The Cowboy (13 page)

Callie put a hand to her lips, shocked at what she’d done, even more surprised that Trace had ended the interlude. He’d woven a spell around her—the beautiful dress, people to pamper her, champagne and strawberries—and at the moment of her surrender, he’d broken it. Why?

“I don’t want us to be rushed,” he said in answer to her unspoken question. “I want us to have plenty of time to enjoy each other.”

Callie flushed at his assumption that she was ready to slip into bed with him. Of course, he was right. If they’d kept on kissing and touching, they would have ended up in bed. But that was before she’d come to her senses—with a little help from him.

She took a step back. All of this was a fairy tale. In the morning she’d be going home to Three Oaks. “I feel like a fool.”

“Don’t,” he said, laying a hand on her bare shoulder.

His hand felt warm against her cool flesh. She held
herself still as his fingertips moved across her breastbone. When his thumb finally came to rest on the pulse at her throat, her body was quivering with need. She looked up at him and asked in a shaky voice, “What are you doing, Trace?”

“Finding my way,” he said.

Callie felt herself sliding down a slippery slope. How was he able to seduce her with so little effort? “We have to go,” she said.

“I know,” he said, his voice filled with regret.

He picked up her shawl from where it lay across the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders. They rode in silence down the elevator. Spoke not a word during the drive to the Museum of Fine Arts on Bisson-net. As they headed inside, Trace said, “I’m expected to shake hands in the receiving line as a stand-in for my mother. Feel free to look around. I’ll find you as soon as I’m done.”

Callie spent the time Trace was greeting the other attendees surveying the collection of Western art, which included several of his mother’s paintings. It seemed no time at all before he was slipping his arm around her waist.

“There are some people I want to introduce to you,” he said as he turned her around.

“Oh, Trace, I don’t think—”

“Callie, I’d like you to meet my godparents, Marla and George Carpenter. Marla, George, this is Callie Monroe,” Trace said to the short, elderly couple she found herself facing.

They were both white-haired and both dressed very plainly but elegantly. The only obvious evidence of their
wealth was the five- or six-carat marquise-cut diamond on Marla’s ring finger and the diamond clasp on the three-strand rope of pearls around her neck.

“We’ve heard so much about you,” Marla said. “All of it good,” she hastened to reassure Callie.

Callie shot Trace a questioning look. She hadn’t been aware he’d discussed her with anyone, let alone his godparents.

“Trace has told us how good you are with cutting horses,” George said.

“Oh, thank you,” Callie said, relieved at the thought that Trace hadn’t revealed their personal relationship. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“And you, too,” Marla said, taking Callie’s hand in hers. “I despaired that this boy would ever find his way back to you. I’m so glad he did. He was devastated when the two of you broke up.”

Callie barely managed to keep her jaw from dropping. It seemed Marla and George were very much aware of her personal relationship with Trace. And approved of it!

“We’re very proud of all Trace has accomplished,” George said. “When he finally contacted us from—”

“That’s enough, you two,” Trace said, interrupting his godfather. “You’ll have me blushing. Come on, Callie, there are some other people I’d like you to meet.”

He presented a half dozen other couples to her, all people he’d obviously known for a very long time and with whom he was comfortable. Callie felt the distance between herself and Trace looming greater with every introduction. Trace laughed and joked and made small talk with these people as though he’d been doing it all his life.

And he had, Callie realized. She was a poor match for Trace when it came to social experience. Her family had worked hard on several regional events to earn funds for the Miami Project to Cure Paralysis, but otherwise she’d spent her life in blue jeans and boots.

“I don’t belong here,” she whispered to Trace. “I don’t know what to say to these people.”

“How can you say that? Everyone is charmed by you. Including me.”

Callie felt that treacherous warmth inside again.

Just then Marla crossed to Trace with a very tall, distinguished-looking gentleman at her side and said, “There’s someone here who wants to say hello to you.”

Callie paled. It was the governor of Texas. She stood beside Trace as he smiled—and then shared a bear hug with the man.

“Hi, Pete,” Trace said. “Dad said I’d probably see you. How’s Shirley?”

“Fine,” the governor said. “Who is this beautiful lady with you?”

Trace pulled her close and let his eyes linger on her face. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

“No argument from me,” the governor said with a laugh.

Callie blushed with pleasure and barely managed not to hide her face against Trace’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“Callie, I’d like you to meet my friend Governor Pete Hanson.”

“How do you do, Governor Hanson?” Callie said.

“Please, call me Pete,” the governor replied with a smile and a wink.

“I will,” she said, but couldn’t make herself do it. Callie wasn’t necessarily impressed by men in positions of power, but that didn’t mean she was comfortable with them either. Trace didn’t seem to notice her nervousness, and she was certain those she’d met had been considerate of her for Trace’s sake.

Trace had been introducing her to people as though he expected her to become a part of his life. As though they had a future together. As though there were no differences between them that needed to be resolved.

“Will you excuse me?” she said to Trace. “I need to powder my nose.”

Trace grinned, then kissed the tip of her nose. “Your nose looks fine. Don’t run too far, Callie. We’re seated at the head table.”

Callie turned her back and walked blindly in the direction of the powder room. She felt like her insides were flying apart, and closed her arms around her middle to hang on. She could see where the evening was headed. If she went back to the penthouse with Trace, they would end up in bed together. What would that prove? That they were physically attracted to one another? She conceded the fact. But they hadn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of building a life together. Not when he was a Blackthorne and she was a Creed.

All right, technically she was a Monroe. But that didn’t change the facts. Marriage between them was still as impossible now as it had been eleven years ago. If she let herself love him again, she would only have to find a way to pick up the pieces when he was gone. She didn’t want any more pain in her life.

Not even for one night of indescribable pleasure?

Callie turned and headed for the exit, making sure she stayed out of Trace’s sight. When she got outside, she found the limo they’d come in and told the driver, “Please take me back to the penthouse.”

Coward
. The word reverberated in her head. Maybe she was. But how much pain was one person expected to survive? She couldn’t bear to lose Trace again. It was better not to let herself start caring again.

Callie left the beautiful red dress on the bed. She left Cinderella’s slippers on the floor. She didn’t want to take time to find underclothes to wear, so she put her plain black wool dress on over the sexy lingerie Trace had bought for her, feeling an ache of regret as she conceded how much she would have enjoyed having him take it off her, one piece at a time.

She left a note for Trace, thanking him for the plane ride and the afternoon of make-believe. An hour later, she was headed southwest on US Route 59 in a rented Ford Taurus.

It wasn’t quite midnight, but her fairy tale was over.

I
N THE FIRST DAYS AFTER SHE HAD PANICKED
and run from Trace, Callie kept expecting him to show up at her doorstep and demand an explanation. But for the past three weeks, there hadn’t been one word from him. She wondered if he was angry with her, or whether her behavior had finally convinced him of the futility of pursuing her. She still hurt inside. But life had gone on. Once again she had made her choice, and Trace seemed willing to let her live with it.

Callie stood on the back porch and eyed the setting sun, then turned her gaze toward the south pasture, where she’d sent her parents at noon with a picnic basket. Conversations between her parents had been brittle for the past three weeks since the incident with Blackjack at the Rafter S, and it had been her idea to send them off together to mend their fences.

“You two are going on a picnic this afternoon,” she’d announced at breakfast. She’d been prepared for the argument that had followed, and she hadn’t given up or given in.

“All right,” her father had finally conceded. “I’ll take
your mother on a picnic. Who knows,” he said with a wink at her mother. “We might even have time for a little—”

“We’d better get to work,” her mother had interrupted, her cheeks pink. “Or the chores won’t be finished in time to go.”

Callie’s mother had a habit of postponing pleasure, if there was work to be done. Unfortunately, with as little hired help as they had, and as much work as there was to do, pleasure for its own sake was seldom a part of their lives. Callie was determined that today would be an exception.

At noon, as her father headed out the kitchen door, Callie had unclipped his cell phone from his belt, chiding, “Otherwise you’ll be calling me every five minutes to see what I’m doing.”

She had sent them off in a battered ’51 Chevy pickup, the only ranch vehicle without a CB radio. “Have fun!” she’d called, as she waved goodbye from the back porch. “Enjoy yourselves. Don’t even think about coming back until after you’ve had a lazy lunch.”

It was long past lunchtime. In fifteen minutes it would be dark. Callie had hoped her mother would manage to keep her father from coming home before they’d consumed the contents of the picnic basket, but she’d never expected them to be gone this long. She told herself not to worry. She told herself it was a good sign that they’d taken the whole afternoon for themselves. But she fervently wished she hadn’t relieved her father of his cell phone.

Callie couldn’t help thinking about the hunters she’d seen earlier in the day trying to manipulate the bump gate
that led into the north pasture. The double-wide gate swung on a central pivot. Hit it too hard, and the left side would swing around and smack the driver’s door before he could get his truck through. Hit it too softly, and the gate would swing back closed on the front end of the truck before it could pass beyond the opening. Even an experienced cowboy sometimes mistook his speed and ended up crinkling his fender.

When she’d come upon them, the hunter driving the rented Jeep Cherokee had already crumpled the driver’s side door. She’d driven up and said, “You might want to—”

He’d cut her off briskly. “I’ve done this before, honey. You don’t need to give me instructions.”

Callie tried not to bristle at the offending endearment. She took a look at the other three men in the car, all dressed like the driver in military camouflage with bright orange neon vests, and realized the portly executive was going to lose face if he didn’t manage to get through the gate on his own. She’d smiled sweetly and driven away, then grinned with wicked satisfaction as her rearview mirror revealed the bump gate smacking into the Jeep’s front fender.

She wasn’t grinning now. Four idiots with hunting rifles had spent the day wandering around out there shooting at wild boar—the only large game in season year round—in the north pasture. What if they’d crossed fences and ended up where they shouldn’t be?

“Any sign of Mom and Dad?”

Callie turned to find Luke standing at her shoulder. “Not yet,” she said.

“Maybe we’d better go looking for them,” Luke said, his forehead wrinkled with worry.

“Mom and Dad can take care of themselves.”

“I’ve never known Dad to be out of touch this long,” Luke said. “Sam thinks something bad happened.”

“Sam’s been drinking all day.” Callie bit her tongue on the bitter accusation, but it was too late.

“You ought to cut him some slack,” Luke said in his brother’s defense. “He’s got a reason to drink.”

Callie didn’t argue. Luke was too young to remember how great a brother Sam had been before the accident. She missed Sam’s sense of humor, his strong back, and his willing help. “Will you keep an eye on Eli and Hannah while I go take a look around?”

“Sam can baby-sit. I want to go, too.”

“Sam’s drunk,” Callie said sharply. “I need you to stay here.”

“Shit.”

Callie gave Luke a sharp look, and he dropped his gaze to his boots.

“All right. I’ll stay,” he muttered. “But take Dad’s cell phone and call me when you find them.”

“You’ll probably have to call me when they show up here,” Callie said, bumping her shoulder against Luke’s in a gesture meant to reassure him. “Most likely they’re just having a good time together and don’t want it to end.”