Miss Lizzy's Legacy (9 page)

He tensed as his mind clicked to another possibility. Was there someone in Dallas waiting for her return, even now?

In spite of him willing them otherwise, her eyes slowly blinked open and her gaze met his. She smiled sleepily. “Good mornin',” she murmured and cuddled closer.

“It is that,” he agreed, snuggling her up higher on his chest. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a rock.”

Judd chuckled. “Me, too.” He traced a line from her shoulder to her hip. She was here with him, had spent the night in his arms, yet he couldn't shake the worrisome thought about her leaving soon or the possibility of someone awaiting her return.

They hadn't discussed their pasts. There hadn't seemed to be the need or even the time for that. But now he was curious and not sure how to raise the question.

“Is there a husband or a boyfriend who might come gunning for me?” he finally asked.

Callie lifted her head and looked at him. He thought he caught a glimmer of apprehension in her eyes, but then she laughed and tucked her head back against his chest. “A little late to be asking that question, don't you think?”

* * *

Callie sat on a scarred barstool, her stockinged toes curled around its rungs, her chin resting in her hand. Before her, a lump of terra-cotta clay and an armature rested on an old formica-topped kitchen table. Both the stool and the table she'd bought for a bargain at a used-furniture store a couple of blocks from the Harrison House. A drape of plastic sheeting protected a second smaller table “borrowed” from the whorehouse's main storage room. A plant mister, a scrub brush, several different sized bristle brushes, pieces of wire screen and her modeling tools awaited her use on its top.

It had taken her less than two hours to set up her temporary studio. She'd spent at least two more hours staring at the clay, waiting for inspiration to strike. The deadline for the sculpture for the Houston hospital's new women's pavilion was a scant six weeks away.

She shifted on the stool and let out a sigh. So far the clay remained untouched, her hands clean and inspiration something she feared she might never experience again. Knowing the statue wouldn't form itself, she broke off a large chunk of clay. She scooted her stool closer to the table and began to work the clay between her hands, warming it and softening it.

In her mind's eye, she saw the completed piece. A mother cradling a sleeping infant to her cheek. She'd never given birth herself, but she could imagine the emotions that would fill a mother's heart when holding her newborn for the first time. Pride. Love. Thankfulness. All mixed with a measure of awe. Each emotion she wanted reflected on the mother's face of the finished piece.

Unfortunately, the ability to produce the emotions in the clay escaped her, just as they had at her studio in Dallas. She had hoped that by getting away from Dallas and Stephen, the creative juices would flow.

They hadn't.

Her shoulders drooped. Maybe Prudy was right, she thought despondently. She'd said that Callie's creative block had nothing to do with her relationship with Stephen, but more with her relationship with her mother. She'd argued that Callie couldn't possibly be expected to create something she'd never experienced as a child from her own mother. Granted, Prudy tended to blame every problem in Callie's life on her mother, but this time Callie could see her point.

Although Frances Sawyer Benson possessed a great many admirable qualities, maternal love certainly wasn't one of them. Callie couldn't remember ever being cuddled by her mother, or ever hearing her mother say I love you. Throughout her life, Callie had struggled to earn her mother's attention and admiration, but she'd never received anything but her constant disapproval.

Papa was aware of Frances's shortcomings and had always told Callie her mother had inherited every drop of her cold-bloodedness from the Sawyer side of the family. After reading Lizzy's journal, Callie had a new understanding for that coldness and was inclined to agree.

The thought of the Sawyers and the journal channeled Callie's thoughts further to Lizzy. Had Lizzy shared the same traits as her mother? Evidently she had, she decided. How else could she have sent her infant son away?

Callie squeezed the clay in her palm, groaning. Coming to Guthrie certainly hadn't opened her creative juices. If anything, coming to Guthrie and discovering her great-great-grandmother's secret life had further stymied her ability to create.

The sound of a bark drew her thoughts from her work. She set aside the clay and moved to peer out the window. Across the street, Baby romped on winter brown grass. Judd sat on a park bench, his legs stretched out in front of him, teasing Baby with a ball. He'd pretend to throw it, hide it behind his back, then laugh when Baby bolted and spun in fast circles looking for the ball.

Her throat tightened and she lifted a hand to lay her fingertips against the cold glass. Her inability to evoke visions of motherhood might be blamed on her mother, but her distraction from her work today could be blamed on the man outside, as well.

What was it about him that drew her? she wondered. Was it purely sexual attraction? She'd definitely felt the tug from their first meeting. But, no, she told herself, beyond the physical there was something else. An unexplainable comfortableness that made being with him easy, as if they'd known each other for years.

Silly, because she didn't know him, not in the way she knew Stephen. Yet, when he looked at her, she didn't see a stranger, she saw a man, familiar and irresistible. And when he touched her, she didn't feel violated as she did sometimes with Stephen. She felt...she felt loved.

Her fingers curled against the windowpane at the thought. Loved? How could she possibly feel loved by someone she barely knew? Someone who, by all rights, she should fear?

A knot of apprehension tightened in her stomach. She stared at Judd, trying to fit the allegations that shadowed his past to the man innocently playing with his dog below. Nothing matched. Nothing. Judd Barker was a gentle man, a kind man. He'd never harm anyone, much less a woman.

Hadn't he proven that last night? He'd told her point-blank he'd wanted to make love with her, and in so doing, had placed the decision at her feet for her alone to make. If she hadn't been willing, he would never have forced himself on her. She knew that as surely as she knew her name. And he'd given of himself unselfishly, always conscious of her comfort, her needs, without her ever having to voice them.

While she watched, he lifted the ball and hurled it, sending Baby off at a run. He tossed back his head and laughed, the sun bright on his face, the wind whipping at his dark hair. Emotion knotted in her chest.

At that moment, Judd glanced up and caught Callie's eye. A grin spread across his face, slowly unraveling the knot in her chest. While she watched, he turned a thumb to his chest, pointing at himself, then joined his thumbs and index fingers in the shape of a heart. Without moving his gaze from hers, he slowly lifted a hand to point at her.

A sheet of glass, two stories and a street separated them, yet she felt the heat of his gaze as if they stood nose-to-nose. A warmth slowly spread through her as she watched him push himself to his feet and put on his hat. She couldn't hear his words, but knew he called Baby because the dog snapped up the ball and raced back to Judd's side. Judd scruffed Baby behind the ears then took the ball from him and shoved it into the pocket of his duster before heading across the street.

Callie's pulse kicked in anticipation, knowing he was coming to see her. Anxious to see him as well, she turned from the window, then wheeled about when she caught a glimpse of a sleek, silver car sliding into a parking space across the street. She stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the car as a tall, well-groomed man stepped to the curb and paused to look around.

She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the window. “Oh, no,” she murmured.

* * *

“Excuse me, please. Could I ask directions of you?”

Impatient to see Callie, Judd started to ignore the request, but inbred courtesy made him turn and wait while the man who'd called to him jogged across the street. The guy looked like a Philadelphia lawyer with his three-piece suit, Italian silk tie and slicked-back hair. In a country town like Guthrie where boots and jeans were standard wear, he looked as out of place as a turd floating in a punch bowl. Judd craned his neck to check out the license plates on the man's car.
Texas.

“What can I do for you?” Judd asked, his voice guarded. Baby growled low in his throat as the man approached, and Judd placed a warning hand on the dog's collar.

“I'm looking for the Harrison Hotel,” the man replied, breathing heavily.

A jog across the street and the guy was already winded. To Judd's mind, his endurance fit his image. He jerked his head in the direction the man had just driven. “You just passed it. A block east on the corner.”

The man turned and looked. “So I did.” He chuckled. “A town this small, I'm surprised I missed it.” He shook his head, still chuckling. “To be honest, I'm lucky the town is so small. Made it a hell of a lot easier to find the hotel where my fiancée's staying.”

A thread of apprehension tightened Judd's neck. “Oh?”

“Yes, she scampered off at the request of her great-grandfather to trace some of the family who once lived here and forgot to mention where she was staying. The old man's crazier than a loon. When I had my secretary call him and ask where she was planning on staying, he didn't even remember he had a great-granddaughter. Took my secretary a while to trace down the hotel, but once she did, I thought I'd drive up and surprise Callie.”

Callie!
The name ripped through Judd's heart like a rusty knife and he stiffened at the pain. It took a moment for him to find his voice. When he did, he replied dryly, “Oh, I'm sure she'll be surprised.” He touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Enjoy your trip to Guthrie.” He slapped a hand to his thigh. “Come on, Baby.”

* * *

Callie flew down the stairs, stuffing her arms through her jacket's sleeves. She had to reach Judd before Stephen talked to him. She had to.

She jerked open the door and bolted outside only to see Judd walking away. “Judd!” she cried and started after him. A hand grabbed her from behind.

“Callie!” Stephen whirled her around and into his arms. “I was on my way to your hotel to find you.”

Over Stephen's shoulder she watched Judd continue down the sidewalk toward the Blue Bell, his shoulders hunched, his hands buried deep in his duster's pockets. Baby trotted at his side, his snout tipped up, looking quizzically up at his master. She knew she was too late. Judd and Stephen had already met.

She wanted to call out to Judd, to beg him to stop so she could explain, but she knew this wasn't the time. Oh, why hadn't she told him about Stephen that morning when he'd asked if she had a husband or boyfriend who'd be gunning for him?

But she hadn't, and she couldn't change that now. Stepping from Stephen's embrace, she forced a smile. “Were you?”

“Yes,” he said, puckering his mouth in a childish pout. “Which was no easy task to locate, considering you didn't tell anyone your whereabouts. You might have returned my calls,” he added, sounding hurt.

Callie dug her hands into her jacket pockets to avoid further contact. “I told you I needed time alone.”

It was so like Stephen: he ignored her withdrawal and wrapped an arm around her shoulders and turned her toward the hotel. He dipped his head close to her ear and said, “Which is exactly why I'm here.”

* * *

Fiancée.
Judd tightened his hand on the ball in his pocket and squeezed for all it was worth as he headed for the Blue Bell Saloon. It was either that or put a fist through the brick wall beside him, and he valued his hands too much to risk that.

Why hadn't she told him she was engaged? he raged inwardly. She'd had the chance. He'd asked her point-blank that very morning if there was anybody he should worry about. She'd laughed his question off, making a joke of it.

But she hadn't given him an answer.

He had his answer now, though. Thanks to the unexpected appearance of the Philadelphia lawyer.

* * *

Hours later Judd climbed the carpeted stairs leading to the Sand Plum restaurant where he was to meet his mother and other members of the Historical Society to discuss an upcoming fund-raiser. Judd didn't want to go to the dinner meeting. He'd prefer to spend the evening at the Blue Bell, drowning his disappointment in a beer. But his mother had called, reminding him of the meeting, and if he'd refused to go she would've known something was up. To keep her off his back and out of his private life, he'd chosen to make a token appearance at the Sand Plum.

They'd arrived before him, all familiar faces, all smiling expectantly when they saw him. He crossed to the table and pulled out the chair beside his mother. Molly immediately pushed a salad plate in front of him and leaned toward him. “You're late,” she whispered. “I ordered for you.”

Judd pushed the plate away. “I got tied up at the bar.”

Molly looked at him curiously. “Aren't you going to eat your salad?”

She had that look on her face that said if he refused, she'd put a hand to his forehead and check his temperature. At the moment, he didn't need or want any coddling. He dragged the salad plate back in front of him and picked up his fork.

Satisfied, Molly patted his arm. “We were just going over the details for the fund-raiser.” She pushed on her glasses and shuffled through a scattering of papers. “The auditorium at the Masonic Temple is reserved for the night of December twentieth. The publicity will be taken care of by Myrna. Eddy is arranging for tickets and concessions.” She pulled off her glasses and settled back against the padded chair. “That only leaves the entertainment.” She turned her gaze full on Judd. “We're still hoping you'll agree to sing.”