
you had information on the case.”
“Yes ... just a minute. I need to check on Madre. Please, have a seat.” She motioned toward the couch in the room where the television was glowing. Self-conscious, feeling old and oafish, he edged past a small shrine set between the dinette and living area. A painted picture of Jesus, his heart visible, was backlit by bright light. The table beneath the painting was covered in a lace cloth topped by flickering candles and several framed photographs of a smiling Ramón Estevan.
The whole business gave Shep the creeps. He’d been born and raised a Methodist and didn’t completely trust the Catholics ... well, for that matter he didn’t trust the Lutherans or the Mormons. He wasn’t even sure about the Baptists, but held his tongue on that one, being as Peggy Sue’s folks were part of that particular flock.
Taking a seat on a plaid couch that had seen better days, he followed Vianca with his eyes. Her jeans were so tight, he had no trouble envisioning the crack of her tight little ass and wondered what it would feel like to run his fingers or his tongue along that sexy little cleft.
She stepped into a small bedroom, and he spied the foot of a double bed with a hand-knit afghan thrown over it and two mounds visible where Aloise’s feet were covered. Presumably the old lady was resting, and within a few seconds Vianca reappeared. She offered Shep the tiniest hint of a smile as she closed the door softly behind her.
“Now,” she said, taking a seat next to him on the couch and folding her hands between her knees. “There is something I must tell you.” The smile faded. She was stone-cold sober and beneath her dark skin she seemed to pale slightly.
“What?”
“It is about Nevada.”
Shep was instantly wary. A long while ago, Nevada and Vianca had dated. The word was that she’d never gotten over the fact that he’d left her for Shelby Cole.
Vianca drew in a shaky breath. “I lied about him before. I did not want to see him get in any trouble. Oh, Dios.” She licked her lips nervously, and Shep thought he might go mad. His damned cock was as hard as a rock. “I saw him that night. The night my father was killed. At the store.”
“So you said. But it was earlier. When he was with his cousin. Joe Hawk.”
“No, he came back later. Alone.” Her voice was so low, he could barely hear it. Those gorgeous lips rolled in on themselves and tears sprang to her eyes. “I, um, I was in love with him and I did not want anything to happen to him. I could not believe ...” Her voice cracked, and she placed a small hand to her mouth.
“It’s all right. Just tell me what you saw.”
“We were alone in the store. The three of us. Padre, me and Nevada. There was an argument. My father ... he did not like Nevada. They ... they had words, angry words, and Nevada left.”
“Left the store?”
“Sí. ” She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table, shook one out and lit up. Her fingers were unsteady as she flicked a lighter. Shep had the urge to help her, but resisted, waiting until she was able to hold the flame steady and was able to draw in a calming breath of smoke.
“Was he driving his truck?”
“I did not see—I was too upset.” She rubbed her arms as if suddenly chilled and blinked back her tears.
“What happened then?”
She swallowed and looked away, her eyes focusing on the picture of Jesus as she took another drag, then set her cigarette in the ashtray. “A little while later, my father walked out of the back of the store and never returned.” Her voice had risen an octave, and she began crying in earnest. Shep couldn’t help himself. He placed a comforting arm around her shoulders, intending just to hold her until the storm passed, but when she inched up her chin, offering up those sweet, red lips, he kissed her, gently at first, just to show her he cared, but when she responded, her mouth opening to him, her tongue slipping anxiously between his teeth, her breasts—oh, Christ, those incredible breasts—pressed against him, he couldn’t help himself. She smelled and tasted like smoky heaven.
His tongue found hers, danced, mated, stroked.
She moaned softly, kissed him feverishly and didn’t stop him when he pulled the tank top out of her jeans and his nervous fingers climbed up her ribs. She gasped when he reached into her bra, and for a second he thought she would slap him away. Instead she placed one small hand over the fly of his pants and squeezed.
Hell, he thought he’d lose his wad right then and there. “Wh-what about your mother?” he asked as she slid his zipper down.
“She is asleep.”
“She could wake up.” He was on fire. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman, but this was dangerous. The old lady could walk in on them at any second.
“No. She will not.” Vianca glanced up and held his gaze. In her eyes he saw desire and something else, something calculating that was so quickly disguised, he thought he’d imagined it. “Sleeping pills,” she said, parting his pants and reaching into his jockey shorts.
He groaned at the touch of her fingers, thought for a split second about stopping this madness. But then she leaned down and kissed him, her luscious wet lips caressing his shaft.
Vianca started working her hot magic, and Deputy Shep Marson quit fighting. His hands dug into her hair and he held back, not wanting to end this incredible moment and knowing deep in the stygian regions of his soul that he was about to cross a barrier he’d never before scaled. He was not only going to cheat on Peggy Sue; he was going to do it for as long and often as he could.
Shelby tossed the beads of water from her hair, hauled her body out of the pool and wrapped herself in a towel as the moon rode high in the night sky. Hours ago, Lydia had taken off, but not before explaining that the Judge had called and he wouldn’t be home until late, that he had a meeting in San Antonio and might not be home until the morning. The gardener had left a couple of hours ago, and Shelby had forced herself to wait until darkness had settled over Bad Luck to break into her father’s office.
Dabbing her face with a towel, she climbed up the back stairs to her room and was already pulling the straps of her swimming suit off of her shoulders as she closed the door. Quickly she stripped off the wet suit, flung it over the shower curtain rod and found her bra and undies. Smoothing her hair into a wet ponytail, she snapped a rubber band in place, then stepped into her favorite black jeans, tossed on a matching T-shirt and pulled on her running shoes. She found the set of keys she’d had made in Coopersville, her watch and a small flashlight, tossed them along with her wallet into a small fanny pack and flew down the stairs.
She felt a sense of urgency, as though if she didn’t take this opportunity, it wouldn’t come again. Out the back door, down a brick path to the Cadillac. Within two minutes she was in the rental car and cruising into town.
The past couple of days had been torture. She’d spent every waking moment wondering how and when she was going to use the copies of the keys she’d made, what she was going to do about the new-found half-sister she didn’t trust, and how she was going to deal with the plain, sorry fact that she was falling in love with Nevada Smith all over again.
“You are an idiot,” she muttered under her breath and snapped on the radio.
Lyle Lovett’s voice crooned through the speakers.
“That’s right, you’re not from Texas, that’s right, you’re not from Texas—”
“That is right, Lyle. I’m not anymore.” And yet a part of her denied that awful fact. She was from Texas, always would be, and though she embraced the great Northwest, there was a deep-rooted heritage here that she couldn’t ignore. Angrily, she flicked the radio off. Her nerves were too jangled to listen to any music right now—especially lyrics that seemed to mock her and her hard-won independence.
In the past forty-eight hours, Shelby had been going not so quietly out of her mind. Frustrated, hot, tired and sick at the thought that with each day she was spinning her wheels getting nowhere, that she was no closer to meeting Elizabeth than she had been on the day she’d arrived i
n Bad Luck, Shelby was ready to make good her threat to the Judge and Katrina. If something didn’t break soon, she intended to go straight to the newspapers, the radio and television stations, even a dozen different private detectives, to anyone, anywhere. It didn’t matter. She just had to find Elizabeth. And soon.
She pushed a button and the driver’s-side window slid down. Warm evening air invaded the Cadillac’s interior just as through the windshield the lights of the center of town appeared ghostly blue.
For all her anxiety, Shelby hadn’t been sitting idle. She’d put in a few calls to Seattle, spent time faxing information to the agent who was handling her real estate listings, tried to reach Orrin Findley again and waited with limited patience for her father to leave Bad Luck for a few days.
It hadn’t happened. Until now. In fact, he’d spent more time in the office than normal and the few times Shelby had cruised by his office, even late at night, she’d spied his Mercedes in the parking lot and seen light from windows of the office, though the shades had been drawn. Once, as she’d driven past, he’d been standing on the front walk, leaning on his cane, smoking a cigar and talking with the same two goons she’d caught him with on the first day she’d come into town.
She’d prayed he hadn’t seen her as the Caddy rolled past, but he had, of course and when he’d asked her about it later, she’d made up the excuse that she was looking for Katrina. She wasn’t sure he bought it, but he didn’t make a scene or call her on the lie.
Now, as she reached the commercial section of town, her stomach tightened. Several cars passed, and the drivers were people she didn’t know, who didn’t recognize her. Music filtered from the White Horse and there, big as life, walking toward the main door, was Ross McCallum.
No.
Her blood turned to ice.
He paused to light a cigarette, cupping a meaty hand around the flame, and Shelby turned her head away as she drove past. Maybe he didn’t see her, didn’t recognize the car, but as she checked her rearview mirror, she spied him standing in front of the saloon, his eyes trained on the rear of the rented Cadillac with such cold intensity that she shivered. All the horror, pain and humiliation of that long-ago night reared its ugly head and sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. “Don’t let him do this,” she warned herself. She wouldn’t be defeated, nor deterred. Ross couldn’t do anything to her ever again. Ever. She would make sure of it.