Blaze of Winter: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance (42 page)

Callie was floored. A small corner of her heart fluttered at the realization that Sam was free.

From the calculating look on Millicent’s face, her thoughts were running along the same lines’.

“Oh, no,” Callie said.

“Now, what would it hurt for you to spend some time with him while he’s in town, maybe get to know his daughter—”

“I’m not good with children,” Callie interrupted. “Besides, it would hurt. Nothing has changed since we broke up.”

“A lot’s changed,” Millicent argued. “And there’s Theodora’s predictions to think about.”

“Don’t start with that hocus-pocus stuff again—”

“You have to admit, the poem came true. Lana’s husband ‘roved,’ I buried mine—”

“I know, I know, in a hickory grove, if two trees can count as a grove.”

“And you tarried here in Destiny instead of moving to Nevada, missing your chance to marry Sam. But maybe it’s not too late.”

As they’d talked they’d gradually worked their way toward the Sanger family. Callie realized she wanted to pay her respects, regardless of her feelings for Sam or his for her. She owed it to Beverly.

As the two younger women approached, Beverly Sanger greeted them gracefully, accepting hugs from them both. She introduced them to Will and Tamra, who both politely shook their hands and thanked them for coming.

“Hey, I remember you,” Will said to Callie. “Didn’t you used to—”

Tamra loudly cleared her throat. “Not now, Will,” she said, looking acutely embarrassed.

Beverly quickly jumped in. “And of course you both know Sam.” She looked anxiously at her younger son, who was kneeling in front of the chair where Deana sat, helping her button her sweater.

“I’m so sorry—” Callie began as soon as he turned to look at her, but Sam cut her off.

“Are you going to run the picture of my little girl in the paper?” he asked, straightening to face her. His expression was hard and not the least bit welcoming.

“Sam!” Beverly scolded.

“I won’t know which photo to run until I develop the film,” Callie answered diplomatically. “Would it bother you?”

“I’m not especially comfortable with the publicity for Deana, that’s all.” His deep blue gaze focused totally on Callie. “Hasn’t the town had enough to chew on with the way Dad died?”

Millicent stepped forward, rushing to take her friend’s side. “Whatever Callie prints, she’ll do it with taste. You really don’t have to worry about that.”

Some of the tension drained out of Sam as he looked curiously at Callie’s defender. “Millicent, isn’t it? From high school?”

“Yes.”

“The fireman who died—he was your husband.”

“Yes.” Millicent’s voice was barely a whisper. She shrank back.

Callie wished the ground could swallow them all up right about now. How could Sam be so insensitive?

“Look,” she said, taking Millicent’s arm, “this was a bad idea. We’ll leave you all alone now.”

“It wasn’t a bad idea,” Beverly objected. “Thank you both for coming. It means a lot. Some of us are running a bit low on manners at this point, that’s all.”

Callie gave Sam’s mother a parting smile of gratitude before she and Millicent turned to make their escape. But as she started to step away, her slick-soled pumps skidded on the wet grass and her feet flew out from under her. She would have landed flat on her fanny if Sam hadn’t reached out and caught her under the arms.

He didn’t say a word, just helped her get steady on her feet. But he didn’t have to speak. The physical contact between them sent sparks shooting all the way to Callie’s toes. She felt her face flushing from more than embarrassment. She realized they hadn’t touched, hadn’t so much as shaken hands, in eight years—and she’d missed the feel of his touch. He’d once known how to send her straight to heaven with his caresses. The memories, so sudden and so acute, made her tremble inside.

“Thank you,” she said politely as he released her. This time when she walked away, she looked down at her still-wobbly feet to make sure she didn’t misstep.

Sam watched Callie walk away, momentarily hypnotized by the gentle sway of her hips beneath the somber business suit she wore. Her thick brown hair still hung past her shoulders, but today she’d tamed it back with a
black bow. And she still wore glasses. He wondered how many people knew she didn’t need them.

“Sam Sanger, I thought I raised you better than that,” Beverly said. “Callie Calloway has been a friend of our family for years. You had no call to—”

“She came to the funeral as a reporter, not a friend.” Sam picked up his sleepy-eyed daughter and propped her on his hip. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the mess that newspaper once made of our lives.” His gaze slid over to Will and back. “And I don’t like the idea of her taking pictures of Deana.”

“She has a job to do, just like everyone else,” Beverly said. “Besides, I for one wouldn’t mind seeing a picture of a sweet little girl saying good-bye to her grandfather. I’d much prefer that to a picture of the pitiful widow with a handkerchief to her face.”

“You’re not a pitiful widow.” Will slipped an arm around his mother’s shoulders. “We’ll get through this, Mother. It’ll be okay. I’m here to help you.”

Sam cast a jaundiced eye at his half brother. Will had never in his life helped anyone but himself. Still, Sam had to admit that he had been very supportive during the ordeal of the past few days, and even before Johnny’s accident he’d shown signs of wanting to heal the family rift. He’d been out of prison for almost four months, paroled for good behavior, and claimed he was straightening out his life. He’d married a girl he’d been corresponding with in prison, and he even had a job he seemed to like at a paper recycling plant.

Maybe Will had changed, Sam thought, and it was his own cynical outlook that cast everyone in a bad light.

“The limo driver’s waiting,” Will said.

Sam realized that everyone else had left, even Reverend Snyder. One last limo ride to the farm, and the funeral would be over. Then Sam could concentrate on getting his mother’s affairs in order. He intended to try to talk her into coming back to Nevada with him, at least for a visit.

“You should call poor Callie and tell her you don’t really mind about the picture,” Beverly said as she picked her way cautiously over the uneven grass in her high heels. “She would never take advantage of any situation to sell newspapers. She’s not like that.”

Sam snorted in disbelief. “Callie Calloway? The girl who once dressed up as a football player so she could get inside the boys’ locker room and find out if we really had centerfold girls pinned up on the walls?”

“Oh, Sam, for heaven’s sake, that was when she was in high school. She’s matured a lot since then. You haven’t lived here day in and day out, reading the paper. She’s done a very responsible job since she took over as editor last year—the youngest editor the
Record
’s ever had, mind you. She covers every issue fairly, from both sides, and she’s never too sensational.”

“That remains to be seen. I think we all need to be cautious.”

Sam had already read the accounts Callie had written of his father’s death. So far the stories had been low-key, bare facts only. But Sam wasn’t naive enough to think that would be the end of it. The people of Destiny were hungry for more information about Johnny Sanger. And Callie was the type to answer demands, fill
needs, fill vacuums. She wouldn’t let a past connection with the victim’s son stand in the way of her career.

Callie yawned expansively as she waited for Millicent and Lana in a back booth at the Pie Pantry tearoom. The three women met for lunch every month, a tradition they’d started in high school. In the beginning they’d met to discuss their strange encounter with the mysterious fortune-teller Theodora, analyzing the incident endlessly, trying to extract some meaning from it. But eventually, as Theodora’s predictions faded into a distant memory, the monthly lunches had become strictly social events.

Lana, who worked at the florist’s shop next door, arrived first, but Millicent was right behind. They all placed their usual orders with the waitress, who knew them by name and always held the back booth open for their monthly meetings.

“You look tired,” Millicent said to Callie when the waitress had gone.

“I was late at the paper last night,” Callie explained, stifling another yawn. In truth, she’d been writing and rewriting the account of Johnny Sanger’s funeral until her production manager had forced her to send the story to typesetting. She still wasn’t happy with it.

“The story on the funeral was very nice,” Millicent said, as if she’d just read Callie’s mind. “I’m sure Sam will be pleased.”

“Sam?” Lana’s interest perked up as she buttered a roll.

“I’m not sure he’d be pleased with anything I did,”
Callie said dismissively. She turned to Lana. “How’s Rob? Did he win his football game Friday night?” Rob was Lana’s eight-year-old son.

“He fumbled twice.”

“Callie, why won’t you talk about Sam?” Millicent persisted. “I know you still have feelings for him. You’re both free. Are you sure you don’t want to get reacquainted?”

Callie shook her head. She knew Millicent was only speaking out of concern, but thoughts of Sam brought back too many painful memories.

Millicent sighed. “How is Theodora’s prediction ever going to come true if you won’t get within a hundred feet of a cowboy?”

“Theodora?” Lana looked quizzically at Millicent. “We haven’t talked about her in years. I thought we all agreed to forget about her.”

“That was before her predictions started coming true,” Millicent said. “Callie became a newspaper reporter, just like Theodora said, and I became an artist. Now Lana is surrounding herself with flowers.”

“Hey, that’s right!” Lana said. “Theodora did say she saw me surrounded by flowers. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Then there’s the poem,” Millicent continued. “She had us pegged there, agreed?”

“She made vague predictions,” Callie argued.

“How’d she know about the hickory trees?” Millicent persisted. “That burial plot’s been in Ronnie’s family for fifty years.”

Callie shrugged. She’d thought that Millicent had deliberately picked a plot with hickory trees, a
self-fulfilling prophecy. “I’ll agree she’s made a few lucky guesses. But none of us have married the men she predicted for us.”

“Ronnie was a paramedic,” Millicent said. “That’s close enough to the doctor she chose for me.” She smiled mischievously at Callie. “And Theodora must have had Sam in mind for you. It’s not too late.”

“Oh, please. Like he wants anything to do with me. And I’m not moving to Nevada, anyway. Besides, I’d have to deal with Deana, and I’m not the stepmother type.”

Lana laughed in between bites of her roll. “We hear you, Callie. How many more excuses can you come up with? But I never have understood what you have against Nevada. I wouldn’t mind going to live on a big ol’ ranch.”

“Then you marry Sam,” Callie teased.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that. I’m waiting for my policeman.”

Millicent frowned disapprovingly at her friends’ ridicule of a subject she took quite seriously.

Their food arrived, and the conversation turned to more mundane matters. But Millicent didn’t want to let the matter of Theodora’s predictions drop. “Callie, won’t you at least consider spending some time with Sam while he’s in town? Y’all have both grown up a lot. Things might be different.”

Callie pushed aside her half-eaten turkey sandwich. “Millicent, I know you want everyone to be happy, but I’m not interested in Sam anymore.” Never mind that not an hour had gone by in the last twenty-four that she
hadn’t thought about how his hands had felt on her. “He means nothing to me.”

“Well, in that case, here comes nothing,” Lana said in a wary voice.

Callie followed her friend’s gaze. Sure enough, there was Sam Sanger walking through the restaurant, bearing down on their table. His work jeans and battered boots looked out of place in the frilly, feminine tearoom.

“Oh, no,” she murmured, bowing her head and pretending to study the dessert menu. Maybe he would walk on by and not see her.

“Afternoon, ladies.”

“Hi, Sam,” Millicent said with her best smile. She reintroduced Lana, and when their murmured greetings were barely out of their mouths, she added, “Lana and I were just on our way out.” Despite Callie’s frantic gestures and panicked, silent pleas, her two friends deserted her faster than rats from a sinking ship, and she was left alone with solemn Sam and his censorious frown.

“Your secretary told me where to find you,” Sam said. “Mind if I sit down?”

Callie shrugged. She didn’t feel like being polite, didn’t feel she owed it to him. His coolness from yesterday, and the fact that he doubted her journalistic integrity, still stung.

The moment he settled his tall frame into the booth, the waitress swooped to their table. Sam absently ordered coffee and apple pie, while Callie declined dessert Her stomach was suddenly tied up in knots.

“Well, go ahead,” she said when they were alone. “Tell me everything you hated about my story. Tell me
I’m an opportunistic hack writer. Get it out of your system.”

“Callie, I came to apologize. I was way out of line yesterday.”

“Yes, you were.” She met his steady blue gaze head-on, unwilling to let him off easy. “The
Record
is a responsible newspaper with plenty of readers, thank you. I don’t need to entice more with sensationalism.”

“So I’ve been told.”

To gain time, Callie pulled off her wire-rim glasses and began cleaning them with a napkin. She didn’t know quite what to make of Sam’s apology. Was it sincere, or did he have an angle?

“You still wear glasses to make you look older?” he asked. “I figured you’d have gotten over that by now.”

“The joke was on me. A couple of years ago I found out I’m nearsighted. These are prescription.”

An awkward silence followed. She stirred sugar into her iced tea, not intending to drink it.

“The story on Dad’s funeral was good,” Sam said abruptly. “It was everything Millicent promised and more. I even liked the picture of Deana, once I saw it.”

“Thank you.” Callie kept her voice neutral, though she was secretly pleased to know that her agonizing hadn’t been for nothing. She’d fluctuated between running Deana’s picture or a more generic wide-angle shot of the whole family. She’d finally decided the shot of Deana was in no way offensive or overly melodramatic. The story and picture had run on page three of the Metropolitan section.