Callie's Cowboy Page 12

  Beverly looked surprised. “Oh, heavens, no. He didn’t believe in making hard copies of anything. A receipt for the goods was all the paperwork he needed.” Beverly narrowed her gaze. “Why are you asking me about this?”

  “Because …” She took a deep breath. “The last thing Johnny printed before he died was a hard copy of a week-old feed order.”

  “You mean, when I heard the printer …”

  Callie nodded. “It might not mean anything, Bev,” she cautioned. “If he was distraught, he could have simply pushed the wrong button.”

  “But then, what did he intend to print?”

  The question hung between them.

  “Callie!” Rena’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “We’re leaving in five minutes!”

  “You better run along,” Beverly said. “Rena won’t hesitate to go without you.”

  Callie gave Beverly a quick hug, almost squashing Deana between them. But she didn’t go right to the kitchen. She wanted to talk to Sloan about her newest suspicion. She ran upstairs and punched in his number on the extension in her room. But he wasn’t available, so she was forced to leave a message.

  Her five minutes were slipping away fast. She ran full tilt for the kitchen.

  “There.” Rena, pointed to a box.

  Callie grabbed the box off the table and breathed in the scent of freshly baked corn bread and steaming chili as she followed Rena out the back door to her battered pickup truck. The sun had chased the nip from the air, and Callie found she didn’t even need a jacket.

  “Beautiful day,” she said to the reticent Rena as they both climbed into the cab of the truck.

  “Warm for October,” Rena offered.

  The truck bounced its way along dirt roads that crisscrossed acres and acres of pastureland. Some pastures were empty, some contained placidly grazing cattle, many of them with half-grown calves nearby.

  When they finally located the cowboys, the scene wasn’t exactly what Callie had pictured. No one was on a horse. In fact, all the horses were tethered nearby, looking bored as they cropped browning grass. The action was in some pens, which looked as if they’d been hastily built that morning. Groups of white-faced cattle were milling about nervously. The men were gathered in two small groups, doing something to the animals.

  Rena rang a bell, announcing lunch’s arrival. “Come and git it while it’s hot!” she bellowed.

  Callie’s gaze locked onto Sam. He was sweaty and dusty—and was that blood on his shirt? Was he hurt?

  She ran up to him as he approached the truck. “Sam, are you okay?”

  He appeared puzzled. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She pointed to his shirt.

  He grinned. “That’s not my blood. Musta got that when I was dehorning.” He turned and shouted to his men, “C’mon, boys, take a break.”

  “Be there in a minute,” one of them called. Callie looked around Sam to the closest pen, where three of the men had a large calf immobilized in a tiny enclosure. She saw the flash of a knife, and before she could even guess at the wielder’s intent, it happened. The calf made an unearthly screech.

  “Oh, dear.” She put a hand to her mouth and the other to her stomach to quell the sudden nausea.

  “Callie?”

  “What’re they doing to the poor thing?” she asked.

  “It’s called castrating. Don’t keep staring at it—for God’s sake, you’re white as paper.”

  EIGHT

  Sam wrapped his hands around Callie’s shoulders and forcibly turned her around so she couldn’t see the gory scene that had mesmerized her. He marched her to the tailgate, moved a cooler full of lemonade, and sat her down. “You okay?”

  She nodded weakly.

  He grabbed a foil-wrapped packet of corn bread from a box and peeled it. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to see what y’all were up to.”

  “Well, you saw,” he answered matter-of-factly.

  “I thought I had a strong stomach, but apparently not.”

  “You get used to it. Here, want some corn bread?”

  Her stomach roiled. “No, thanks.”

  Without comment he filled a plastic tumbler full of lemonade and handed it to her. That she could handle. She drank greedily.

  “Ranching’s not nearly as romantic as it sounds from a distance. But look.”

  “What?”

  He pointed into a nearby pen. “There’s the calf that was just castrated, branded, and dehorned.”

  Callie did look. The half-grown calf was milling about with its herd mates, grazing calmly. He seemed to have forgotten all about his recent ordeal.

  “It seems so cruel,” she murmured.

  “It’s not nice,” Sam agreed, “but I guess I don’t often think much about how the cattle feel. They’re a commodity. They’re my living.”

  She looked up at him. This was the part of Sam she didn’t know, the part she’d never had the opportunity or perhaps taken the time to see.

  Surprisingly, she found that this unfamiliar aspect of his personality was admirable, somehow, and gave him more depth. She could no longer think of him as the fun-loving boy she’d dated. He was a cowboy, and she admired the grit of any man who could do this for a living.

  Especially this man.

  She grinned foolishly, then reached into the box for a piece of corn bread. Her stomach was feeling better.

  Sam got himself a bowl of chili, then sauntered back to lean against the truck near Callie. He cocked one skeptical eyebrow at her. “You still want to ride the roundup?” he asked smugly.

  “Of course not. I can see now that I’d have just been in the way. But I would like to watch what you’re doing here.”

  “Excuse me? You almost fainted a minute ago.”

  “That’s because I wasn’t prepared. I’m okay now. I can handle it. This work is so much a part of you, Sam, and I want to understand it.”

  He grinned at the bit of flattery.

  When the men were finished with lunch, Callie silently helped Rena pack up the leftovers and the trash. “I’m going to stay and watch.”

  Rena looked at her speculatively. “Why?”

  “It’s interesting.” And she wasn’t ready to leave Sam. She hadn’t gotten her fill of seeing him flex his muscles beneath his Western shirt.

  Rena shrugged. “It’s your life.” Without another word she climbed into the truck and drove off, leaving a wake of dust behind her.

  Callie still wasn’t thrilled by the sight of blood and the calves’ pitiful bleating. When she’d had her fill, she wandered over to where the calves were penned, put her hand through the fence, and petted one of them on its scruffy neck. It shied away from her, snorting indignantly, and she laughed before finding a safer vantage point.

  When the crew was done “processing” the calves, they loaded the steer calves onto huge transport trailers. They were being taken to a commercial feedlot, where they would spend the winter being fattened up for market. The females remained behind, to become part of the breeding herd.

  The cows, newly separated from their babies, bellowed plaintively. Callie tried to harden her heart, like Sam, but she still felt sorry for the big animals.

  She felt a nudge against the back of her leg. Turning swiftly, reflexes coiled, she was surprised to find a dog. He had definitely sought her out.

  “Hey, I’m not one of your cows,” she said indignantly to the German shepherd, who was hunkered down, panting, ears perked up, ready to play now that his day’s work was done.

  “Ah, I see you’ve met Punky.”

  Callie turned again at the sound of Sam’s voice, and jumped when she realized he was leading a big brown horse behind him. She edged closer to the dog. “This is your prize cow dog?”

  “He’s a little more impressive when you see him at work. He did his job well today.” Sam bent down to scratch the dog between the ears. “There’s not a cow in my herd that ol’ Punky can’t get the best of.”

&n
bsp; Callie petted the dog cautiously. She’d always been a little bit afraid of big dogs, but not as scared as she was of horses. She kept the big brown one in her line of vision at all times, but it appeared exhausted and not intent on doing her any harm.

  Her hand brushed against Sam’s. Rather than pull away self-consciously, as she wanted to do, she let the touch linger.

  Sam tipped back his disreputable hat and smiled like the devil. “So, what’d you think?”

  “Dirty, messy work, like your mother warned me.”

  He looked decidedly disappointed. “We’re still a ways from being done for the day. Have to dismantle these pens and get them ready for tomorrow. You can hitch a ride back to the house with the trailer.”

  Callie couldn’t tell if Sam was giving her an option, or if she was being dismissed. Maybe he’d been testing her, and she should have shown more enthusiasm for his work.

  “All right, I think I’d like to clean up before dinner.”

  “Would you tell Deana I love her, and I’ll be home in time to tuck her in?”

  “Sure.” She turned toward the cattle trailer, but Sam stopped her with a hand to her shoulder.

  “Callie.”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for coming. It means a lot that you spent the day learning about my ranch, my work. I want you to like it here.”

  Callie didn’t quite know how to respond. Why would he want her to like it here, unless he wanted her to stay?

  Despite his promise, Sam didn’t make it back to the house for dinner.

  “He’s just tending to a few details,” Dalton said to Callie, eyeing her with unguarded speculation. All right, so she’d showered and washed her hair, changed into fresh clothes, and put on makeup. Was that such a big deal?

  Callie wasn’t the only one disappointed by Sam’s absence. Deana was crying because she missed her daddy, and she wanted nothing to do with the tasty stew in front of her.

  Callie sat down by Deana’s high chair. She tried to remember how Millicent did it. Distract the kid, Callie decided. Focus on something other than food.

  “Deana, you shoulda seen your daddy out there riding his horse,” she began, not sure where she would go with this conversation. “He can make those cows go wherever he wants them to.” Callie spooned up a bit of potato and broth and pretended to eat it. “Mmm, this is good. Anyway, your daddy and his horse—what’s the horse’s name?”

  Deana showed a faint smile. “Clyde.”

  “Clyde, that’s a good name,” Callie said, delighted she was getting through. “Daddy and Clyde herded a whole bunch of cows onto this big truck. And they were all hollering—the cows, that is—’cause they’d been taken away from their mothers. And they were real sad.”

  Deana stared with rapt attention. Callie held a spoonful of diced roast beef up to the little girl’s mouth. With her eyes still fixed on Callie, she opened her mouth and accepted the food.

  Hey, this isn’t so hard, Callie thought with a triumphant smile. “Where da cows go?” Deana asked.

  “Well, they’re being taken to a feedlot. Instead of having to eat grass, they’ll be given oats and corn. They’ll get such yummy food, and lots of it, so they’ll forget all about their mamas and concentrate on growing up into great big cows. Er, steers, actually.” And then they’ll end up like this fella here in your bowl, she almost added, though she decided not to. Ranch baby or not, maybe Deana wasn’t ready for the concept of where her meat actually came from.

  Deana ate another bite of meat and some potatoes, and even a green bean. Before Callie knew it, the child had taken the spoon into her own hand and was shoveling stew mostly into her mouth.

  When Sam finally made an appearance, Deana shrieked and nearly knocked the high chair over trying to get to him. With a sigh, Callie extracted her from the chair and set her down so she could run to her daddy.

  “Deany!” Sam called out as he scooped his child into his arms. “Am I ever glad to see you. Did you miss me today?”

  “Uh-huh,” Deana answered, nodding vigorously. Then she launched into another of her monologues, which Callie simply couldn’t understand, though Sam seemed to get the gist of it.

  “I’ll sit down and have some dinner in a minute,” he said. “Right now, though, I need a shower in the worst way. Tell you what, later I’ll split a piece of pie with you for dessert, how’s that?”

  Deana liked that idea.

  Finally Sam focused on Callie. “Well.”

  ’Bout time, she thought. She didn’t gussy up for just anyone.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  “I doubt she’s had time,” Beverly said. “She’s been feeding Deana.”

  “Good.” He gave Callie a searing look. “I’m glad you waited.” With that he disappeared.

  “I think Deana’s eaten about all she’s going to,” Beverly said. “Why don’t I get her ready for bed? I’ll bring her back down in time for pie.”

  Callie appreciated Beverly’s discretion, the subtle manner in which she’d cleared the way for Callie and Sam to eat alone so they could have some badly needed private time. She smiled her thanks.

  After urging Deana on her way, Callie set the table in the formal dining room, since there would be only the two of them. On impulse she even lit a candle, then served up two bowls of stew, along with some leftover corn bread from this afternoon. She put it all in the oven to warm.

  Unfortunately, her romantic candlelight dinner didn’t turn out quite like she’d planned. Oh, Sam was appealing as ever, even in a sweatshirt and jeans, and he smelled so good Callie was tempted to climb right over the table toward him. But twice he nearly fell asleep with the fork halfway to his mouth. He was having a hard time following the conversation. She could see the weariness around his eyes.

  “Sorry, darlin’.” He shook his head. “Been a long day. But I bet if I had two minutes alone with you—I mean completely alone,” he added, his eyes shining with a predatory gleam, “I’d perk up real quick.”

  Though they weren’t about to be “completely alone,” her heart beat faster at the thought.

  The door opened, and Beverly cautiously peeked around the corner. “I was going to bring Deana down for pie, but she fell asleep on me.”

  Sam’s expression was immediately contrite. “Damn. I worked so late today I didn’t even get to spend time with my little girl.”

  “I’m sure she’ll take a rain check,” Beverly said diplomatically. “I forgot to tell you, Callie, that you had a phone call while you were out this afternoon.”

  “My mother?” she asked, hoping she’d gotten something interesting in the mail.

  “No, it was a gentleman. He didn’t leave a name, said he’d try back tomorrow.”

  Callie closed her eyes. Sloan. He was the only “gentleman” who knew where she was.

  “Well, I’m turning in, kids,” Beverly said, oblivious to the hard stare Sam was treating Callie to. “See you in the morning.” She wore a cat-in-the-cream smile as she turned and left the room, apparently believing they were on the brink of some romantic interlude.

  Romance appeared to be the last thing on Sam’s mind at the moment. “What was that all about?”

  She couldn’t lie to him. “I’m sure it was Sloan Bennett. I asked him to call me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because …” Well, heck, she might as well spit it out. “I had some thoughts about Johnny’s death that I wanted to share with him. It’s just possible that your father left a suicide note on his computer. He printed something out just before he died, but I don’t think it’s what he wanted to print out. He may have been distraught, confused, and he pushed the wrong buttons.”

  “Dammit, Callie, why do you have to keep after this? Can’t we just put it behind us?”

  She was bewildered by the fierceness of his attack. “Sam, a suicide note would put it to rest, don’t you see?”

  “It would already be to rest if you weren’t meddling. I thought if I brought you ou
t here—”

  She threw her napkin onto the table and stood. “Is that what this is all about? Drag Callie to Nevada so she stays out of trouble?” Not so he could spend time with her. Not so she could learn about his work.

  “That wasn’t my original intention,” he said, suddenly on the defensive. “I wanted you to come for me, for us too. I wouldn’t have made love to you if I hadn’t thought we had a second chance. But maybe that was just a pipe dream. Sometimes I think I don’t know you at all, Callie.”

  Through a film of tears she looked down at the table, now a shambles of leftovers, dirty dishes, and melted candles. “I’ll clean this up in the morning,” she said. She couldn’t bear to stay here, in this room, with Sam any longer.

  She fled, and Sam made no attempt to stop her.

  As she undressed, fighting back sobs, she acknowledged that coming to Roundrock was a bad idea. She’d told herself that she’d come for Beverly’s sake, but perhaps she’d been harboring her own pipe dreams, no more substantial than wisps of smoke. She would have to go back home—immediately.

  And then what? Maybe she would go on some job interviews, or work on some freelance story ideas. She could work on her Great American Novel, which she’d started several years ago and had three and a half pages done.

  The prospects were downright depressing.

  Callie slept in the next morning, deliberately missing Rena’s breakfast and avoiding Sam. She realized, almost immediately, that she wouldn’t make it home today. No one could be spared to drive her the four hours to Salt Lake City, where she could catch a plane.

  So she devoted herself to mindless activity—checking phone messages, calling her mom, sending out résumés.

  At close to noon she finally got hold of Sloan. “I think someone should go to the Sanger house and check out Johnny’s computer,” she told him. “Will is staying at the house. He’s working nights, so he can let you in during the day.” If he’s not trying to hide something.

  “Why the computer?”

  Callie dutifully repeated the recent conversation she’d had with Beverly.

  “Hmm. Printing up a week-old feed order would have been a very strange thing for Johnny to do just minutes before killing himself,” Sloan concluded.