Unspoken by Lisa Jackson Page A

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.
    Ol r Judge 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