Unspoken by Lisa Jackson Page A

eyes in boyish disarray.
    “What’re you doing here?”
    “You took off pretty abruptly yesterday.”
    That much was true. After hearing that Ross McCallum was back in Bad Luck, Shelby had mumbled quick excuses, left Nevada’s cabin, climbed into her rented Caddy and taken off in a swirl of dust and despair. It was one thing to deal with Nevada, quite another to have to face Ross McCallum. Though she’d known he was coming back to town, the fact that he was actually in Bad Luck turned her insides to water.
    “It was upsetting,” she said, placing her hands on the tile and dragging her body onto the edge of the pool. She squeezed the excess water from her hair and grabbed her towel, then squinted up at him. “You didn’t answer my question. What’re you doing here?”
    “I thought we were partners.”
    “Partners?” She was instantly suspicious; then she understood. She toweled off and felt the weight of his gaze on her. “Oh.”
    “Right. In finding our daughter.”
    Our daughter.
    “It was your idea.”
    “I know.” She dabbed at her face with her towel and didn’t consider the topic of paternity as she reached for the short terry robe. “Do you have more news? And who’s the private investigator? I assume he does have a name.”
    “Bill Levinson and no, not much more news. But you left yesterday without a game plan.”
    Pushing her arms through terry-cloth sleeves, she walked barefoot to the table. He was nearly a head taller than she, and she tried not to notice how long his legs were, how wide his shoulders, how slim his waist. She remembered how he’d grabbed her and kissed her yesterday, the way he’d pounced. Like a cougar on unsuspecting prey. The mere thought of it took her breath away. Too many hours last night her mind had strayed to that one soul-jarring kiss. She cleared her throat. “You have one—a plan?”
    “I think so.”
    The back door opened and Lydia, carrying a tray, appeared. “I brought breakfast,” she explained with an expansive smile. “For two.”
    Nevada was about to protest; Shelby sensed it. “Look, don’t even try to get out of this. It’s Lydia’s personal mission to see that anyone in a ten mile radius gets more than his or her required RDAs, calories and fat grams for the day.”
    “But—”
    “It is true,” Lydia admitted, smiling proudly, her gold caps reflecting the morning sunlight.
    “So stuff it,” Shelby told him, and helped Lydia slap a couple of placemats onto the table. Within minutes two platters of powdered-sugar-dusted waffles, fruit and strips of bacon, as well as orange juice, water and an insulated carafe of coffee, covered the glass top. “Lydia, it looks wonderful,” she said as the older woman put place settings of silver wrapped in embroidered napkins near their plates. In the middle of the table she centered a bud vase with a yellow rose.
    Nevada nodded. “It does—look great.”
    “Gracias.” Glowing under the compliments, Lydia started for the kitchen, then spied the gardener on the other side of a trellis where a clematis trailed a profusion of purple blooms. With shears in hand he was busy pruning a hedge. “ ’Xcuse me,” Lydia muttered and bustled off, no doubt to give the poor man a tongue lashing for mistreatment of some of the shrubbery or flowers.
    “It’s just safer not to argue with her about food,” Shelby explained as she sliced into the waffles covered with peaches and drizzled with a syrup that smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg. “You know, I’m surprised to see you here.” She glanced up at him. “Because of Dad.”
    “Don’t tell me I wouldn’t be welcome?”
    “Would it break your heart?” she teased.
    He hesitated. “Don’t have one.” His eyes held hers for a second. “Leastwise, so I’ve been told.” He leaned closer to her as she remembered the heated conversation, the angry words she’d thrown at him. “Not that it matters a whole hell of a lot. And even though the Judge and I, we