Unspoken by Lisa Jackson

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 had 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,