Unspoken
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Tags: #Contemporary, #General, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense Fiction, #Suspense, #Fiction, #Texas
Table of Contents
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
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
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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.”
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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!
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!
Muchas gracias!
Chapter One
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’?”
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