Way Out West (5 page)

 He muttered beneath the
cloth, “It’s just not in the cards.”

Chapter Three

Music from a honky tonk
piano filtered up the stairs, through Callie’s door and settled between her
teeth.

She sat on the edge of
her bed trying to study the manual. Only the major hardships had jumped out at
her so far: no electricity, no facilities, no contact with the outside world except
by telegraph. This was worse than summer camp.

Well, she didn’t have to
worry about the outside world. She had no desire to contact Spider or her
parents. No telling what their reaction would be after three years of silence—her
fault, not theirs. Calling them at Christmas that first year had seemed like a
good idea at the time, but when her mother sobbed non-stop about her nomad
life, Callie had cut her short, promising to call soon. She never did and she
regretted it now more than ever.

What she regretted most
was disappointing her parents. She’d quit college as a junior to support Keith,
her fiancé, while he did his graduate work. But once she realized her financial
support and housekeeping help were more important to him than strengthening
their bond, she’d left without looking back. Her parents were mystified why she
didn’t return to school and make something of herself. Months of puzzled gazes
and questioning glares passed until a stubborn and stifled Callie jumped on a
bus and headed West.

Romanticized notions of
living on the road, free to do as she pleased, appealed to her rebellious
nature. She stopped in a dozen cities along the way, taking in the sights,
exploiting her freedom. When her money ran out, she settled in L.A. excited by the prospect of becoming an actress. Like so many others before her, the
call never came and waitressing became her only means of support. Along came
the Spider whose own free spirit and rebellious ways added to the attraction of
being his biker chick.

But the glamour soon
wore off. Callie didn’t want another relationship where she was someone else’s
appendage. She wanted to stop running and go home.

Would her parents ever
forgive her? Would they accept her back? She didn’t know. All she knew was she
needed to return home and try to set some priorities in her life. At
twenty-five, she’d seen enough of the world to know that places and things
didn’t make you happy, people did. And being with people who loved you made
life a whole lot more tolerable.

Snapping the book shut,
she stood to look at herself in the mirror. Same old Callie, just in different
clothes. But clothes apparently made all the difference in a place like Way Out
West. Maybe here she could be somebody, somebody whose past mistakes didn’t
matter.

Becky had chosen a red
satin, breath-strangling, waist-cinching, strapless dress for Callie’s debut.
The hem barely brushed her knees and was pulled up on one side by a large black
bow. Callie tugged at a few wisps of hair around her temples. Becky had come in
with some crazy kind of curling iron heated on the great stove in the kitchen.
With adept fingers, she’d curled and tugged after sweeping the bulk of Callie’s
long tresses on top of her head and fastening with pins and combs. She
completed the masterpiece with a feather on a satin band.

Callie barely recognized
herself. “Why such elaborate costuming?” she’d questioned teasingly.

“It’s the fantasy of the
Old West. A saloon is where rough and tumble men come in to wet their whistle
and to see some pretty ladies.”

“But didn’t some of
those girls do ‘other’ things?”

“Yes, in the real Old
West, but here we follow modern day law. We’re just waitresses and
entertainers. I run a respectable establishment and I expect nothing but the
best behavior from my girls.”

With that heavy warning,
Becky had finished off her creation with dazzling eye makeup and slick
lipstick, all modern cosmetics. “Hey, some things you can’t duplicate in the Old
West,” she quipped before leaving Callie to her reading.

A knock on the door
startled Callie from her thoughts. She opened it a crack to see another young
woman dressed to kill, but looking a lot more confident than Callie felt.

“Miss Becky wants you
downstairs. The tables are filling.”

“Thanks,” Callie
answered.

“By the way, I’m Sasha.”
The two women exchanged smiles and started down the stairs to the noisy saloon.
“I heard you arrived with Rand. Now there’s a man.” Sasha sighed heavily.

Callie bristled. “I
guess he’s made your acquaintance, too. Is there anyone around here who hasn’t
been affected by Mr. Wonderful?”

Sasha put a finger to
her cheek, pretending deep thought. “Hmmm. Nope. Everyone adores him.” She
finished the last two steps with an exaggerated sway of her hips and sallied
off to a table. “Chester! You’re looking right smart this evenin’.”

Callie watched Sasha
work the tables like she was feeding a bunch of hungry pigeons. Three other
girls did the same, taking turns getting drinks and making small talk with the
patrons as if they were all old friends.

Ignoring the heads that
turned her way, she slowly cut a path to the bar and took a seat. The bartender
strolled over with a friendly smile. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah. A hamburger and
fries,” Callie moaned, rubbing her stomach. The sausage and baked beans she’d
tried earlier just didn’t settle right. She’d left more than she’d eaten.

He laughed. “Don’t
worry. You’ll get used to the food soon enough.” He shoved a bowl of peanuts
her way. “If you need anything, just holler. I’m Smitty.”

“Thanks, Smitty.” He
went back to his glass washing and Callie turned in her seat to scan the room.
There were slick card players, gunslingers telling tales, townsfolk having an
evening out, and just plain bar scum. Everyone was having a good time doing
their own thing.

At least that’s what she
thought until she noticed a barfly stumbling her way. She painstakingly avoided
eye contact.

“Evenin’ darlin’. Yer a
perdy little thang, ain’t ya?” When he pressed his face close to hers, his sour
breath hit her like the back end of a horse. “First time I seen you in here.
Would ya like me to show ya the ropes?”

Callie backed off a bit,
hanging on to the bar so as not to fall off her stool. Her mind raced. Should
she kick him in the gut with her spiked heels? Or ignore him until he went
away? Becky had said to be nice, no matter what.

“Why thank you, sir.
That’s very kind of you. But I was told to wait here.”

“Well, then, I’ll wait
right here witcha and keep ya comp’ny.” He eased one leg up on the stool next
to Callie, but before he could complete the action, a large hand from behind
arrested his momentum.

 “That won’t be
necessary,” Rand’s voice bellowed near her ear. “She’s waiting for me.”

Callie turned to face Rand. He never took his eyes off her as he pushed the squirrelly man with the frizzy red
hair to the next stool and ordered him a drink.

“Thanks, Rand. That’s right friendly of ya.” His mouth twitching nervously, the man took his seat.

Callie was relieved to
be spared any more of the vermin’s prattle, but once she looked into Rand’s intense gaze she wondered if she’d been tossed from the pan into the fire. His dark
eyes held a restlessness she hadn’t noticed before. But then, she’d mostly had
her back to him in a saddle while he’d been in total command of the situation.

Now here he was trying
to take command again, leaving her to wonder if she had a sign on her forehead
that read
weakling
, readable only by men.

“What makes you think I
was waiting for you?” she asked with a lift of her chin.

“You weren’t, but he
doesn’t know that.” Rand plunked some money on the bar for the man’s drink
before leaning closer to Callie. “I know Becky ordered you to sit here and
observe, but I’d feel a whole lot better if I could keep a close eye on you.”

“Are you my
self-appointed guardian?” she quipped.

He didn’t answer. Instead
his eyes inspected the transformed city girl. Her hair, face, dress, legs.
Every part of her suffered the heat of his gaze, scorching her like a branding
iron until it finally settled on her lips. Self-consciously, she pursed them,
hoping she hadn’t smudged the fire-red lipstick. She searched for a diversion.

“I’m surprised you
recognized me. Becky was determined to make my saloon debut a real head-turner.
How’d she do?”

With the backs of his
fingers he touched the feather in her hair, drawing them down her cheek while
he stared once again into her eyes. “Good. Real good.” The red of her dress
reflected like flames in his eyes. Or
was
it the dress?

He took her hand, raised
it to his lips. Her knuckles tingled with the warmth of his breath, the wetness
of his kiss, the brush of his mustache. If she’d been standing, surely her
knees would’ve buckled. With one small kiss, he’d managed to defuse her
objections and set her heart racing.

Still holding her hand,
he asked, “Miss Callie, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the
card table?”

She blinked, her vision
blurred from the dizziness of the moment. “What? Oh, I...can’t. I’m supposed to
stay here.”

Rand
drew her off the stool and pressed her closer to
his broad chest than she thought appropriate in this public setting. His warm
breath fanned her upturned face.

“When asked politely, a
lady should accept a gentleman’s offer. As for Miss Becky, I’m sure she won’t
mind my occupying you for a time. Consider it a part of your training.”

His hypnotic eyes and
words moved her to follow him. He led her by the hand to a table where two
friendly looking men sat counting chips and shuffling cards. As Rand sat down, a third man quickly slid into the only vacant chair.

“Where do I sit?” she
asked, bending to Rand’s ear. She caught the fresh spice scent of his cleanly
shaven face.

Handing money to the
girl selling poker chips, he spoke softly to Callie. “You don’t, darlin’. I
want you to stand behind me and bring me luck.” Then loudly for the benefit of
the other players, “I’m feeling mighty lucky tonight.”

Two of the men laughed
while the newcomer grunted and passed the cards for the cut. Callie bristled.
That’s all she needed, to be treated like someone’s possession again. Well, she
wasn’t replaying that scene. With a rustle of her skirt Callie turned to leave
but a large hand caught hers in the most tender grip she’d ever felt.

“Please. Stay,” was all Rand said. His eyes spoke what his words didn’t say. The restlessness was gone, replaced by
something softer, kinder. If she didn’t know better, she’d think it was
sadness.

What could he possibly
be sad about? He was here in his dream town where everyone adored him, living
out his fantasy life. He’d even admitted this was where he felt most at home.

Some home. A town in the
middle of nowhere inhabited by wayward twenty-first century transients, where
the main attractions were gambling, drinking, and tipping your hat. That’s what
Rand whatever-his-last-name-is called home. Callie Sumner called it purgatory.

Ah, but what did she
know about his outside life? He could be hiding a life of crime. Or escaping
from an unhappy marriage. Worse, he could be a very normal person who really
thought the Wild West was the golden age.

Well, none of that
mattered. He was only there for a week. He had his right to privacy, as stated
in the manual, and she was there to be nice to the customers. With that in
mind, she let him pull her back to stand behind him before he reluctantly
released his grip. Becky wanted her to observe, so that’s what she’d do. She’d
stand there quietly and observe.

Even if it happened to
be Rand, the handsome gambler.

With her hands resting
on the back of his big oak chair, her fingers brushed along his smooth black
coat, feeling the heat that seeped through the fabric. She absently picked a
piece of lint from one shoulder and saw Rand’s head turn just a smidge in her
direction. He’d noticed.

Tilting her head to the
side, she caught sight of the edge of his mustache quirking upward. Rand leaned forward to toss in his stakes. When he sat back, the brim of his hat hit her
chest, tipping it down over his eyes. The grumpy man snickered, and Rand turned to look at her after adjusting his hat.

“Sorry,” she said with a
grin.

After several hands,
Callie couldn’t tell who was winning or losing, but Rand’s pile of chips had
gone down. Other than a pair or three of a kind, she understood very little
about poker. Maybe if she concentrated, she’d get the gist of it.

She leaned forward,
peering over Rand’s shoulder to see what he held, but she hit his hat again and
tumbled it backward this time. Embarrassed by her faux pas, she bent to
retrieve the hat, reaching it at the same time Rand’s hand did.

Speaking below the
table, Rand murmured, “Miss Callie, if I’m to have any luck at all tonight, I
need you to be a little less distracting.”

“Sorry, it’s this stiff
dress,” she explained. “I’m...well, I’m sticking out a lot farther than I’m
used to.”