“I can’t stand this,” Shelby ranted. As desperate as she had been to find her daughter, now she had to help Nevada—for no matter what, whether he turned out to be Elizabeth’s biological father or not, Shelby loved him. With all her stupid heart. She
loved
the damned man. “I’m not going to sit around and do nothing while Nevada’s being set up for a crime he didn’t commit.” She marched out of the room, and as she breezed through the kitchen, she said to Lydia, “Please make sure that Maria and Elizabeth are comfortable. I—I’ll be back soon.”
“Do not worry,” Lydia said with a smile.
“I’m afraid that’s all I do,” she grumbled. “And you”—Shelby yelled to her father as she grabbed her purse—“why don’t you try to get to know your granddaughter!” With that she was out the door.
Flipping off the television in her cramped, dingy motel room, Katrina smelled a story. A bigger story than McCallum’s release. The local news had reported that Nevada Smith had been arrested and charged with Ramón Estevan’s murder.
Katrina wasn’t buying it. Oh, sure, it was the line of bull Ross McCallum had been pitching her way, and she’d learned that the murder weapon that had been used in the Estevan murder had been found on the piece of property Smith owned, but the only reason the local fuzz had found it was because of an anonymous tip, not because of any prime investigative work within the Sheriff’s Department. Not in this podunk, backwater town.
Katrina was a firm believer that if it looked, smelled and sounded like a setup, then goddamn it, it was a setup. But who was behind it and why?
Who would most benefit from Nevada Smith’s incarceration? Who would get money, satisfaction or revenge? Who wanted him to pay—or take the fall?
Lying on the sagging bed in her black cotton panties and bra, she flipped through her notes and drummed her fingers on the night table. She considered those people closest to the crime—the Estevans, of course. Aloise, Roberto and Vianca, along with Roberto’s wife. Ross McCallum had already served time for a crime he swore he didn’t commit. Nevada Smith had been involved with Vianca at one time, but so had other men, and Roberto had never gotten along with his father.
Judge Cole—Daddy Dearest, as Katrina had come to think of him—didn’t like the “uppity Mexican” and he hadn’t been alone. Many of the Anglos in town objected to Ramón’s way of making money. But who hated him enough or would profit enough from his death to actually pull the trigger? Who would kill him and when, ten years later, the man convicted of the crime was set free, call with an anonymous tip about the whereabouts of the murder weapon—or better yet, plant the damned weapon himself?
Katrina didn’t know, but she intended to find out. She rolled off the bed and slid into a T-shirt and short bib overalls. Stretching her back, she stepped into her thongs, then sprayed gel through her hair, ran her fingers under the tap, and finally jammed them through her hair, creating some lift and halfway fashionable spikes. As if anyone in Bad Luck would know the difference. God, it was hot here. Splashing some water over her neck and forehead, she let the drops evaporate rather than towel them off, then found her purse. Starting for the door of the motel room, she stopped dead in her tracks, opened her handbag and peered inside.
The pistol was still at her fingertips.
Good.
Clasping her purse shut, she walked outside to the coming night. The air felt as thick and sticky as tar. The cars that rolled down the street moved slowly, as if they, too, were sluggish from the heat. Storm clouds, swollen with rain, were rolling in, bringing darkness a little earlier than was usual. Katrina locked the door behind her and only hoped the rain would bring some relief from this damned, incessant heat.
She was bound to be disappointed.
The first raindrops plopped on the Caddy’s windshield, streaking the dust. Shelby flipped on the wipers only to smear the glass and make it impossible to see. She’d cranked the air-conditioning on full blast and had rolled the window down, but she was still sweating like a pig, furious that Nevada had been arrested, torn because she wanted to be with her daughter and yet she had to find a way to prove Nevada’s innocence.
“A few more minutes won’t hurt things,” she told herself as she drove through town. She had the feeling that she was being followed, but decided she was just being paranoid, a trait that ran in the Cole family.
Tired, stressed-out, anxious about Nevada and Elizabeth, she only imagined sinister headlights tracking her down. No one was following her. And yet ... she continued to check her side and rearview mirrors.
She’d spent the past two hours trying to locate Nevada and Shep, hoping to do something to stop the slow-moving wheels of justice from crushing the wrong man. She’d checked with the county jail, the Sheriff’s Department, called Shep’s home and even tracked down Ruby Dee, but had gotten nowhere.
“I don’t think Nevada killed him any more than you do,” Ruby had said nervously at the door of her apartment in Cooperville, “but there’s nothing I can say or do to prove it.” She’d touched Shelby on the shoulder. “Just be careful, okay? Ross McCallum’s in town and he ...” She’d stared straight into Shelby’s eyes. Fear radiated from her. “To be honest, Shelby, he scares the hell out of me. He’s not someone to mess around with. Stay clear of him.”
“I intend to,” Shelby had said, but if proving Nevada’s innocence meant facing McCallum again, so be it. A part of her quivered and turned to ice inside, but she wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t. Her fingers curled around the steering wheel in a death grip. Beneath her skin, her knuckles showed white.
Shelby loved Nevada. That was the damned plain truth of it. Those initials carved into the underside of the hitching post by the pharmacy were just as true today as they had been when she’d foolishly notched them into the wood ten years earlier.
She drove through town, past Estevans’ market, where she saw Maria’s brother, Enrique, manning the till. Past the White Horse, where music thrummed through the sticky evening air and farther on, past her father’s office, where less than twenty-four hours before, she’d learned about Elizabeth’s whereabouts.
“This is no use,” she said, seeing headlights in her mirror. She took a comer, and the truck followed. Her jaw clamped, whether in fear or anger with herself, she didn’t know. She turned down a side street. The truck didn’t make the turn. “Silly,” she said, snapping on the radio and listening to a soft country-and-western ballad as she wound through town.
Someone was behind her again. She didn’t pay any attention. Driving with one hand, she let the other elbow rest on the open window, where raindrops fell on her bare skin. She drove past several houses and ended up slowing in front of the Estevan bungalow, where lights were glowing. Though she and Vianca had never seen eye to eye, Shelby was desperate and fast running out of options. Maybe Ram6n’s daughter could shed some light on his death.
“Here goes nothin’,” Shelby told herself as she parked her car and got out. Somewhere down the street a dog barked, and as she climbed the steps a cat shot out of nowhere and dashed across the porch. Raindrops peppered the roof.
Shelby rapped on the door, and it opened almost immediately. Vianca stood on the other side of the screen. “Yes?” she asked, red lips pursed in irritation.
“I’d like to talk to you. About Nevada.”
“He was arrested. There is nothing more to say.”
“There’s a helluva lot more to say,” Shelby argued as the shorter woman on the other side of the screen stood on her tiptoes to peer over Shelby’s shoulder. Vianca’s eyes slitted as her gaze followed a truck slowly driving past.
“So you bring the devil with you,” she muttered unkindly. Shelby looked over one shoulder, and her blood turned to ice water. Ross McCallum’s old pickup pulled up to the curb.
“Oh, God, no.”
“Get inside.” Vianca threw open the door, and Shelby didn’t need any urging. She heard McCallum cut his truck’s engine.
“Dios,
” Vianca said, locking the screen and the door. She whirled on Shelby, who stood in the middle of the living room. “What is this all about?” Vianca said, then sputtered a stream of angry Spanish. Vianca’s mother lay on a couch, an afghan spread over her frail legs.
“Do not swear,” she said. “Do not take the name of the Lord in vain.”
“I do not,
Madre.
”
Appearing as weak as a ghost, Aloise seemed to lose her concentration and turned her glazed eyes toward the television, where a muted sitcom flickered.
“What do you want?” Vianca demanded, facing Shelby again.
“Your help.”
“My
help?” Vianca walked to the coffee table and reached for a cigarette.
“Nevada didn’t kill your father.”
Bam! Bam! Bam! Ross McCallum pounded on the front door.
Vianca dropped her cigarette. “What does he want?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t realize he was following me until I got here.”
“Go away!” Vianca called through the door.
“Hey, now, I jest wanna see Shelby. We’re old friends,” Ross yelled through the panels. Shelby walked to the door.
“Leave me alone, McCallum. I’ve got nothing to say to you.” She closed her mind to the slide show of pictures that slipped through her brain, snapshots of the night he’d caught up with her at the ranch, climbed into the cab of her father’s pickup, pressed her against the seat ...
“I will call the police!” Vianca said.
“You just do that, okay? But remember, I didn’t kill your old man.”
“Ramón?” Aloise asked, turning to stare at a small table complete with pictures of her late husband and five or six candles burning beneath it and an elaborate back-lit portrait of Jesus Christ.
Vianca managed to pick up and light a Marlboro. “You have to leave, Shelby.
Madre,
she is ill and I cannot help you—”
“Just tell me what you remember about the night your father was killed.”
“Nothing. I remember nothing. It was a long time ago.”
“Ram6n?” Aloise said and turned dark, haunted eyes up at Shelby. “Ram6n?” she repeated.
“He’s not here,
Madre.
Remember?” Vianca took a nervous drag on her cigarette, then let out a cloud of smoke. “She gets confused sometimes.”
“Shelby, come on out!” Ross called, knocking loudly. “Hey, can’t you and I be friends?”
“He is drunk,” Vianca said, then more loudly toward the door, “I am not joking—I will call the police if you do not leave. Now!”
“No way, José,” Ross said and laughed at his own little joke. Vianca swore roundly in Spanish as Shelby took in the small house with its tidy furniture and shrine to Ramón. “Hey, what have you got against me, Vianca? I didn’t do it, remember? I’m a free man.”
“A free man who is trespassing on private property! Oh, for the love of the Holy Mother!” Vianca walked to the front door and threw it open. Through the screen Shelby saw the angry, rough-hewn features of the man who had raped her.
“Leave, Ross,” she said, stepping forward. “I don’t want to see you. Not tonight. Not ever.”
“And why not? You know, Shelby-girl, I been waitin’ ten years for you.”
Shelby’s stomach roiled. Her insides shook, but she managed to keep her voice calm. “Leave, now. Don’t bother me or these people again.”
“These people. You think they’re your friends?” He laughed wickedly. “Don’t you know they stick to their own kind? And Vianca, you have some explaining to do. I saw you that night, didn’t I? I was drunk, yeah, and I stole the bastard’s truck, but you were there, too ...” His eyes narrowed, and Vianca looked suddenly as white as porcelain. “I forgot until now,” he said, his expression fierce. “You were in the truck. Well, shit a brick, were you the one who killed your old man? Was that it? Were you tired of him roughing you up?”
“Enough!”
“You won’t call the police,” he said, no longer shouting, “because I might tell them something that will incriminate you. Right now Nevada’s set to take the rap, but you, Spickgirl, you’re the one.”
“Is that true?” Shelby asked, shocked. Her head was spinning, and in the living room Aloise began talking again, a monotone of Spanish interspersed with her husband’s name.
“This is nonsense. Lies,” Vianca insisted.
Ross leered through the screen. “Is it? I don’t think so. And what about you, Shelby? What do you believe? Have you been waiting for me, too?”
“Go to hell, McCallum.” Tension crackled in the air.
“Maybe I will,” he said, then smiled evilly. “No, come to think of it, I’ve already been there, haven’t I? But now it’s somebody else’s turn, ain’t it? Nevada, he finally got his.”
“And you set him up, didn’t you?” Shelby shot back, no longer afraid of this man. She stepped closer to the door and with only the flimsy mesh separating her from the man who had raped her, she said, “I don’t give a damn about the fact that you can’t be tried for a crime a second time. If you framed Nevada, I swear I’ll hunt you down and see that you get the justice you deserve.”