Miss Lizzy's Legacy (11 page)

Callie tightened her fingers around the hand that held hers. “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, dear.”

“How do you know when you're in love?”

A soft chuckle whispered over her.
“When you are in love, you won't have to ask that question. You will know.”

“But how?”

The hand on hers squeezed reassuringly.
“Your heart will tell you.”

* * *

Callie jerked to wakefulness, her heart thumping, her body drenched in a cold sweat. She pushed to an elbow and glanced around, sure that she wasn't alone.

Early morning rays kissed the main room of the whorehouse, its predawn glow masking the ravages of years of neglect. She dropped her head back on the pillow and groaned.

It was only a dream, she told herself, fighting back tears. Yet, already she yearned for the comfort she'd received from the mysterious woman in her dream, and the wisdom and strength of her words.

* * *

It was early yet, but Callie was anxious to get this over with. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her hand and knocked.

Stephen opened the door, fully dressed. “Good morning!” he said cheerfully.

Though he wore a smile, Callie saw the flicker of nervousness in his eyes at her unexpected appearance. She forced a smile in return. “Good morning, Stephen. Mind if I come in?”

He opened the door wide and motioned her inside. He watched her as she walked past. “I was waiting until I was sure you were up before I called to see if you would join me for breakfast.”

“I've already eaten.”

“Oh.”

Unable to meet the disappointment in his eyes, Callie dropped her gaze. She knotted her hands at her waist and surged past him to cross to the window.

On the street below, Guthrie was showing signs of life. A merchant across the street was out sweeping the sidewalk in front of his store. An occasional car whizzed past. A lone jogger wearing fluorescent spandex and a stocking cap chugged out of sight.

The normalcy of their activities made Callie wish for some order in her own life. And she'd have that. The first step was setting things straight with Stephen. She struggled to find just the right words. “Stephen, this is difficult, but I hope you'll understand.”

She turned to find him standing where she'd left him, watching her. “I know that you want to set a wedding date, but I—I can't.”

“You need time,” he said patiently.

“No. Time won't change my feelings. I simply can't marry you.”

Stunned, he could only stare. “But, Callie, I love you.”

His declaration of love had the desired effect. She felt herself weakening, hammered by guilt that she'd allowed their relationship to go on so long, then she stiffened, strengthening her resolve. She wouldn't, couldn't, let a sense of obligation keep her from doing what she knew was best for them both. “I love you, too, Stephen, but as a friend. Nothing more.”

His eyes remained on her, his gaze unwavering. “You're sure?” he asked finally.

Callie bobbed her head, tears pushing at her throat. “Yes. I'm sure.” She crossed quickly to him and rose to her toes to press a kiss on his cheek before heading for the door.

“Callie?”

She stopped with her hand on the knob. “Yes, Stephen?”

“If you change your mind...”

The offer hung between them, but Callie couldn't find the heart or the words to respond. Softly, she closed the door behind her.

* * *

Judd pulled the ball from his pocket and let it fly. Baby churned grass as he raced after the yellow fluorescent orb. Usually the game brought a smile to Judd. But not today. His heart hurt too bad. He sighed and dropped back against the cold marble monument behind him as he rubbed a hand across his chest as if he could ease the pain.

He stole a glance down the street to the Harrison House, his eyes instinctively seeking Callie's second-floor room. The shade was down, the drapes drawn. He wondered if she still slept. He wondered, too, if Stephen slept with her. The same bed that he and Callie had shared the night before. The thought made him squeeze his eyes tightly shut to block the the image.

Baby raced back with the ball and dropped it at Judd's feet. When Judd didn't pick it up, the dog stuck his nose against Judd's hand and nudged.

Judd gave him a half-hearted scratch behind the ears. “Sorry, Baby. I'm not much in the mood to play today.” He scooped the ball from the ground and stood, shoving it deep into his duster pocket. “Let's take a walk.” With a slap on his thigh, he signaled Baby to follow. Together they headed off down the street.

They'd almost reached the corner of First and Harrison when Judd saw him. Stephen. Callie's fiancé. Stepping out of the entrance to the Harrison Hotel. The expression he wore wasn't what Judd would expect to see on the face of a man who'd just spent the night with his fiancée. His shoulders were tense, his mouth set in a grim line. He crossed to the sleek silver car with the Texas license plates and tossed a leather garment bag into the trunk.

Was he leaving? So soon?

Judd didn't want to see the man, much less feel obligated to speak. Justified or not, the feelings were honest. He started to cross the street to avoid him, but he was too late. Stephen saw him and lifted a hand in greeting.

“Good morning, Judd.”

Judd's greeting was a little more reserved. “Mornin'.” He drew even with the car and cut a glance to the open trunk and the suitcase inside. “Thought you were staying the weekend.”

Stephen's mouth twisted in a sardonic smile as he slammed the trunk lid. “So did I, but things didn't work out as I'd hoped.” He rubbed his hands briskly together and hunched his shoulders against the cold. He stuck out his hand and forced a smile. “It was nice meeting you. If you're ever performing in Dallas, let me know. I'll try to catch one of your concerts.”

Judd didn't bother to tell him he wasn't doing concerts anymore, but shook the offered hand. “Yeah, sure thing.” After all, it wasn't Stephen's fault he'd gotten himself engaged to a liar.

* * *

“Let me make sure I understand all this. You think the grave out at Summit View Cemetery that bears the name William Leighton Sawyer, does
not
contain the body of William Leighton Sawyer?”

“That's correct.”

“Then whose body do you think is in the grave?”

“I don't know. Possibly no one.”

“And what proof do you have that the body of William Leighton Sawyer doesn't rest in that grave?”

Callie pulled out the birth certificate and leaned to lay it on the desk in front of the lawyer. “This is my great-grandfather's birth certificate. He is very much alive and lives in Dallas, Texas.”

The lawyer shoved his glasses back on his nose and lifted his chin to peer through the bifocals at the document in front of him. He studied it, turning it over, then holding it up to the light. “Looks authentic to me,” he muttered.

“I assure you it is.” Callie settled back in the chair. “What legal action is necessary in order to exhume the grave?”

The lawyer reared back and pursed his lips, studying Callie over the top of his glasses. “You're sure you want to do this?”

“Positive.”

The chair squeaked as he lowered it back into position and took up a pen. “I'll have to draw up the Exhumation Order and file it with the District Court Judge. You'll have to sign the papers as primary next of kin.”

“Primary next of kin?”

He looked up from his note taking. “You are the closest living relative, aren't you?”

“No, not exactly.”

He laid down his pen. “Who is?”

“Both of his children are deceased, so I suppose my mother is, since she's the oldest grandchild.”

“Then she'll need to sign the order. There will be expenses involved.”

Callie stood, her hopes sagging. There was no way in hell Frances Sawyer Benson would go to the expense of paying a lawyer and having a grave exhumed to satisfy an old man's whim. But she knew she couldn't give up until she'd at least tried to convince her. “Thank you for your time,” she told the lawyer. “I'll let you know what my mother wishes to do.”

* * *

Callie squeezed her temples with one hand while keeping the phone pressed to her ear with the other.

“I'm not asking you to rob a grave, Mother. I'm simply asking you as Papa's closest living relative to sign the Exhumation Order.”

“Whether I dig it up myself or order it done, the result is the same. The grave is robbed.”

“We are not robbing the grave! We simply want to prove that William Leighton Sawyer is not in the grave.”

“We already know that, so what's the point?”

Worn out from arguing with her mother, Callie dipped her head to her palm. “The point is, there is a grave here with Papa's name on it. I want to know why. Don't you?”

“No,” she said simply. “And besides, there are bound to be expenses involved. Who will bear the brunt of these costs?”

“I will.”

“And my signature is required before any of this can transpire?”

“Yes.”

Silence hummed for a good five seconds. Callie waited, not daring to breathe, much less hope.

“Have you spoken to Stephen?”

The abrupt change of topic took Callie by surprise. “Yes. He drove up yesterday.”

“Is he still there?”

“No, he left for Dallas this morning.”

“Obviously, he wasn't able to persuade you to forget this nonsense about locating Papa's mother.”

“No, he wasn't.”

“Did the two of you make up and set a wedding date?”

“It's not a matter of making up, Mother.”

In exasperation, her mother cried, “Then why won't you set a date and marry him, for God's sake, and do something sensible with your life for a change?”

“Because I don't love him enough to marry him.”

“Love,” Frances flung back at her. “You and your silly concept about love. Friendship is what's important. And respect. The rest will take care of itself.”

“Not for me, Mother.”

Callie could hear the swell of anger before her mother replied, “Well, you might as well pack your things and come home, because I'm not signing any Exhumation Order.”

“I'm not coming home, Mother. With or without your help, I intend to find out everything I can about Papa's mother.”

* * *

With the appointment with the lawyer behind her and still feeling the effect of the call to her mother, Callie headed down the sidewalk toward the Blue Bell. She hadn't allowed herself to think about her confrontation with Judd. She couldn't. Not when she had the appointment with the lawyer and her mother to deal with. But now that her obligations were complete, her thoughts turned to Judd, and Stephen's ill-timed introduction of her at the Sand Plum the night before.

This is the young woman I was telling you about earlier, my fiancée, Callie Benson.

She shuddered at the memory of Judd's face. He'd immediately become the gunslinger again, the lines around his mouth and eyes hard and unforgiving. He'd swung his gaze briefly her way, giving her no more notice than he would a stranger. But she'd seen the hurt, the betrayal in his eyes before he'd turned away.

She approached the Blue Bell, her nerves jumping beneath her skin, and opened the door to find Hank standing behind the bar.

Callie forced a smile. “Catch any mice this morning?”

Hank laughed good-naturedly. “Nah. Maybe tonight, though.”

Callie glanced around. “Is Judd here?”

“No, he hasn't been in yet. Expect him before long, though.”

“Oh.” Callie tried to hide her disappointment. “Well, I'll be working upstairs. When he comes in, would you tell him I need to talk to him?”

“Sure thing.”

Callie climbed the staircase that led from the bar to the second floor, her spirits sagging. She wasn't sure how much longer her nerves could take the suspense.

Less than an hour later, she heard his steps. She rushed from her studio, then stopped midway across the main room, her heart sinking at her first glimpse of him.

His walk was almost a swagger, his face set in the hard lines she'd learned to dread. She could feel the anger emanating from him, almost taste it in the thick, musty air. He held the frown in place as he shortened the distance between them. “Hank said you needed to talk to me,” he said curtly.

Callie tried to smile. “Yes, I do. About—about Stephen.”

“Seemed like a nice guy,” he said through tight lips.

“He is a nice guy.”

He cocked a hip to one side and gave the brim of his Stetson an impatient punch with a finger. “Listen, if you're worried about what happened the other night, don't be. That'll be our little secret.” Before Callie could respond, he added, “It was a roll in the hay, was all. A one-night stand. Don't lose any sleep over it. I assure you, I won't.”

Callie sucked in a shocked breath. “That's all it was to you? A roll in the hay?”

His lips curved in a lazy grin. “Why sure, honey.” He raised his thumb to line her lower lip, the action as provocative as it was demeaning. “Ain't nothin' wrong with a little cheat between friends.” He dropped his hand and winked. “Anytime you feel like another roll, you give me a call, you hear?”

A
roll in the hay. A little cheat between friends

Judd's words burned in Callie's chest like a physical pain, searing the scar he'd left on her heart. She told herself it didn't matter, that she didn't care, it had been the same for her.

But it was a lie. Not an hour passed that she didn't think of him, wish for him.

Sleep became her enemy, her dreams filled with Judd. She would awaken with tears dampening her pillow and her heart heavy with memories she'd rather forget. With nothing but her work to console her, she mired herself in her project, working twelve, sometimes sixteen hour days. The statue grew, both in height and emotion, yet the face of the woman continued to elude Callie. She lacked focus, she told herself, and tried to blank out the nagging memories of Judd.

But his words continued to haunt her.

A roll in the hay. A little cheat between friends.

God, how could she have been such a fool! She never wanted to feel that level of pain again. Never.

* * *

For over a week Callie's presence in the building wore on Judd's nerves like the irritating drip of a leaky faucet. He heard her when she unlocked the door of a morning and creaked her way up the stairs. He heard her gentle rustlings as she moved about above him throughout the day. Most nights he was still in the bar when she creaked her way back down the stairs and let herself out the side door. She never once approached him or acknowledged him in any way. Stubbornness born of pride kept him from approaching her.

But after a week neither pride nor stubbornness could keep him from going upstairs after she'd left, to see what she found to do up there all day.

He waited until the bar was closed for the night and Hank had polished the last glass and gone home. Left alone with his curiosity, he took a flashlight from behind the bar and trudged his way up the stairs. He crossed to the room Callie used as her studio and flipped on the light. Unlike the rest of the second story, the floor of this room was swept clean. A table sat in the center of the room, and a plastic-covered, odd-shaped mound rested on its top.

A stool stood next to the table and across it was thrown a stained smock. Knowing she'd worn it only moments before, Judd picked up the smock and lifted it to his face, absorbing the warmth of her body that still clung to it. He inhaled deeply, savoring her scent. Wildflowers. Always wildflowers.

His fingers curled into the stained cloth as his heart cried out for her. To see her, touch her, hold her.... Angrily, he tossed the smock aside. She'd deceived him, he told himself. She belonged to another man, never to him.

Wanting to accomplish his purpose in coming upstairs and then escape the painful reminders, he lifted a corner of the plastic. He could see just enough of the exposed statue to whet his curiosity. Careful not to damage anything, he slowly lifted off the cover. His breath came out in an admiring whistle as a woman's bare legs came into view, every toe, muscle and tendon molded in perfect symmetry.

He lifted the cloth higher to find an infant cradled in the woman's arms, suckling a breast. Each detail was so lifelike that he swore he saw veins bulge on the swollen breast at the infant's gentle prodding. He tossed the cloth aside to see the woman's forehead tipped toward that of the infant. He dipped his knees to better see her face and sucked in a raw, startled breath.

He laid a finger against the cold clay where the woman's face should be. He moved his finger slowly, carefully, feeling a slight indentation where the eyes should be and a hint of a swell where a nose and mouth should be. Everything else was blank. Cold. Smooth. No facial features, no expression. It was almost spooky.

“What do you think you are doing?”

Judd jerked his hand away and whirled to find Callie, her arms folded tightly across her breasts, standing in the doorway. She looked like a ghost, her face pale, her features gaunt, dark circles beneath her eyes. But the pull he felt toward her told him she was no apparition.

“I thought you left,” he said, neatly sidestepping her question.

She crossed and scooped a key from the corner of the table. “I did, but halfway to the hotel I realized I'd forgotten my room key.” She rammed the key in her jacket pocket and turned an accusing look on Judd. “Now that we've ascertained the purpose of my presence, what are
you
doing here?”

He nodded toward the statue. “I was looking at your work.”

Callie caught the plastic drape in her hands and swept it up and over the statue. “To make sure I was a sculptress?” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Did you think I deceived you about that, too?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Curiosity. I wanted to see what you do all day up here.”

“I work.”

He nodded toward the now-shrouded figures. “I can see that. It's going to be something when you're finished.”

“If I finish it.”

“You mean when you finish it.”

Her anger at Judd grew to encompass her frustration at her inability to finish the project. “No, I mean
if.
”

“But all you lack is the face.”

Callie sank down on the stool and dropped her face to her hands. “I can't sculpt it,” she mumbled against her fingers. “I just can't do it.”

She looked so miserable, so defeated sitting there, Judd was tempted to gather her up in his arms and comfort her. Before he could act on the impulse, she snapped up her head. She stared hard at the plastic, the features on her own face tightening. “I can see it up here,” she said, giving the center of her forehead a thump with the heels of her palms. “But for some reason,” she said, lowering her hands to glare at them in disgust, “I can't translate those images onto the clay.”

“Maybe you're trying too hard.”

“Yeah, right,” she said dryly. She dropped her elbows to her knees and her chin in her palms. “I see it more as a continuation of the legacy.”

Judd quirked an eyebrow her way. “Legacy?”

“Miss Lizzy's.” When he continued to look at her in puzzlement, she felt obligated to explain. “The emotion I want to evoke is that of a new mother, looking at her infant for the first time. I want to capture the feelings she must be experiencing. The love, the pride, the awe.

“But every time I lay my hands on the clay,” she said, her voice turning to a low growl, “I think of Lizzy and how she shipped her son off to Boston, never to see him again.” She glared at the statue, a frown building between her eyes. “How could a mother do that to her own flesh and blood?”

“You don't know that she did.”

Callie jerked her gaze to Judd's, her frown deepening.

He decided to change tactics. The mention of Lizzy always seemed to upset Callie, and she was upset enough as it was. “What about your own mother? Think about her instead.”

“My mother?” Callie laughed, though the sound lacked mirth. “Envisioning her is almost as debilitating to my creativity as envisioning Miss Lizzy, although to her credit,” she added reluctantly, “my mother didn't send me away.”

“Oh, come on, she couldn't be that bad.”

“Worse.” But Callie didn't want to think about her mother. It only reminded her of their previous conversation and her anger at her mother's refusal to sign the Exhumation Order. Callie knew Frances was using the order as a power play. It wouldn't be the first time she'd held something over Callie's head in order to get her way. All Callie had to do was set a date to marry Stephen and her mother would sign the order. It was that simple.

Suddenly weary, she pushed to her feet. “Well, I'm going to head back to the hotel. Turn out the light when you leave.”

“Wait, and I'll walk you.”

Already at the door, Callie turned and looked at him, her face as void of emotion as the statue that haunted her. “Thanks, but I'm not interested in another ‘roll in the hay.'”

* * *

He'd deserved the verbal slap, but knowing that didn't take the sting out of Callie's refusal. It grated on Judd as he prowled the Blue Bell long after she'd left.

Hell! he thought angrily. He hadn't offered her a roll in the hay. All he'd offered was to walk her back to her room.

He found himself standing on the postage-stamp-size stage, his guitar less than a foot away. Hoping to find comfort in his music as he had in the past, he picked up the instrument and sat down on the edge of the stage. He settled his arm in the familiar curve and strummed a few chords. He hummed a bar of the song he'd been working on, closed his eyes then let the music take him. The words flowed out of him easily, as if piped from his heart.

As the last note faded, he smiled with satisfaction, proud of the lyrics, the music. They were all his. Not that anybody would ever hear it but him.

But Callie had, he remembered. And she'd said it would be a hit.

He slapped the flat of his hand against the sounding board, sending a hollow keen reverberating through his hand. She had even invaded the one part of his life that had remained exclusively his, that he'd thought no one could take away. His music.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, he set the instrument aside. Until he talked with Callie, unloaded all the anger that knotted in his chest, he wasn't going to get her off his mind. And now was as good a time as any, he told himself as he pushed to his feet.

Yanking his duster from the rack by the entrance, he stormed out the door, slamming and locking it behind him. As he strode for the hotel, his eyes immediately sought her window. The shades were drawn, the drapes pulled. No light showed around the edges. She was probably asleep, he thought irritably, but that was too damn bad because she was about to have some company, whether she wanted it or not.

He strode through the hotel lobby and breathed a sigh of relief to see that Frank was away from the desk. He sure didn't want to have to explain his appearance at this hour of the night. Too impatient to wait on the elevator, he took the stairs, bolting up them two at a time. He reached her door, slightly breathless, but more from nerves than exertion.

He rapped lightly, waited, then knocked again a little louder. He heard the scrape of a light switch turning and her muffled, “Who's there?” He stood with his feet braced and his hands on his hips, knowing fully well that she was looking at him through the peephole in the door. Even though he couldn't see her, he stared right back, his mouth set in a determined line.

“Let me in, Callie.”

“Let you in? Do you realize what time it is?”

“Yes, now open the door or I'll kick it down.”

The dead bolt scraped, the knob twisted and Callie appeared, her blue eyes blazing. “What in the hell do you mean ‘you'll kick it down'?” She flattened a hand against his chest and shoved. “Listen, buster, you may throw your weight around and get your way with other women, but that tough cowboy act doesn't work with me. As far as I'm concerned, you can take your ten-gallon hat and shove it up your—”

His hands clamped at her elbows and he dragged her up against him, crushing his mouth over hers. She tasted the anger on his lips; the heat of it scorched her throat and burned behind her eyes. Need was there, too, in every thrust of his tongue, every scrape of his teeth against hers.

Please don't do this to me,
she cried inwardly.
Please don't make me want you.
With her hands trapped between them, she pressed for distance, if not physical then at least an emotional one. His hands tightened on her elbows at the resistance, but his mouth gentled on hers, leaving her helpless, her breasts heaving against his chest. He nipped lightly at her lower lip, then flicked his tongue seductively at the upper bow. “Tell me you don't want this,” he demanded, his voice husky with need.

“I don't.”

“Liar,” he whispered, catching the back of her head in his hand. Her lips parted beneath the pressure of his tongue, and he swallowed her groan of submission. His mouth moved over hers, demanding answers to questions unasked, taking pleasure in the slow melting of her body against his, punishing her because she belonged to another man.

Leaning back, he caught her face roughly in his hands. “Why, Callie? Why didn't you tell me about Stephen?”

Her face tipped up to his, her eyes heavy, her lips swollen. She whispered back, “There was nothing to tell.”

His hands tightened on her cheeks. “A fiancé? I'd think you might have mentioned it.”

Angered, Callie twisted from his grasp. “He is
not
my fiancé.”

It took a minute for her words to register and when they did, Judd could only stare. As far as he could determine, that only left one explanation. “You broke it off, then?”

“There was nothing to break off.”

“But—”

“Stephen assumed we would marry,” she cried in frustration. “There was never a proposal, a ring, a date set. He just assumed.... And I never had the heart to tell him otherwise.” The events of the past week caught up with her—the emotional confrontation with Stephen, Judd's heartbreaking rejection. Tears budding, she whirled for her room. She caught the edge of the door in her hand and gave it a hard push to close it behind her.

Judd braced a palm against it to keep it from slamming in his face. His eyes on her back, he closed the door behind them.

“So you're not engaged,” he finally said.

Callie rubbed her hands up and down her crossed arms as if chilled. “No.”

“And Stephen? Does he know how you feel?”

“Yes.”

He knew by her posture that it hadn't been easy for her. He'd found himself in similar situations when a woman would think there was more between them than a good time. Even though he'd let them down as gently as he could, there were usually hurt feelings and a friendship lost. Judd remembered the look on Stephen's face when he'd seen him loading his suitcase in his car and knew that Callie had probably lost a friend.