Callie's Cowboy (19 page)

“So do you think you'll get it? I mean, what are the chances?” Sam asked. At this point he wanted to leave no stone unturned. He wanted to know where he stood.

She shrugged uneasily. “Nothing's been decided yet.”

And that, he thought, helped him not one iota. He rubbed her arm through her suit jacket, a jacket that, he realized, he'd never seen before. “You weren't wearing this when you left this morning.”

“I bought the suit in Salt Lake and wore it out of the store. My old clothes are … oh, I guess I left them in the car. I'd better get them.” She started to rise, but Sam held her in her chair.

“Forget the damn clothes.” He leaned close to nuzzle her ear. “I want to take you upstairs and make love to you right now.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “I'd … like that, too, but you know we—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He cut her off impatiently. “I've heard it before. We can't because it's not proper, because it would embarrass my mother, because Deana might wander in. We can't because we aren't married.” And the fact that he couldn't lay claim to her made him suddenly furious.

“Everything you've said is true.” She frowned, obviously sharing his frustration.

“Then let's fix it,” he said suddenly. “If you don't
get that job, why don't you marry me and stay right here.”

Callie's heart swelled and she couldn't seem to breathe in any air. Sam wanted to marry her? Oh, good gracious. She felt like she was going to faint.

“That didn't come out exactly the way I'd planned.” Sam leaned forward, his eyes burning with an intensity the likes of which Callie had never seen. “Matter of fact, I hadn't planned it at all. But I realized today, while you were gone, that if I don't put my bid in, you'll be gone to another job halfway across the country, and I will have lost my chance.”

“This is so sudden—”

“Not really. I wanted you to be my wife eight years ago, and I still do. Even when I was married, I used to imagine what it would be like if you'd have been the one to say yes, instead of Debra.”

“Oh, Sam …”

“Now, don't answer right away,” he said. “Think about it. It's not like you'd be stuck here with nothing to do. You could start your own newspaper, for instance. Be your own publisher.”

“My own …”

“There used to be a pretty good little weekly out of Babcock, but old Mr. Kennafick died ten years ago and no one else has picked up the reins. The building and all the equipment are still there, and I bet we could pick it up for a song.”

“Me? A publisher?”

“And if you don't like that idea, there's that novel you've always wanted to write.”

“But I don't exactly fit in at the ranch, Sam.”

“You'd learn. There are lots of things you can do if you have a hankering to be useful around here. Like helping to care for the horses and take hay to the cattle, if it snows. I bet you're a whiz with managing the books too. My office work needs some attention.…” His voice trailed off. “There are plenty of things you're qualified to do. That's the only point I'm trying to make. You can contribute as much to Roundrock as you like. Or as little, if some other activity takes your fancy.”

An enthusiastic
Yes!
was bubbling at the back of Callie's throat, but she swallowed determinedly. She loved Sam—always had, no matter how hard she'd tried to forget him. And her deepest, darkest secret, the thing she'd never told anyone, was that sometimes she believed she'd screwed up royally by not marrying him in the first place. But she couldn't just change the whole course of her life with one impulsive word. She had to think about this.

Think?
a sarcastic voice in her head mocked her.
What else have you been doing for the last couple of weeks?
In the back of her mind, she had been wondering how she could fit in here, and he'd told her. She wouldn't have to give up her career; she'd just give it a new twist.

Callie Sanger, Publisher. Nice ring.

Suddenly she felt like a kid in an ice-cream store. Too many flavors, too many choices. Except, oddly enough, this choice was much easier than it should have been. “Yes, I'll marry you, Sam.”

He stared at her for what seemed like at least a minute, obviously not having expected such an easy victory. She felt semihysterical laughter rising like a tide, trying to escape.

“What's wrong, Sam? If you didn't want me to say yes, you shouldn't have asked.”

“It's just … I thought you'd wait and see if they offered you the job first. I mean, you yourself said it was the opportunity of a lifetime—”

“I don't have to wait. I sacrificed marrying you for my career once already, and I know now that it was a mistake. Even though I haven't exactly fit in seamlessly here at Roundrock, I
want
to belong. I can do it, if I set my mind to it. I want to learn to ride and help take care of the horses, and I want to write my novel and bake pies and … and maybe publish a newspaper in Babcock. And if you wouldn't mind me doing a few freelance stories for bigger papers now and then, just so I don't get stale—”

“Of course I wouldn't mind. But, Callie, this is serious. I couldn't live with myself if you turned down the
Post
job for me. What if you got bored here? Then you'd blame me for tearing you away from your dream job—”

“I'm not Debra,” she said quietly, but forcefully. “I'm responsible for my own life, my own decisions, thank you very much. I wouldn't blame you if I were incapable of creating a life here that would make me happy.”

“Maybe not. Maybe you'd just up and leave.”

A tense silence hung between them until Callie spoke again. “I can't believe you think that little of me.” Or was it himself he thought little of? Because he'd lost Callie once, and then Debra had walked out on him? With his history, she shouldn't blame him for fearing the worst. But how could she convince him that she was
no longer that immature, tunnel-visioned girl who'd said no to his proposal a lifetime ago? She'd seen a lot more of life. And she knew what she wanted—she'd figured that out in the fast-paced, anonymous city of Washington, D.C. She wanted Sam.

“You're right,” Sam said. “That wasn't a fair statement. I know you wouldn't leave me, once you'd made the commitment. But I wouldn't want you to stay, if you were unhappy. I want you to be happy.”

His words were so earnest, they brought moisture to her eyes. She swallowed back the tears. “I wouldn't be unhappy here. I'm sure of that. Just because I love being a journalist doesn't mean I can't love some other way of life. I've grown up. I've learned to be adaptable.”

He smiled faintly. Then suddenly slapped his palms on the tabletop, startling Callie. “Okay, I have a compromise. If they offer you the job, you'll try it for a while. I'll be here, waiting for you, and the marriage proposal will stand. And after a year or so, if you still feel like you'd be happier on Roundrock, then we can get married and you'll never wonder if you made the right choice.”

A year? Good Lord, no! “But, Sam, I know what the right choice is. I know it with my whole heart and soul.”

But he was shaking his head. “It has to be this way, Callie. For my peace of mind.”

Great, just great! What Sam didn't know was that she'd already been offered the job, right on the spot. The editor at the
Post
who'd interviewed her, Gloria Reames, had taken an instant liking to Callie. They'd quickly built a rapport, and before Callie knew what was happening, the job was hers if she wanted it.

Frankly terrified, she'd told Gloria she would have to think about it for a few days. But now the decision was surprisingly easy. She didn't want a job at the
Post.
She wanted Sam and Deana, and the other children she and Sam might have one day.

It was a cinch she couldn't tell Sam about the job offer now, or he'd shuffle her off to D.C. for the next year, whether she wanted to be there or not. “All right, Sam.” She touched his beard-shadowed face. “I agree to your silly condition.”

Now he smiled without reservation. “The time will go by quickly, you'll see.” Then he was kissing her, and Callie lost herself in the feel of his mouth, his warm breath against her face, his soft: hair sifting through her fingers. And she knew with every fiber of her being that they belonged together.

“And no more secrets between us, agreed?” Sam murmured, nibbling her ear. “I know we don't see eye to eye on everything, but we can always talk things out.”

“Argue, you mean,” Callie said with a chuckle. But immediately she sobered. There was already a secret between them. She should tell him that the D.C. job was hers for the asking, and then convince him not to make her delay their marriage because of it. But somehow, she couldn't find the courage to spoil the moment.

Tomorrow she would call Gloria Reames and tell her she'd decided not to take the job, and then put the whole thing behind her. Sam would never have to know.

“Sure you can hack it, married to a cowboy?” Sam asked, holding her close.

He'd meant the question in jest, but Callie felt a little shiver run down her spine. She'd always claimed
she didn't believe in fate or psychic predictions from gypsies or newspaper horoscopes, but here she was falling headlong into marriage with a cowboy—the one thing she'd sworn she wouldn't do. And the one thing Theodora had claimed, with uncanny certainty, that she would do.

As Callie sat in her favorite frozen-yogurt shop in Destiny, waiting for Sloan Bennett to show up, she mentally went over her list of things to do. One of those things was to call up Gloria Reames and tell her she couldn't take the job. She'd been procrastinating for days.

But now she wondered: Was she hedging her bets in case her marriage plans with Sam fell through? She wouldn't change her mind, but what if he did? Surely not. Surely she had more faith in him. The wedding was in less than two weeks. Once a decision had been made, plans had accelerated at the speed of light. Even though she was feeling a little shell-shocked by the whole thing, he hadn't once expressed any doubt.

Her delay in calling Gloria was simply avoidance of something unpleasant, she told herself. Besides, she was working furiously on her idea for the Greenhorn at the Ranch story—which might possibly become a Greenhorn
Marries Rancher story—and she wanted to have the details nailed down before she talked to the editor.

This meeting with Sloan was another unpleasant necessity. There were loose ends to tie up. She wanted her part in the Sanger investigation to be a closed book before she saw Sam again.

“So, how's the blushing bride today?” said Sloan's voice from behind her. She jumped, and he laughed. She'd been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't even seen him come in. He set a chocolate milkshake in front of her, then found a chair. “The milkshakes are on me—call it gratitude for helping us close the book on the Sanger investigation for good.”

Callie said nothing. There was something nibbling at her subconscious, something uncomfortable.

“Callie, what's wrong?” Sloan leaned forward, peering at her face.

“It's just that—and I can't believe I'm saying this—but something still doesn't feel right.”

Sloan frowned. “Like what?”

“Like, the note wasn't written in Johnny's own hand, so how do we know he really wrote it? And why wouldn't he handwrite it and sign it properly? And why didn't he notice that he'd printed out the feed order instead of the note, and correct the matter?” Callie hadn't even realized she'd been harboring these doubts in the back of her mind until now. Like everyone else, she'd wanted to—tried to—put the tragic matter out of her mind.

She especially hated bringing any doubts to light now, because her so-called meddling was bound to be a point of contention between her and Sam.

“So your theory is that someone killed Johnny, tapped the note out on his computer while he was still bleeding, tried to print it out, but in haste printed the wrong thing—”

“Maybe the murderer wasn't familiar with the computer.”

Sloan seemed to be thinking. After a long minute he shook his head. “Sorry, Callie. I can't buy into this one. I think Johnny simply wrote his note on the computer because it was easiest. It's cumbersome to handwrite things after you get spoiled by word processing.”

Sloan had a point. All right. So this time she'd let it drop. She'd done her part, she'd voiced her doubts.

“Okay,” she said with a nod. “I'm done playing Nancy Drew. I have a wedding to plan. Which brings me to the other reason I asked to meet with you. I want to hire an off-duty police officer to help with parking at the church. Would you be interested?”

Sloan smiled. “Sure. As long as I can come inside the church after the traffic dies down and watch you and ol' Sam getting hitched. About time.”

If we ever do get hitched, Callie thought an hour later as she stood on the Sangers' front porch, feeling over the door frame for the key she knew was there. She still didn't have a dress. Beverly had graciously offered her own wedding dress of thirty-five years ago, lovingly preserved and stored in her closet. “You know where the key is,” Beverly had told her. “Just go on over there anytime and try it on. And while you're there, could you water the houseplants? I'm sure Will won't remember.”

Callie's hand closed over the key. She let herself into the stuffy house. Since it was relatively warm outside for a November day, she left the door open to allow some fresh air in. Then she went to Beverly's bedroom. Feeling a bit like a voyeur, she pawed around in the closet until she found what she was looking for, on a high shelf in the very back.

She brought the box out into the light and sucked in a breath of pure delight. The plain satin dress, the color aged to a delicious ecru, was like something a princess would wear. The veil, attached to a circlet of pearls, added to the image. Callie took it out of its protective housing, shook it out, and tried it on.