Unspoken by Lisa Jackson

slacks or jeans at home, someone with his own business who was charming and sophisticated and educated, for crying out loud.
    She brushed her hair angrily. Why was she even thinking like this? So she had a bad night, so what? So he kissed her. It happened to other women every day. Get over it. She glanced out the window again.
    She needed to stretch, to unwind, to clear her mind. Swimming or horseback riding had always done the trick when she was still living at home. In Seattle, she’d taken up jogging, pounding the pavement in the early hours, ignoring the rain, reveling in the wind, and then, to reward herself, stopping off at the local coffee shop for some Northwest espresso before going into the office.
    Here, with the heat, jogging was out and the pool, still and cool in the morning air, invited her.
    That did it.
    Scrounging in her closet, she found a swim suit that still fit. She stripped off pajamas and robe, tugged on the one-piece and wound her hair onto her head before tossing on the terry cover-up. With a towel from the adjoining bathroom, she hurried down the back stairs and was greeted with the scent of strong coffee and the sound of rattling dishes.
    “Nina,” Lydia said with a broad smile as Shelby appeared. “You go for a swim?”
    “Yeah, I thought it would be a good idea.” Shelby poured herself a cup of coffee from the glass pot on the counter.
    “And then breakfast? Waffles and peaches and strawberries. Your father, he went into town to his office, but he said he would be back and I will make him something when he gets here.”
    “I usually just drink coffee,” Shelby said with a shake of her head. Then, seeing the disappointment in the older woman’s eyes, she sighed. “Sure, why not, but I’ve really gotten into just a cup of espresso or a latte in the morning. It’s kind of a Northwest thing.”
    “You are home now.”
    “Well, for a while.” She took the coffee outside with her, and the warmth of morning hit her full force. Leaving her cup on the outside table, she dropped her towel and cover-up by the pool’s edge, then dived in.
    Cold water embraced her, took her breath away. She started swimming, long, easy strokes, and felt her blood pumping, the headache clearing. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun bright as it rose toward the tops of the trees. Stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, breathe. She found her rhythm and thought about the day ahead. She’d call Nevada, get the name of his private investigator, see if they could locate Doctor Pritchart—the coward. Surely his medical license could be jerked—well, maybe it already had been. Revenge wasn’t her motive. Knowledge was.
    So you’ll have to see Nevada again. Well, that was inevitable. He was the father of her child.
    Or was he?
    She gave herself a quick mental shake. She couldn’t think like that. Wouldn’t.
    Stroke, stroke, breathe.
    But there was a chance that Elizabeth’s father was Ross McCallum.
    She lost her rhythm. Her stomach turned over and she wanted to throw up. No! It wasn’t possible; it just couldn’t be.
    You’ve got to be honest, Shelby. Isn’t that what you’re expecting of everyone else?
    Stroke. Stroke. Concentrate on the positive.
    Ross McCallum could be —
    “Damn it, no!” She yelled as she reached the shallow end of the pool, tossed her head, flinging beads of water from her hair, and stood, leaning against the tile lip of the pool.
    “ ‘No,’ what?” As she tugged the rubber band from her hair, Nevada’s voice startled her. For a split second she thought she was seeing things, but there he was, big as life, standing next to the glass-topped table. A second cup of coffee steamed beside hers. Sunglasses guarded his eyes. Clean Levis and a tan shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows covered the rest of him. He’d shaved, and his hair was brushed away from his face, though she didn’t suspect it would stay that way for long. As she remembered, it had a tendency to fall over his