Unspoken

by Lisa Jackson

  “You runnin’ for sheriff?” she finally asked, tossing a handful of chopped onions into the skillet. They sizzled instantly in the hot grease.

  “Yep.”

  “You filed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to?”

  “I will.”

  “What’s holdin’ you up?” She didn’t so much as glance at him as she scraped up the remains of the onions with her knife, cleaning off the scarred chopping block.

  “Work.”. He wouldn’t go into it now. She really didn’t want to know.

  “It’s because Ross McCallum’s gettin’ out, ain’t it?” she asked, and he was surprised she understood. “My guess is that the D.A. wants to reopen the case because he’s gettin’ some pressure from the townsfolk and them Chicanos or Latinos or whatever they call themselves now.”

  “That’s about the size of it.” Leaning a shoulder on a cupboard, he sized her up. She never ceased to amaze him. Sometimes she was dumb as a stone, other times he noticed a hint of brains she’d spent over thirty years hiding. “I already had myself a talk with Smith.”

  “Nevada?” Her shoulders stiffened just a mite, but he caught it. She’d always had a thing for the half-breed. Hell, half the women in the county did.

  Shep had never understood it, why seemingly sane women hungered after a no-account, worthless rancher with a black reputation, who, unless Shep missed his guess, knew a helluva lot more about the Estevan murder than he’d ever let, on.

  “Yep. Smith’s the one who put McCallum behind bars, back before he was thrown off the force.”

  “Railroaded, you mean.”

  “He had his chance to clear his name. Didn’t take it. Some people think he knew more about Ramón Estevan’s death than he’s sayin’.”

  “Do they?”

  “I thought maybe I’d just lean on him a bit and see if he’d break.”

  “He won’t.”

  She was so damned certain of it. Using the knife, she mixed up the ingredients in her fry pan.

  “Shelby Cole’s back.”

  This time she turned to face him, and her face had gone as white as old Etta Parson’s vintage Mercedes. “You don’t say.” The onions had turned opaque, the bacon sizzling.

  “Yep. Saw her in town today, and boy, howdy, who’s the first person she ran into?” He saw the understanding in her eyes. “That’s right. Nevada Smith himself. Had themselves a little talk over at the White Horse.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “Lucy. But half-a-dozen folks saw ‘em walk in together, then hustle out the back door before they even had a sip. The way I heard it, Badger Collins drank both beers before Lucy could snatch ’em up.” He chuckled to himself, but Peggy Sue didn’t even smile.

  “Shit.” She stopped her work, fastened him in eyes that seemed twice her age.

  “Somethin’ buggin’ you?” ,

  “You might say that.” Her shoulders rose and fell.

  “What?”

  “I’m pregnant again, Shep.” She blinked hard and sniffed.

  “Oh, hell.” His world started to collapse. How could he feed one more mouth? Money was stretched too tight as it was. He finished his beer, tossed the empty into a trash can and walked toward her, but she cringed and held the knife between them. The blade flashed in the dimming light.

  “Don’t you come near me, y’hear.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it. You go to the clinic and make an appointment to git yourself fixed and don’t you even think about touching me again or I’ll take care of it myself.” She wasn’t kidding. “You and me both know we can’t afford another kid.”

  “We don’t have to have it,” he said slowly.

  “Oh, yes we do. You know how I feel about that.”

  Of course he did. They’d had the discussion before Candice and Donny were born. She hadn’t budged. He’d promised to get a vasectomy. Twice. It would never happen. No surgeon was gonna get a knife anywhere near his balls. Hell, he could end up a soprano in the church choir that Peggy Sue was so proud of.

  “We’ll find a way.”

  “You mean you will.” She twitched her wrist, and the knife wiggled near his chest. “Git fixed, Shep, and get that sheriff’s job, cause I’m tired of just scrapin’ by. Believe me, I ain’t sleepin’ with you ’til you do.”

  “Now, honey—”

  “Don’t.” Her lips curled angrily. “Don’t you even think about touchin’ me. Got it? I ain’t changin’ my mind. Not ever, so unless you want to spend the rest of your days horny as Judge Cole’s prize bull, you’ll go make yerself a damned appointment.”

  At that moment a wail loud enough to wake the dead in the next county ripped through the house, and Candice, red-faced and screaming to high heaven, ran in with Donny right behind her. “She got stunged,” he said, and Shep saw the two bright red circles that were rising on his daughter’s forearm. Candice howled and cried. Donny with his watery eyes melted into a comer. Peggy Sue picked up her daughter and glared wearily at her husband. “Do it, Shep,” she mouthed as the bacon sizzled and burned, smoking up a house already dark with silent accusations and dying dreams.

  Shep reached for his hat.

  What in the name of Jesus was he getting himself into? Nevada carried his sack of feed to the barn and threw it onto the floor. It landed with a thud. A cloud of dust rose and a rustle in the straw indicated that a denizen of the local mouse population was hurrying into a hidden crevice.

  He whistled to the horses, slit the burlap sack with his jackknife and, using an old Folgers coffee can, measured a ration of oats into each stall. Two mares appeared—his best, the only two worth any real money. Ears upright, nostrils quivering, bright eyes expectant, they trotted into the dimly lit interior. Outside, he heard an expectant nicker and the thunder of anxious hooves as the rest of the herd made its way inside.

  Crockett sniffed at the comers of the old corncrib and Nevada felt tense. Anxious. Restless. The way he used to feel whenever Shelby Cole was within driving distance. His jaw slid to the side as he thought of how many moonlit nights he’d coasted his old truck down the lane to the Judge’s house, his heart thudding, his hands sweaty on the steering wheel, his cock hard against the fly of his jeans as he’d thought about Shelby.

  Now his throat tightened at the memory of making love to her.

  Her breasts had been small, rosy-tipped and white in the moonglow, the thatch of curling hair at the juncture of her tanned legs a soft red color. God, he’d wanted her, though he’d tried to deny it.

  “Shit.” He was hard now, just thinking of their lovemaking late at night, before the storm, before all hell had broken loose.

  He finished with the feed, checked the water in the troughs and, with Crockett ambling behind, walked back into the house. He couldn’t think of Shelby now, not that way. There was too much to do. Peeling off his clothes, he took a cold shower, if that was what you’d call the thin trickle of water that drizzled from the showerhead. This time of year the well wasn’t all that reliable, and he figured he’d have to drill another one.

  In twenty minutes he’d toweled off, slapped on some deodorant and cologne, thrown on a clean shirt and pair of jeans and was striding to his pickup. The memory of Shelby Cole still lingered, like the scent of her perfume still hanging in the air of the cabin, but he determined that he wouldn’t dwell on her, not now. He had serious business to deal with. Whether she liked it or not, he was going to do his own digging into the birth of her daughter—find out if the girl was alive and if she was his. He opened the door of his truck and climbed into the sunbaked interior. Then there was that business with Ross McCallum. Nevada couldn’t let that lie.

  It just didn’t smell right.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Shelby told herself as her rental car idled in the parking lot of the Well,Come Inn. The cinder block building with its broken neon sign advertising vacancy and color TV didn’t deter her, nor did the fact that the building h
ad once been condemned, but the simple truth of the matter was that if she really wanted to find out the truth, she would be more likely to ferret it out from her father if she lived with him for the next week or so.

  “Damn, damn and double damn,” she muttered, backing up and spinning the steering wheel. She drove away from the single-storied building as the sun was beginning to settle behind the western hills. It was still as hot as Hades, but soon, with the coming of dusk, the temperature would drop, the wind kick up and the sweet lullaby of insects would sing through the night. Somehow that thought was calming, though why she didn’t understand.

  She drove by rote, as she had hundreds of times before, and reminded herself that eating crow wasn’t the worst meal she’d ever consumed—there was that serving of humble pie still out there, waiting for her.

  The Caddy rolled to a stop near the brick garage and she climbed out in the shade of the live oaks that guarded the house. The garage door was open and her father’s Mercedes was missing. She wouldn’t have to deal with him for a while.

  Hauling her computer, briefcase, purse and single bag, she climbed the front steps and didn’t bother with the bell. As she entered, she heard Lydia singing softly in Spanish. An unwanted sense of homecoming enveloped Shelby, and she told herself she was being foolish. This house, cold as it was, had never really been her home—not since her mother had decided she could no longer live with the tyrant who had been Jerome Cole.

  “Niña? Is that you?” the older woman called from the back of the house.

  “Yeah, Lydia, I came back. The prodigal daughter.”

  “I knew it.” Lydia emerged from the wing housing the kitchen. Her smile was wide, her dark eyes bright.

  “Okay, okay, you won. I admit it,” Shelby said, shaking her head. “I should know better than to argue with you.”

  “This is true. Now, come on in. The Judge, he will be back in an hour or so and you will have dinner.”

  “Wonderful,” Shelby said, unable to hide her sarcasm.

  “It is. Fabuloso! Now, go! Freshen up. I have work to do.” With a wink, Lydia shooed her toward the back stairs and swatted at her rear.

  As Shelby climbed to the second floor, she remembered the nights she’d left the French doors unlatched and waited on her bed, her ears straining to hear the sound of a footstep on these worn steps, hoping Nevada would sneak into the house and along this very hallway, where pictures of generations of Coles stared out of gilded frames, and freshly cut flowers graced the tables under the windows. It had never happened.

  She opened the door to her bedroom, expecting it to smell of dust and disuse, but Lydia had already turned down the bed, polished the rosewood desk, dresser and bed with lemon oil, raised the blinds and cracked open the bay window. A slight breeze, aided by the slowly whirring paddle fan over the bed, sifted past lace curtains. Shelby dropped her bags on the foot of the four-poster and walked to the window seat overlooking the pool. The water shimmered seductively and reflected the last rays of sunlight. As she stared into the aquamarine depths, her mind swam back to the reason she’d returned to Bad Luck, the questions she couldn’t yet answer.

  Who had sent her the pictures of Elizabeth? she wondered for the millionth time. Who had known the truth and what, exactly, was it? She bit her lip and frowned as the most painful question of all assailed her. What if this all turned out to be a wild-goose chase, a hoax, a cruel practical joke? She had plenty of enemies in this town, people who had envied her privilege and station as she’d grown up. As for her father, the list of people who hated him was endless. On his climb to the bench, Jerome Cole had crushed his share of friends and opponents under his silver-toed boots. Once he’d donned judge’s robes, he’d sent hundreds of men and women up the river.

  OlrJudge Cole,

  was a nasty old soul,

  and a nasty old soul was he ...

  The poem made her cringe inwardly, but she refused to let it get to her. Right now all she could think about was finding Elizabeth.

  And what about Nevada? her mind taunted, but she wouldn’t fall victim to those old feelings again. Nevada was a man whom she had to deal with—the father of her child. Nothing more. Until she located her daughter, nothing else mattered.

  Nothing.

  Caleb Swaggert was nearly asleep when Nevada entered his hospital room. A once robust man, he was now a skeleton of himself, his fleshy face having withered away, his skin pasty, his hair nearly gone. The room was lit by fluorescent lights mounted on either side of his bed, and one dying bouquet of flowers was crammed onto a small table that also held a box of tissues, a Bible and a water glass with a plastic straw. Sterile. Quiet. A room where some people came to heal, others to die.

  “Smith,” the old man croaked, blinking rapidly.

  “Hi, Caleb,” Nevada said, noting the IV that stood at Caleb’s bedside and the clear fluid dripping into the back of the old man’s arm.

  “What you want?” Caleb’s words weren’t clear, either from medication or the fact that his dentures were missing.

  “I heard you recanted your testimony.” Nevada stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded over his chest, eyes searching for any signs that Caleb was lying.

  “Got to do what’s right.”

  “You told me Ross McCallum was at the store when Ramón was killed.”

  “I said I thought I saw him. I was wrong.” Caleb’s voice had risen an octave.

  “You lied?”

  Caleb opened his mouth, shut it again, then pursed his lips together. A proud man at one time, he had trouble admitting that he’d been wrong. “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “ ‘Cause you were leanin’ on me,” he said, looking through the window. “And I was a sinner, but now I’ve taken Jesus into my heart and—”

  “Can it.” Nevada didn’t make a move toward the bed, but he was disgusted. “Maybe Preacher Whitaker believes you, but I don’t. I know you too well, Swaggert. I saw what you did to your first wife.”

  “I—I was a sinner, but I’ve changed, Smith, swear to God—I mean, I’ve found the Lord.”

  “Bull.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to take Jesus into your heart, Smith. He might just chase all the hatred from that tar-black soul of yours.”

  “I’ll take that under consideration,” Nevada said, unable to hide his cynicism.

  “You come here to harass me?”

  “I just wanted to hear the truth.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “You know what they say, Caleb, ‘the truth will set you free.’ ”

  “Well, that’s what I’m doin’, ain’t it? Finally tellin’ the truth. If Ross McCallum was in Estevan’s store the night Ramón got himself killed, I didn’t see him.”

  Nevada stepped closer to the bed. “But you lied and helped send him to prison ten years ago. Why?”

  A muscle worked at the corner of Caleb’s jaw. He blinked rapidly.

  “Why?”

  The old man’s eyes regained their fervor, and his lips pulled back into an ugly snarl. “Because he’s a mean sum-bitch, and even if he didn’t kill Ramón, he needed to be put away.”

  “So you lied.”

  “I wouldn’t do it today.”

  Nevada shook his head slowly. “Y’know, Caleb, the only reason a man would lie about something like that and frame someone for a crime he didn’t commit would be to save his own sorry neck—”

  “I didn’t kill the old wetback and you know it!” Caleb was suddenly agitated, his pasty face showing signs of color.

  “—or if they were paid by someone else to lie.” He stared straight at the old man. “I’ve heard some talk around town, Caleb, talk that you’re sellin’ your story to a reporter of some kind.”

  Caleb’s face fell.

  “I was wonderin’ if you were gonna tell the reporter some pack of lies just to make some cash.”

  “You’re a sorry bastard,” Caleb sputtered.

  “No doubt.”

  “Get out, Smith,” the
old man hissed. “I’m sick and dyin’ and I decided to clear my conscience before I meet my maker. That’s all there is to it. Now leave here before I call the nurse and have you thrown out.”

  There was nothing more to be accomplished. Caleb Swaggert was going to take whatever secrets he had to the grave with him. “If your memory clears up any more, call me.”

  “Get out.”

  Nevada walked to the door.

  “And Smith?”

  He turned and found a sickly smile curving Caleb’s thin, dry lips. “May the Lord be with you.”

  Chapter Four

  Bang!

  The doors of the prison clanged shut.

  Ross McCallum was finally a free man.

  About time.

  It had been ten years of his life—eight actually behind bars but ten long years of this nightmare—a decade of his life he could never retrieve. One part of him wanted to find the nearest bar and a hot-blooded woman. A fifth of José Cuervo and a cheap motel would round out the night. Another part of him wanted vengeance and wanted it bad.

  He drew in a deep breath of fresh air. God, it felt good. Looking over a shoulder, he flipped off the guard in the watch tower and thought fuck you to every last sorry-hided inmate, every shit-head of a guard and especially fuck you to the bastard of a warden who ruled the place like he was some kind of a goddamned king.

  “Stop it,” he growled under his breath, then spat hard on the pockmarked concrete of the drive. He was out. That was all that mattered. He’d never go back. He’d promised himself that each and every morning when he woke up and found himself staring at the ceiling and smelling the stench of the place. Nope. He’d die first.

  Hauling a grimy duffel bag filled with his meager belongings, he swaggered to the beat-up station wagon that idled in the shade of the tower wall. Behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette and listening to some whiney-ass country song sat the one person on this earth he could count on: Mary Beth Looney, his twice-divorced younger sister. With the fingers of one hand she was tapping out time on the steering wheel, while the other held her cigarette. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. That was probably good news, considering her taste in men.