Callie's Cowboy (11 page)

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.

But, dammit, she wanted to see him; there was no denying it. All she knew was that she was hurting, and he was the only thing that made her feel better. Sam was her Band-Aid, her temporary fix to a complicated problem.

The situation was hopeless. Nothing had changed. Sam would eventually return to Nevada, and who knew where she would end up. Nonetheless, if she could have conjured him up with sheer will alone, she'd have done it in a second. She would take her comfort where she could get it, and worry about future hurts later.

Two days later Callie couldn't stand it anymore. She showed up at the Sangers' house, unannounced. Just dropping by to see how everyone was getting along, she told Beverly, letting them know she was thinking about them.

“We're doing as well as can be expected.” Beverly ushered Callie inside, taking her jacket. “I understand you've got problems of your own, though.”

Callie waved away Beverly's concern. “It's just a job. A job's nothing. I can always get another one.”

“Sam's putting Deana down for her nap. He'll be down shortly, I'm sure.”

“Really, I came to see you.”

Beverly's face took on an expression of alarm. “You found something out about—”

“No, no,” Callie said hastily. “I mean, I did talk to Officer Bennett, and he agrees that we shouldn't jump
to any conclusions one way or another about Johnny's death.”

“He doesn't think I'm nuts for asking questions?”

“No. But he doesn't know anything definite, either.”

“Didn't they find anything in his office?” she asked a bit desperately. “They spent over an hour in there.…”

Callie didn't tell Beverly that an hour was a relatively short time for an evidence team to spend at a crime scene. “Bennett didn't mention anything.”

“They made a big mess, you know, with that black powder all over everything, leaving their trash on the floor. I haven't had the energy to clean it up yet. I just shut the door and tried to forget what I saw in there.” Her face looked tight with pain. “Tamra offered to do it, but I told her no, not yet.”

“Oh, Beverly, no one in the family should have to take care of that. We'll call a cleaning service, okay?”

“Maybe that would be best. If it's not too expensive—oh, dear, I guess I don't really have to worry about that, not with a million-dollar check on the way. I wish I could just send it back. Doesn't feel right, benefiting from Johnny's death that way. Especially since …”

“Since what?” Callie prompted.

Beverly sighed. “I told you a fib before. Johnny and I were having some problems. Personal problems. But it was nothing huge,” she added quickly, “just little misunderstandings. Sometimes when he was upset with me, I couldn't get him to talk. But I would never … I should have appreciated him more when he was alive, that's all. He was a good husband.”

Callie's thoughts strayed to Nicole Johnson. “Had you had a misunderstanding the day he died?” she asked, thinking how guilty Bev must feel if she'd been angry with him at the time of his death.

“Actually, no. We'd had a pleasant morning. I'd fixed him his favorite sausage and eggs.”

Callie didn't know what to say to that. She changed the subject. “Why don't I go in Johnny's office and check it out so I can tell the cleaning people what to expect.” Like bloodstains.

Beverly smiled gratefully. “That would be a help, Callie. No sense leaving that mess there like some kind of shrine.”

“See, I knew there would be something I could do to help.”

“I'll make us some tea.”

Moments later Callie braced herself to open the office door. When she did, she was assailed with a sickening odor of dried blood, cigarette smoke, stale bourbon, and the unmistakable smell of fingerprinting powder. Virtually all of the prints found had been Johnny's, the police had said.

She opened the door a bit wider. The room looked much the same as it had in the crime-scene photos, minus the body. Johnny's blood had flooded onto the desk chair and dripped into a coagulated pool on the mat beneath it, but thankfully hadn't marred the carpet. The black fingerprinting powder was on everything, but she imagined it would wipe or vacuum up. As for the papers thrown willy-nilly all over the room, she could ask the cleaning service to stack them up for someone to go through and file later.

She was about to leave the suffocating room when she noticed the piece of tractor-feed paper extending from the printer. Curiously, she bent and looked at it. She remembered reading Beverly's statement, in which she'd said Johnny was working in his office when she and Tamra had left for the store. She'd known he was working because she'd heard the printer start up.