Unspoken

  Table of Contents

  UNSPOKEN WORDS

  Books by Lisa Jackson

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Bad Luck, Texas 1999

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Ten years earlier

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  The present

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  About the Author

  UNSPOKEN WORDS

  “I loved you, Nevada,” Shelby whispered. “More than any sane woman should love a man, but I could never count on you, could I? I never really knew where I stood with you and then ... and then I got pregnant and before I could turn around, all hell broke out in town and I was just really scared. Of everything.”

  There was more to it than that; he could read it in the shadows darkening her eyes.

  “I even tried to talk to you once, but when I stopped by your house, you were with Vianca Estevan.”

  “Her father had just been killed. She was a friend.”

  “She was more than that, and we both know it.” Shelby shot him a look guaranteed to ice over the gates of hell. “You and Vianca were lovers.”

  “Once upon a time,” he allowed.

  “And I was a temporary distraction.”

  His temper snapped. Before he knew what he was doing, he pulled her into his arms. “That’s right, Shelby, you were one helluva distraction. And what was I to you? A way to get back at your old man? Someone to take pity on? One of those bad boys who were off limits?”

  “No.”

  “Liar. You were with me just to rebel and get back at the Judge.”

  “No! I mean—”

  “Oh, hell!”

  Shelby gasped, and he did one of the most stupid things he’d ever done in his life. He kissed her. Hard. His lips crashed over hers, and he molded his body along the length of hers. Though he was just making a point, desire fired his blood. Deep inside it sparked, then sizzled through his veins....

  Books by Lisa Jackson

  SEE HOW SHE DIES

  FINAL SCREAM

  WISHES

  WHISPERS

  TWICE KISSED

  UNSPOKEN

  IF SHE ONLY KNEW

  HOT BLOODED

  COLD BLOODED

  THE NIGHT BEFORE

  THE MORNING AFTER

  DEEP FREEZE

  FATAL BURN

  Published by Zebra Books

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  850 Third Avenue

  New York, NY 10022

  Copyright ©1999 by Susan Jackson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Printing: November, 1999

  20 19 18 17 16 15 ,

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to my sons,

  Matthew and Michael Crose,

  who are without a doubt, the lights of my life.

  Thanks, guys! You’re the best!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  I would like to express my thanks and appreciation to all the people who helped in the research and structuring of this book. Without their help and support it would not have been written. Thanks to my friends and family and especially Ann Baumann, Nancy and Ken Bush, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, Alexis Harrington, Mary Clare Kersten, Ken Melum, Betty and Jack Pederson, Sally Peters, Tess O’Shaughnessy, Robin Rue, John Scognamiglio, Linda and Larry Sparks, and Mark and Celia Stinson. Muchas gracias!

  Chapter One

  Bad Luck, Texas 1999

  Heat sweltered over the dry acres of range grass. Shade was sparse, the smell of dust heavy in the summer air. Nevada Smith took aim. Closed his bad eye. Squeezed the trigger.

  Bam!

  The old Winchester kicked hard against his bare shoulder, and his target, a rusting tin can, jumped off its fence post to land on the hard ground. The longhorns in the next field didn’t so much as twitch, but a warm feeling of satisfaction stole through Nevada’s blood as he took a bead on the next target, an empty beer bottle he intended to shatter into a million pieces.

  He hoisted the rifle again. Cocked it. Set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. His finger tightened over the trigger, but he hesitated.

  He sensed the truck before he heard it. As he craned his neck, he spied a plume of dust trailing the fence posts along the lane just as he heard the rumble of a pickup’s engine. Squinting through scratched Foster Grant lenses, he studied the make and model and recognized Shep Marson’s red Dodge.

  Shit.

  What the hell did that old bastard want? Shep was a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department, a hard-ass who was leaning heavily toward running for county sheriff. As crooked as a crippled dog’s hind leg, Shep was a nephew of a county judge, was married to the daughter of a once-rich cattle rancher and was about to be elected by a landslide. Crime in this neck of Texas Hill Country was about to take an upswing.

  Nevada’s nerves were strung as tight as bailing twine, and it wasn’t just because Shep was one mean, bigoted son of a bitch who had no business being this far out of his jurisdiction.

  The simple fact of the matter was that Shep just happened to be Shelby Cole’s shirttail cousin, a man with whom Nevada had worked briefly and a man who had once threatened him at gun point. Nope, there never would be any love lost between Nevada and Shep.

  Hauling the rifle in one hand, Nevada walked past an old rose garden with overgrown bushes going to seed. He snagged the worn T-shirt he’d hung over a fence post and hooked it with one finger, slinging the faded scrap of cotton over his shoulder.

  A wasp was working busily building a nest in the eaves of the two-room cabin he called home, and his crippled old dog, a half-breed with more border collie than lab in him, lay in the shade of the sagging front porch. His tail gave a hard thump to the dirt as Nevada passed, and he lifted his head and gave off a disgruntled “woof” at the sound of the Dodge.

  “Shh. It’ll be all right,” Nevada lied. He tried and failed to ignore the throb of a hangover that had lingered past noon and seemed to get worse rather than better as the sun rode high in the western sky and heat shimmered in undulating waves as far as the eye could see. Nevada’s stomach clenched as the truck roared closer. His bad eye ached a bit, and he swatted at a stupid horsefly that hadn’t figured out that the herd was three hundred feet west, huddled behind a thicket of scrub oak and mesquite trees, each lazy horse standing nose to buttocks with another and flicking at flies with its tail.

  Marson’s truck slid to a stop in front of the old toolshed and he cut the engine.

  The muscles at the base of Nevada’s neck tightened-the way they always did when he was confronted by the law. At one time he’d been a member of the ranks; now he was an outcast.

  Shep climbed from behind
the wheel. A big bear of a man whose lower lip was always extended with a chaw of tobacco, Shep sauntered around the front of his bug-spattered truck. In snakeskin boots, faded jeans and a western-cut shirt that was a little too tight around his belly, Shep made his way up the dusty path leading to the cabin. Two cans of Coors, connected by plastic strapping that had once held six sixteen-ouncers, dangled from his thick fingers.

  “Smith.” He spat a stream of black juice through his front teeth as he reached the gate. “Got a minute?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “Is this official business?”

  “Nah.” Shep wiped the back of his free hand over his lips. The beginning of a moustache was visible on the freckled skin over his upper lip. “Just two old friends chewin’ the fat.”

  Nevada didn’t believe him for a second. He and Shep had never been friends-not even when they’d been part of the same team. They both knew it. But he held his tongue. There was a reason Marson was here. A big one.

  Shep yanked one can from its holder and tossed it to Nevada, who caught it on the fly. “Hell, it sure is hot,” Shep grumbled, popping the top and listening to the cooling sound of air escaping. With a nod he hoisted the can and took a long draught.

  “It’s always hot.” Nevada opened his beer. “Summer in Texas.”

  “Guess I forgot.” Shep chuckled without a drip of humor. “C‘mon, let’s sit a spell.” He hiked his chin toward the front porch where two plastic chairs were patiently gathering dust. Sweat trickled down the side of Shep’s face, sparkling in skinny sideburns that were beginning to gray. “Y’hear about old Caleb Swaggert?” he asked, eyeing the horizon where a few wisps of clouds gathered and the dissipating wake of a jet sliced northward.

  The warning hairs on the back of Nevada’s neck prickled. He leaned against a post on the porch while Shep settled into one of the garage-sale chairs. “What about him?”

  Shep nursed his beer for a few minutes while looking over the eyesore of a ranch Nevada had inherited. With a grunt, he said, “Seems old Caleb’s about to die. Cancer. The docs up in Coopersville give him less than a month.” Another long swallow. Nevada’s fingers tightened over his Coors. “And lo and behold, Caleb says he’s found Jesus. Don’t want to die a sinner. So he’s recantin’ his testimony.”

  Every muscle in Nevada’s body tensed. Through lips that barely moved, he asked, “Meanin’?”

  “That Ross McCallum is a free man. Caleb’s testimony sent the ol’ boy to prison in the first place, his and Ruby Dee’s. Ever‘b’dy in these parts knows what a lying whore Ruby is, and now it looks like she might admit that she was just settin’ Ross up.”

  Nevada felt sick inside. A bit of a breeze, hot as Satan’s breath, brushed the back of his neck.

  Shep hoisted his can again, nearly drained it. “Now I know it was you who arrested the sum-bitch, Smith, you who sent him up the river, but I thought I should let you know Ross’s gonna be out in a couple a days, dependin’ on who’s reviewin’ the case, and I don’t have to tell ya that he’s got a short fuse. Hell, he was in more fights around here when he was growin’ up than you were. Half the time they were with you. Ain’t that right?” When Nevada didn’t answer, Shep nodded to himself and took another long swallow, finishing the Coors. “When he gits out, he’s gonna be mean as a wounded grizzly.” Holding the can, he managed to point an index finger at Nevada. “No doubt he’ll come lookin’ fer you.” Crushing the empty sixteen-ouncer in one meaty fist, Shep added, “The way I figger it, forewarned is forearmed. Y’know what I mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” He tossed his empty onto the half-rotten floor-boards of the porch and stood. “Y’know, Nevada, I never did understand it much. You two were best friends once, right? He was the quarterback on the football team and you his wide receiver. Well, before he got throwed off. But what happened between you two?”

  Nevada lifted a shoulder. “People change.” .

  “Do they now?” Shep’s lips flattened over his teeth. “Maybe they do when a woman’s involved.”

  “Maybe.”

  Shep walked down the two steps of the front porch and then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, turned to look over his shoulder. “That’s the other news, son,” he said, and his tone was dead serious.

  “What is?”

  “There’s a rumor that Shelby’s headin’ back to Bad Luck.”

  Nevada’s heart nearly stopped, but he managed to keep his expression bland.

  “That’s right,” Shep said as if talking to himself. “I heard it from my sister. Shelby called her this monnin’. So, if she does happen to show up, I don’t want no trouble, y’hear? You and Ross did enough fightin’ over her years ago. I remember haulin’ both of you boys in. You were cut up pretty bad. Lost your eye. Ended up in the hospital. And Ross, he had a couple a cracked ribs and a broken arm after wrasslin’ with ya. Seems to me he swore he’d kill ya then.”

  “He never got the chance.”

  “ ’Til now, son.” Shep glanced around the sorry yard and drew a handkerchief from his back pocket. He mopped his face, and the grooves near the comers of his eyes deepened as he squinted. “Like I said, I just don’t want no trouble. I’m gonna run fer sheriff of Blanco County next year, and I can’t have my name associated with any wild-ass shit.”

  “Don’t see how you’d be.”

  “Good. Let’s just keep it that way.” He started toward his truck again, and Nevada told himself that he should just let sleeping dogs lie, pretend no interest, seal his lips. But he couldn’t.

  “Why’s Shelby comin’ back to Bad Luck now?” he asked.

  “Now, that’s a good question, ain’t it?” Shep paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Sweat stained the underarms of his shirt. “A damned good question. I was hopin’ you might have an answer, but I see ya don’t.” He looked off into the distance and spat a long stream of tobacco juice at the sun-bleached weeds growing around the base of a fence post. “Maybe Ross knows.”

  Nevada’s headache pounded.

  “Seems odd, don’t ya think, that both he and Shelby are gonna be back in town at the same time? Kind of a coincidence.”

  More than a coincidence, Nevada thought, but this time, he held his tongue as the older man ambled back to his truck. As far as Nevada could see, Shelby Cole—beautiful, spoiled, the only daughter of Judge Jerome “Red” Cole—had no business returning to the Texas Hill Country. No damned business at all.

  Shelby stepped hard on the throttle of her rented Cadillac. Brush, scrub oak, dying wildflowers and prickly pear cactus flew past as she pushed the speed limit. Road kill, predominantly armadillos with a few unlucky jackrabbits thrown in, was scattered along the gravel shoulder of the highway. It reminded her that she was closing in on Bad Luck, a tiny town west of Austin, a town she’d swom she’d never set foot in again.

  The sun roof was open, harsh rays beating down on the top of her head, strands of her red-blond hair yanked from the knot she’d twisted to the back of her head. She didn’t care. She’d kicked off her high heels at the airport and was driving barefoot, her eyebrows slammed together in concentration, the notes of some old Bette Midler song barely piercing her consciousness.

  She took a corner a little too fast, and the tires on the Caddy screeched, but she didn’t slow down. After ten years of being away, ten years ostracized, ten years of living life her way in Seattle, she couldn’t wait to pull up to the century-old home where she’d been raised. Not that she’d stay long. Just do her business and get the hell out.

  Her fingers tightened over the wheel. Memories flooded her mind, memories that were trapped in another time and space, recollections of promises and lies, making love in a spring thunderstorm and feeling the aftershocks of betrayal. She swallowed hard. Refused to walk down that painful path.

  She snapped off the radio and shoved a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose. She didn’t need to hear anything the least bit maudlin or romant
ic, not today. Probably not ever. She glanced at the bucket seat next to her, where she’d tossed her briefcase. From the side pocket, the corner of a manila envelope was visible; inside was a letter—written anonymously—with a San Antonio postmark. It was the reason she’d demanded a leave of absence from the real estate company where she was employed, packed one overnight bag, driven to Sea-Tac Airport and taken the first available flight to Austin.

  Less than twenty-four hours from the time she’d received the damning letter, she was driving through the grid of streets in the center of the small town she’d called home for the first eighteen years of her life.

  Nothing much had changed.

  The drugstore looked the same, down to the original hitching post still planted in front of the side door. With a wry smile, she remembered carving her initials in the underside of that same post and wondered if they were still there, aged by time and weather, a silly little heart that proclaimed her love for a man who had ended up breaking her heart.

  “Fool,” she muttered, stopping at the single red light in town and waiting as a pregnant woman pushed a stroller with a crying toddler across the street. Heat rose from the pavement, distorting her vision and threatening to melt the asphalt. Lord, it was hot here. She’d forgotten. Sweat prickled her scalp and the air seemed heavy as it pressed against her cotton blouse. Beneath her khaki skirt her skin was moist. She could close the damned sun roof, roll up the windows and blast the air conditioning, but she didn’t want to. No. She wanted to remember Bad Luck, Texas, for the miserable scrap of ground it was. Named appropriately by an old prospector, the town had grown slowly and only a few of the citizens had prospered—her father being the most visible. Once she’d shaken the dust of Bad Luck from her heels, she’d sworn she’d never return.