Callie's Cowboy Page 8

  “I can’t—couldn’t—stay there forever, not if I want to advance. I’ve been sending résumés to various big newspapers once a year ever since I graduated from college. It’s a ritual. Tom acts like it’s some kind of heresy, or that I’m a traitor, for even thinking of looking for another job.”

  “So one of these bigger papers nibbled on your résumé?”

  “Apparently. It’s happened before, but I’ve never gotten an offer.”

  “Do you know which paper is interested?”

  “Hah! Like Tom would tell me. Anyway, I’m sure now that they’ve talked to Tom, they think I’m poison.”

  She had a point. “Still, you could find out if you did a little detective work—”

  “Oh, Sam, I can’t deal with that right now. Maybe next week.”

  Of course. What was he thinking? She’d been at the Daily Record for, what, ten years now? She’d served two or three summers as an intern, working for slave wages, fetching coffee and opening mail. After graduation she’d been hired as a full-fledged employee—editing the daily events calendar. She’d quickly earned a real reporter’s job.

  Tom Winers had just thrown that history down the drain, the jerk. Maybe this would turn into a blessing in disguise for Callie. She’d hinted earlier that it was time for a change. But he couldn’t expect her to focus on anything right now except the loss.

  “I’m sorry, Callie. I don’t know what to say, except that you’re fully entitled to be angry and upset, and if you want to cry or hit something or throw things, you can. I won’t tease you.”

  She gave a halfhearted laugh. “Are you kidding? I’ve been doing most of that all afternoon. In fact, I’ve been a real bad sport about this. Tom gave me a week’s notice, but I boxed up my things and was out of there within twenty minutes, leaving him to explain.”

  “Bravo. Exactly the way it should have been handled.”

  “And I’ve been moaning and groaning and whining ever since.”

  “And you forgot I was coming over,” he added. He acted put out, which was only a slight exaggeration. He’d been thinking of nothing else but this evening all day.

  She shook her head vehemently. “I did not. Why do you think I got into the bathtub in the first place? I wanted to calm down before you got here, pretend nothing was wrong, and I thought a nice hot bath would help. Unfortunately it helped too well. I really did fall asleep. Somebody interrupted my sleep last night.” She softened the gibe with a winsome smile.

  “I believe you.”

  “I’m sorry I’m in such a state.”

  “It’s okay, Callie. Like I said, you’re entitled.”

  “Would you mind if we postponed our talk? I’m not thinking very straight right now, and—”

  “Yes, fine, we’ll postpone it.” He wasn’t sure why he was behaving so charitably toward her all of a sudden. He supposed it was because she was hurting, and he couldn’t stand to see that, much less add to it.

  “I could meet you tomorrow for lunch,” she suggested,

  “Mmm, might not be able to get a sitter. We’ll see.” He watched her, waiting to see what she would say or do next. She looked so vulnerable with that heated blush on her cheeks, all wrapped up in fuzzy pink terry, that he felt a tremendous urge to hold her, protect her from the world.

  But he stopped himself in time. He could think of no woman who needed less protecting. Instead of touching her, he placed his hands on the chair arms and leaned forward until he was nose to nose with her. “How about a pizza from Sal’s?”

  He could almost see her mouth water. “Sal’s?”

  “And when I go to pick it up I’ll stop by the video store and rent some movies.”

  “Casablanca?” she suggested hopefully.

  “That tearjerker? No way. You need something to cheer you up, not make you cry.” Besides, he wasn’t sure they were ready to watch a romance, much less a tragic one. “How about some Marx Brothers?”

  She nodded. “Okay. And maybe an action movie?”

  “Perfect.”

  “The number for Sal’s is by the phone, along with the emergency numbers for police and fire.”

  “Of course. Where else would it be?”

  She smiled again, a little more convincingly this time. “Deep-dish sausage and mushroom, and to hell with fat grams.”

  Funny how the whole tenor of the evening had changed in a few short minutes, Sam mused as he waited for Sal’s to answer the phone. He was sorry Callie had lost her job, but a small part of him was glad because it would give them the chance to talk about anything and everything and nothing important. Maybe they could get through the evening without arguing. As for postponing the explanation he’d demanded from her, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know her thoughts on his father’s death. Just being with Callie was more soothing than talking the subject to shreds.

  He and Callie had always been there for each other during times of adversity. Somehow, when one of them was hurting, all quarrels were forgotten. He remembered the time her father had passed away from an unexpected heart attack. Sam and Callie had fought the week before and were officially “broken-up.” But the moment he’d heard about Mr. Calloway, Sam had gone to Callie. She’d accepted his presence and his comfort without question, and whatever stupid thing they’d fought about—he couldn’t remember it now—had melted into insignificance.

  “Sal’s, please hold,” a voice said.

  It was his own father’s death that had brought her back to him this time. Only he hadn’t accepted her attempts to comfort as readily as he should have. Looking back a few days, he was truly ashamed of the hostile way he’d treated her. Oh, he wasn’t ready to take her completely at face value. She was still a journalist first, job or no job. But she’d been very perceptive when she’d accused him of holding on to the bitterness from their last breakup.

  “Sal’s, can I take your order?” The voice belonged to Sal himself.

  “Yeah, hi, Sal. I need a large sausage-and-mushroom deep dish to go—”

  “Sam? Sam Sanger?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Wow, I thought I’d gone back in time there for a minute. Don’t tell me. It’s for you and Callie, right?”

  “Right.” He hoped Callie didn’t mind if people gossiped about them.

  Sal laughed. “You two are as predictable as sunshine on the Fourth of July. Same order, every Friday night. I got to where I didn’t even wait for you to call in the order, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.” He was remembering a lot of things. He and Callie’d had some good times. The ache of nostalgia squeezed his chest. But it was only nostalgia, he cautioned himself. They couldn’t throw their quarrels out the window like they used to. Their differences were too fundamental these days.

  “Okay, I’ve got you down,” Sal said. “Pizza’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”

  “Great, I’ll be there to get it.”

  Before returning to the living room, Sam rummaged around in the red-and-white-tiled kitchen for some things he knew Callie would have—a pretty china cup, some herbal tea, a kettle. He filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then put a tea bag in the cup.

  “The water should boil in a few minutes,” he told Callie as he put on his denim jacket. She hadn’t moved since he’d left the room to order the pizza. “I put out some tea for you. Raspberry and chamomile. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  He started to walk out the door, but at the last moment he strode quickly to her chair, leaned down, and kissed her too pale cheek. He wanted to do more, but decided not to push his luck. “Chin up, Callie. You’re strong, and you can get through this.”

  As soon as Sam was gone, Callie released a pent-up sigh. A few minutes ago she’d been in a state of panic, wishing there was some way she could call off this … meeting, or whatever it was if it wasn’t a date. She’d even started to phone him as her mind scurried around looking for some believable excuse. But she’d hung up before the connection was even made. Sh
e’d known Sam wouldn’t be put off by anything. He was too damned determined.

  She didn’t need the extra stress of dealing with Sam right now, she’d told herself when the bell had rung. Didn’t she have enough on her plate? But the moment she saw him, everything had changed. He’d always been there during her worst times, even when she didn’t deserve his devotion. During disasters, he made sure she ate, he rubbed her shoulders, he bolstered her spirits. Suddenly she felt silly for having dreaded Sam’s arrival. He was so easy to talk to—when he wanted to be—and unburdening herself had come as naturally as breathing.

  He had uncanny abilities, Sam did. He could make her feel awful with one cold look, as he had at the cemetery. And he could also make the hurt feel better with a touch, a smile. She rubbed her hand against her cheek where he’d kissed her, and a pleasurable shiver wiggled down her spine.

  Already she felt better, just knowing that someone understood her position and took her side. She pushed Grits—the cat—from her lap, opened the antique wardrobe that held her TV and VCR and positioned them just right, dusted off the remote control, and threw some pillows on the floor by the coffee table. There, she’d arranged things just like when they were kids, watching the midnight fright movie at her parents’ house.

  He would be back soon. She went to her bedroom and, after contemplating a slinky lounging outfit, chose a comfy, nonsexy hot-pink sweatsuit. She combed out her wet hair and powdered her nose, which was still a little red from crying.

  The incredible aroma of Sal’s pizza preceded Sam up the stairs. Callie’s stomach rumbled and her chest tightened. She was either very excited about the pizza, or more excited about her evening with Sam than she had any right to be.

  “You moved,” he said with a note of surprise when he entered the room. “And you put on clothes. You didn’t have to.”

  Callie was pouring Coke over two glasses of ice. “It happens from time to time.” She spied the Blockbuster Video sack. “What movies did you rent?”

  “Duck Soup and, um, Stallone. Can’t remember which one. They all seem the same to me.”

  “Blessedly, predictably the same. That’s why they’re so popular. The good guys always win.”

  “You don’t think they’re popular because a lot of stuff gets blown up?” Sam set the pizza box on the coffee table.

  “Good point.”

  They dimmed the lights, put on Duck Soup, and gorged on pizza and mindless slapstick for the next hour and a half. Sam held her hand, and she let him. He played with her hair, braiding it, combing it with his fingers. She let him do that, too, because it seemed to have a calming effect on her. She even let him put his arm around her and pull her against him, so that she rested her head on his shoulder.

  By the time the credits were running for the Stallone movie, it was getting late, and Callie expected him to try to kiss her. She had her defenses all lined up, too, all the reasons they shouldn’t take this trip down memory lane any further.

  He surprised the heck out of her when he withdrew his arm, sat up, and stretched. “I should go and let you get some sleep.”

  “Hmm, I’m not sure I’ll sleep much tonight anyway.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Too much to think about.”

  “Then you want me to stay?” He smiled innocently.

  “No! Um, that is—”

  “Don’t waste a good argument. I have to leave, anyway. I said I would pick up Deana before midnight.”

  “Pick her up? I thought your mother would take care of her.”

  Sam shook his head. “Deana’s with my brother and sister-in-law. Tamra volunteered, and I think my mom wanted some time to herself.”

  Callie felt a moment of unease. Will Sanger was her prime murder suspect. She shook off the discomfort. Surely Deana was perfectly safe, especially with Tamra there.

  “Is there anything else I can do for your mom?” Callie asked. “I’d be happy to run errands or make phone calls.”

  “The nicest thing you can do for her is refrain from writing anything else about Dad’s death for the paper,” Sam answered gruffly.

  Callie sighed. “Sam, even if I wanted to write about you or your family, I don’t work for the newspaper anymore, remember? You can relax.”

  Sam put a hand to his forehead. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I can’t seem to get over being paranoid about that paper.”

  “Worrying about the paper, I can understand. But me?”

  “You’re an ambitious reporter, Callie.”

  “Yeah, but I go after the bad guys. I don’t prey on my friends.”

  “Your friends could get hurt in the fallout.”

  There was no denying the truth in his observation. Still, she hated ending such an enjoyable evening on a sour note. She touched his shoulder, then his face. “I appreciate the pizza and the movies—emotional first aid.”

  He smiled, then clasped her hand and brought the palm to his lips, holding it there for a moment while Callie held her breath. She’d never imagined that part of her body could be so sensitive.

  “Callie, do you want me to kiss you?”

  “Umm …” She couldn’t think. Her brain had just gone numb.

  “ ’Cause I will, if that’s what you want. I was trying not to take advantage of the situation—you being all upset about your job and everything.”

  Her job. She’d managed to forget the horror of being fired for a few hours, but now the misery came pouring back into her mind. Tears pressed at the back of her eyes, and she wanted more than anything for Sam to hold her, kiss her, consume her with the heat of passion.

  Apparently it wasn’t necessary for her to answer his question in words. Something in her face must have given her assent, because before she knew what was happening, her body was plastered against his and his mouth was on hers, the kiss searing her clear to her soul. He wrapped her hair around his hands and gently pulled, forcing her head back to give him fuller access to her mouth. His arousal pushed insistently against her abdomen in a way that made his intentions—or at least his desires—abundantly clear.

  She broke the kiss only long enough to blurt out, “Stay with me, Sam.” Then she was kissing him again, savoring the feel of his hair as she sifted it with her fingers, reveling in the heat and hardness of his body, drinking up his intensity.

  Eventually the kiss gentled. He nuzzled her neck, her ear, and then whispered, “Did you just ask me to stay with you?”

  “Mm, those words did seem to come out of my mouth.”

  “I would if I could.”

  “Oh.” Of course he couldn’t stay. He had other responsibilities, like a two-year-old daughter. “Just as well. I … I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I just don’t look forward to being alone with my thoughts.”

  “You could come home with me. Stay in the guest room. Mom would understand.”

  “That’s all your mother needs is a houseguest. No, Sam, I think we’d better say good night now. I shouldn’t have gotten so carried away.”

  “That’s your opinion. I like it when you get carried away.” He looked down at her, his confused emotions spilling into his face. He appeared strong and determined and achingly vulnerable all at the same time, and for a split second she almost decided to leave with him, to cling to him and never let him out of her sight again.

  After a moment, though, sanity reasserted itself. “I’m a big girl. I’ll stay by myself.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.” His hand slid down her back to squeeze her bottom much too familiarly before he turned and disappeared down the dark tunnel of the stairway. She turned on a light, followed him down, then firmly locked the door behind him.

  She had this feeling that she’d just made a narrow escape, but only a temporary one.

  Callie spent Saturday writing letters of application to various newspapers. She couldn’t afford to stay unemployed for long. She even decided to apply to the Las Vegas Review-Journal & Sun. If she was going to move anyway, would it be such a bad thing to
move closer to Sam?

  She’d never admitted this to anyone, but the thought of leaving Destiny and living in a big city terrified her. Here in her hometown she was someone important. Everyone knew her, and most, she believed, respected her. If she moved to Houston or Dallas or D.C., she’d be a very little fish in a huge pond. Even while she was sending out all those résumés over the years, she knew she could always turn down a job if one presented itself.

  Now she didn’t have that luxury. She either had to move up and away, or stay here and get a job doing something besides reporting. The latter simply wasn’t an option.

  She also spent a good portion of the day staring at the phone, willing it to ring. Sam had said he would call, and he’d never broken his word to her.

  When he finally did call, her relief and elation quickly dulled. He’d only wanted to check and see if she was doing all right. He didn’t linger on the phone, and he didn’t ask to see her again or press her about Johnny’s death, which left Callie feeling more than vaguely disappointed. Kissing Sam was like eating M&M’s; she couldn’t stop at just one, and the more she indulged, the more she wanted.

  Sunday she went quietly stir-crazy. She wasn’t used to being idle.

  By Monday she was full of purpose again. She went to the copy shop, spent a fortune on stamps, and sent out her résumés and clippings. Then she went to her favorite frozen-yogurt shop and indulged in a fat-free hot fudge sundae.

  She knew almost everyone who came into the store, and most stopped at her table to chat a minute. If she were sitting in an ice-cream shop in some big city, she probably wouldn’t know a single person who walked in.

  Well, she’d have to get used to things like that. And things like always locking her door, and installing a car alarm in her Nissan, and rush-hour traffic jams and smog and not being able to see the stars at night …

  “Oh, stop it,” she murmured to herself. She was depressing herself. Instead, she thought about Sam, which was only slightly less depressing since he hadn’t called again. It was really better that way, she kept telling herself.