Unspoken (28 page)
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Tags: #Contemporary, #General, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense Fiction, #Suspense, #Fiction, #Texas
“Why?”
“Don’t know. But there are things happening that bother me.” The mattress squeaked as he rolled over, turned on a bedside light, and she was offered her first glimpse of his bedroom. It was small, compact and surprisingly neat. An antique dresser and mirror stood at the foot of the bed, and a small table holding a computer and printer had been pushed into a corner. The walls were bare save for one window, a copper sculpture of pine trees, a horseshoe mounted over the doorway and a rack with brass hooks where his jackets hung beside a closet door. The wooden floor was covered with a few scattered rugs.
“You’re nervous because Ross McCallum’s out of prison. It has everyone jittery.”
“Not you?”
She hesitated. Now didn’t seem the right time to tell him about the rape, about the fact that Ross might be Elizabeth’s father. She cleared her throat and licked her suddenly dry lips. “Me the most of all,” she admitted, beginning to sweat. How could she explain? How would he feel about her if he knew the God-awful truth? The pain of the past, the feeling of being used and the shame of it all brought fresh tears to her eyes. “But I try not to.”
He shifted, looked hard into her eyes and placed a hand on either side of her face. “I know what happened,” he said softly.
Oh, Nevada, no. You don’t. You couldn’t.
Her throat clogged. She laughed without a trace of mirth, and the sound bounced hollowly off his walls. “No, I don’t think you do.”
Her throat clogged. She laughed without a trace of mirth, and the sound bounced hollowly off his walls. “No, I don’t think you do.”
His eyes locked with hers, and in that heartbeat she realized that he knew her deepest secret. “McCallum raped you, Shelby. And that’s why you left.”
Oh God.
Her heart squeezed painfully. Tears threatened her eyes all over again.
“What I didn’t understand,” Nevada said gently, his hands forcing her to look at him, “was that you were pregnant, and until the Judge brought up the fact that you hadn’t told me everything the other day, that I was only working with half-truths, I hadn’t figured out that McCallum could be Elizabeth’s father. ”
“He’s not!” She pounded the quilt with an emphatic fist. Fate couldn’t be so cruel. Tears filled her eyes “I mean ... I mean ... it ... just can’t be.”
“It doesn’t matter, Shelby.”
“Of course it does.” She wouldn‘t—couldn’t—allow herself to believe that her child, her precious baby, was conceived in the terror and rage of that degrading attack. Her stomach roiled, sweat poured from her face and again she was shaking violently.
“Come here.” Nevada folded her into his arms and kissed her crown. “You don’t know whether your daughter is fathered by me or by him and it’s tearing you up inside.”
“No—” she argued.
He grabbed her chin between strong fingers, forcing her face upward to stare into his eyes again. “It’s not your fault.”
“But—”
“Do you hear me?” he demanded, refusing to let her turn away from him. “It’s not your fault.”
She couldn’t stop the tears this time. Fresh, hot and filled with shame, they rained from her eyes. “I—I—”
“Shh.” Once more he held her close, and this time she let loose. Burying her face in his shoulder, she wept the bitter tears she’d kept at bay for nearly ten years. She’d shared her secret with only her father when he’d forced the information from her weeks after the horrid night.
She held fast to him, felt the strength of his body surround her. His lips pressed against her forehead, his hands stroked her back as she cried.
“It’s all right, Shelby. It’s gonna be all right.”
If only she could believe him. Trust him. Hang on to those precious words. Somewhere, deep in the farthest reaches of her soul, she found her strength. She had to pull herself together— if nothing else, then for Elizabeth. Gritting her teeth, she refused to give in to the agony and the fear. Ross McCallum had defiled her once. No one would ever do so again. She’d die first.
Slowly she pulled herself together, and when the sobs finally subsided she found the nerve to ask, “How did you know?”
“About McCallum?” he asked through lips that barely moved. “From Badger Collins.”
Through a sheen of leftover tears, she noticed the granite-hard set of his jaw, his razor-thin lips, the flare of his nostrils—as if he’d encountered a bad scent. “McCallum couldn’t keep his mouth sbut Bragged to Collins, who passed the information my way.”
She cringed inside. It had been worse than she’d thought. Her dirty little secret, the one she’d only shared with her father when he’d pressed her, had been whispered through the back alleys, bars and church pews in Bad Luck—probably all the way to Coopersville, Austin and San Antonio. The Judge had finally suspected that there was more to her depression than fear of graduation and her pregnancy, and one night, in desperation, she’d confided in him, begging him to keep it between them, not wanting anyone else to know her shame. Her father, with his pride and reputation at stake, had been ashen-faced as he’d stood at the side of her bed, trying to comfort her and being unable to do any more than pat her on the head and promise to keep her secret.
But it hadn’t worked, obviously. Even Nevada had known. All these years, he’d suspected that she’d been violated and raped; all these years she’d hoped he’d never found out.
This time, though she wanted to look away, she managed to maintain eye contact.
“I wasn’t sure if it was true or not, so I confronted McCallum myself,” Nevada conceded, still holding her close. “He wouldn’t admit it, but he seemed so smug and self-satisfied that it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”
“And that’s when you and he got into the fight.”
“Yep.”
“A few weeks before Ramón Estevan was killed?”
“ ’Bout that long.” His eyes held hers, and she had to force the question from her lips.
“There ... there was talk that you steered the investigation away from other leads, that you were hell-bent to prove that McCallum did it. That ... that you—”
“Set him up? Sent an innocent man to jail?” His voice held no trace of regret, not one iota of remorse. “Maybe my case wasn’t strong enough to keep him in jail, but believe me, Ross McCallum deserved to be behind bars.” He hesitated, as if he intended to say more, then held his tongue as she brushed the tears from her eyes and pulled away from him. The bedsprings creaked.
Sanity slowly seeped into her brain, and she realized she was naked, lying on Nevada’s bed, acting as if they were long-term lovers, people who cared for each other, a man and a woman who trusted each other. But they weren’t. They were just caught in the same trap, had made love because of the past rather than the future, had satisfied their frustrations sexually, and though she fantasized about loving him, the truth of the matter was that they were worlds apart, two once-upon-a-time lovers who were on the same quest. Nothing more.
She began reaching for her clothes and he rolled over her, pinning her to the bed with his body. “Wait a minute.”
“No, I think I should go. I didn’t mean to come in here and ... and well ... you know.”
“Take advantage of me?”
She laughed despite herself, despite the pain knifing through her soul. “Well, yeah, that wasn’t really my plan.”
“Then it was that I was just too damned irresistible.”
“Bingo.” She wiped away any trace of her tears. “That’s it, Smith, I just can’t think straight whenever I’m around you.”
“It’s a gift I have,” he said, and she chuckled deep in her throat. What was it about him that one minute she wanted to slap him, the next make wild love to him and within seconds laugh with him? It was absurd. She struggled into her clothes and he, lying half naked on the bed, just watched her.
“What did Findley know?” he asked as she slid into her panties and felt a ludicrous blush stealing up her cheeks.
“Whatever it was, he wasn’t saying.” She slipped her arms through her bra straps, suddenly anxious to be dressed. “Orrin Findley’s going to take whatever he knows to the grave with him. What about you?”
“Not good news.” Reaching across her, he grabbed some papers from his printer and handed them to her. “Pritchart’s dead.”
“What?” She’d been buttoning her dress but her fingers froze.
“Levinson called a couple of hours ago. He’d tracked a doctor named Ned Charles Pritchart to Jamaica, but the guy drank himself to death.”
She was already scanning the few pages, and with each one her heart sank further.
“Two years ago.” Her shoulders sagged. “I know it’s only been about a week, but I’d hoped that soon we’d ...” Her voice threatened to break and she fought the urge to fall apart all over again. No, that just wouldn’t do. She had to be strong. For Elizabeth.
“We’ll find her.” His voice sounded so certain. Wrapping strong arms around her, he drew her backward until she was lying on the bed with him once more, her head cradled against his shoulder. “It might take some time, but we’ll find her,” he promised and kissed her hair. Why did it feel so damned right to be lying here in this tiny cabin, with a man she’d vowed to avoid for the rest of her life holding her? “Somewhere nearby we’ve got an ally ... or at least a person who wants us to know that Elizabeth’s alive.”
“But who?” Shelby asked, “and why not just flat out tell me—us—where she is?”
“Good question.” He frowned, and she knew intuitively that he was thinking the same thing she was—that this entire scenario might be a heinous joke—that someone, an unknown enemy, might have sent the letter to her, might even now be cackling in delight about their false hopes and agony, knowing all along that they would never find their daughter. The photograph of Elizabeth could be a simple hoax—a snapshot of another girl with Shelby’s face scanned onto it with the aid of computer graphics. It was done all the time.
But she couldn’t think that way! Not until she was certain that Elizabeth didn’t exist.
The phone jangled loudly, startling her out of her thoughts. Nevada rolled over and grabbed the receiver. “Smith,” he answered and then Shelby felt his body tense, saw his expression turn as dark as midnight. “When?” he demanded. “How?” He listened a few more minutes and then said, “I’ll be here.” Slamming the receiver down, he turned to Shelby. “That was Shep Marson. He’s on his way over.”
“Why?” she asked, and a chill as cold as death slithered down her spine.
“Caleb Swaggert died today.” Nevada swung his legs over the side of the bed and snagged his shirt from the crumpled covers.
She didn’t move. “That was sudden.”
“Yep. That’s the problem.” He yanked his shirt over his head and plowed stiff fingers through his hair. “It seems that someone couldn’t wait a few weeks for the grim reaper to do the job.”
“No—”
“That’s right, Shelby,” he said grimly. “The police suspect that Caleb Swaggert was murdered.”
Chapter Twelve
“Murdered? But ... I mean, he was in the hospital and dying and ... isn’t that leaping to conclusions?” Shelby asked, but the phone call was like a dash of cold water. And here she was lying, barely dressed, in Nevada’s bed. And she’d made love to him. Even though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t.
“I don’t know.” Nevada reached for his jeans, yanked them on and buttoned the fly. “But it must be important for Shep to be dropping by.”
Shelby didn’t like the idea. She was related to Shep distantly, through a cousin, and she’d always considered him coarse, too rough around the edges.
“Let’s see what he has to say.” She adjusted her dress, caught her reflection in the mirror and finger-combed her wild hair. It didn’t help, so she grabbed a brush from the top of the bureau and dragged it through the tangled strands.
“You could leave if you want.”
“Why?” she asked him, her gaze meeting his in the mirror. “I don’t see any reason to run.”
“It could get sticky.” His expression was grim. She set the brush down.
“For who? You?” she demanded.
“Everyone.”
“I’m not afraid of a little goo.” Turning, she pointed the brush at his chest. “Is there something you’re hiding from me, Nevada?” she asked, then motioned toward the bed. “Because if there is, you picked a helluva time to tell me.”
“I just don’t want you to get caught in something you’re not ready for.”
“And you’re talking in circles. If you don’t remember, Smith, we just made love, right there.” She jabbed the brush in the air over the bed. “And aside from that, we’re both searching for our daughter. We’ve agreed that it’s more than coincidence that Ross McCallum is granted his freedom the week that I find out my—our—child is alive, not forty-eight hours after I get back to Bad Luck, so I say I want to be a part of this. Somehow McCallum’s release, Ramón Estevan’s murder and me getting that picture of Elizabeth are connected. Now the man whose testimony was recanted, the man who was the catalyst for freeing McCallum, is dead—possibly murdered. Do I want to be a part of this?” She folded her arms over her chest, the back of the brush tapping against her ribs in agitation. “What do you think?”
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