Callie's Cowboy (10 page)

Sam did his best to ignore her. “I'll pick her up, say, around eleven?”

“Make it midnight. I know you and Callie have a lot of catching up to do.” Her expression was sly. Sometimes
Sam wondered if his whole family was in cahoots, trying to play matchmaker.

As he drove to Callie's, he tried to picture what kind of mood he would find her in this time. Would that determined chin of hers be thrust out, challenging him to argue with her? And what type of explanation could she possibly give that would excuse her trying to dig up dirt on his father?

Wistfully, he thought about the old Callie he'd caught a glimpse of on their late-night outing a few days ago—smiling, teasing, reminiscing. He doubted he'd see that side of her anymore.

So why was he even bothering?

Curiosity, maybe. Lust, definitely, though it was pure idiocy to imagine anything would come of that, not when Callie wouldn't even let him kiss her.

Maybe it was just that the two of them were an unfinished book, a big question mark. He wanted to tie up the loose ends so he could get on with his life. He wanted closure.

He wanted to be able to let her go.

Maybe he was crazy, thinking that seeing more of her would allow him the release he sought. But he was willing to try.

It took several minutes for Callie to answer her door, long enough that Sam peeked into the carriage house to see if her car was there. It was, and he'd actually started to worry about things like slipping in the bathtub when she finally made an appearance.

“Callie?” He got the distinct impression that something was out of kilter.

“Hi, Sam, come on up.” Her voice was subdued, her face devoid of expression. “I'm running a little late.”

“A little?” he couldn't help saying. She was still in her bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a towel.

“I fell asleep in the bathtub, okay?” she snapped as she led the way up the stairs, her hips swaying beneath pink terry cloth. Damn, she was the only woman he knew who could look alluring in such a getup. She left a delightful scent in her wake, too, like …

“Strawberry?”

“What?”

“Did you use strawberry bubble bath?”

“I, um, don't remember. I think so.” She opened the door at the top of the enclosed stairway and let him into the living room.

Even if he hadn't known where he was, he'd have picked this place as belonging to Callie Calloway. Cluttered without being messy, she'd filled her cozy living quarters with little things that spoke volumes about her personality—a Rolling Stones poster on one wall and a Mozart poster on another; a set of flowered plates displayed in an old-fashioned bamboo hutch, which sat right next to an ultramodern stereo system.

“Great apartment,” he said. “It suits you.” Better than his cavernous ranch house with its stiff, Early American antiques suited him, he supposed. He found himself wondering what she would think of the life he'd made for himself—whether she would find it fitting, or be surprised.

“Thanks. Just sit down anywhere. There are some magazines.…” Her voice trailed off. “I'll try to hurry.”

His attention turned abruptly to Callie again. “Is something wrong?”

She sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

“Callie, honey, what is it?” The endearment slipped out. He didn't care. He did stop himself from going closer, touching her.

“I lost my job.” The stark sentence hung in the room like macabre black party streamers.

Sam wasn't sure he'd heard right. “You mean the paper's closing?” Maybe that was it. What with paper costs up, advertising revenue down—

“No, Sam, I got fired. Canned.”

“What for?”

Callie flopped into an old wingback chair. Within three seconds a yellow-striped cat jumped into her lap. She stroked it absently. “Winers found out I've been applying for jobs elsewhere. Apparently some jackass at one of the papers where I sent my resume decided to check references without asking me first.”

“You're looking for another job?” Sam remembered that sense of dissatisfaction she'd communicated about the
Record
earlier in the day, but he could hardly imagine her working anywhere else.

“I can't—couldn't—stay there forever, not if I want to advance. I've been sending résumés to various big newspapers once a year ever since I graduated from college. It's a ritual. Tom acts like it's some kind of heresy,
or that I'm a traitor, for even thinking of looking for another job.”

“So one of these bigger papers nibbled on your résumé?”

“Apparently. It's happened before, but I've never gotten an offer.”

“Do you know which paper is interested?”

“Hah! Like Tom would tell me. Anyway, I'm sure now that they've talked to Tom, they think I'm poison.”

She had a point. “Still, you could find out if you did a little detective work—”

“Oh, Sam, I can't deal with that right now. Maybe next week.”

Of course. What was he thinking? She'd been at the
Daily Record
for, what, ten years now? She'd served two or three summers as an intern, working for slave wages, fetching coffee and opening mail. After graduation she'd been hired as a full-fledged employee—editing the daily events calendar. She'd quickly earned a real reporter's job.

Tom Winers had just thrown that history down the drain, the jerk. Maybe this would turn into a blessing in disguise for Callie. She'd hinted earlier that it was time for a change. But he couldn't expect her to focus on anything right now except the loss.

“I'm sorry, Callie. I don't know what to say, except that you're fully entitled to be angry and upset, and if you want to cry or hit something or throw things, you can. I won't tease you.”

She gave a halfhearted laugh. “Are you kidding? I've been doing most of that all afternoon. In fact, I've been a real bad sport about this. Tom gave me a week's notice,
but I boxed up my things and was out of there within twenty minutes, leaving him to explain.”

“Bravo. Exactly the way it should have been handled.”

“And I've been moaning and groaning and whining ever since.”

“And you forgot I was coming over,” he added. He acted put out, which was only a slight exaggeration. He'd been thinking of nothing else but this evening all day.

She shook her head vehemently. “I did not. Why do you think I got into the bathtub in the first place? I wanted to calm down before you got here, pretend nothing was wrong, and I thought a nice hot bath would help. Unfortunately it helped too well. I really did fall asleep.
Some
body interrupted my sleep last night.” She softened the gibe with a winsome smile.

“I believe you.”

“I'm sorry I'm in such a state.”

“It's okay, Callie. Like I said, you're entitled.”

“Would you mind if we postponed our talk? I'm not thinking very straight right now, and—”

“Yes, fine, we'll postpone it.” He wasn't sure why he was behaving so charitably toward her all of a sudden. He supposed it was because she was hurting, and he couldn't stand to see that, much less add to it.

“I could meet you tomorrow for lunch,” she suggested,

“Mmm, might not be able to get a sitter. We'll see.” He watched her, waiting to see what she would say or do next. She looked so vulnerable with that heated blush on her cheeks, all wrapped up in fuzzy pink terry, that
he felt a tremendous urge to hold her, protect her from the world.

But he stopped himself in time. He could think of no woman who needed less protecting. Instead of touching her, he placed his hands on the chair arms and leaned forward until he was nose to nose with her. “How about a pizza from Sal's?”

He could almost see her mouth water. “Sal's?”

“And when I go to pick it up I'll stop by the video store and rent some movies.”

“
Casablanca
?” she suggested hopefully.

“That tearjerker? No way. You need something to cheer you up, not make you cry.” Besides, he wasn't sure they were ready to watch a romance, much less a tragic one. “How about some Marx Brothers?”

She nodded. “Okay. And maybe an action movie?”

“Perfect.”

“The number for Sal's is by the phone, along with the emergency numbers for police and fire.”

“Of course. Where else would it be?”

She smiled again, a little more convincingly this time. “Deep-dish sausage and mushroom, and to hell with fat grams.”

Funny how the whole tenor of the evening had changed in a few short minutes, Sam mused as he waited for Sal's to answer the phone. He was sorry Callie had lost her job, but a small part of him was glad because it would give them the chance to talk about anything and everything and nothing important. Maybe they could get through the evening without arguing. As for postponing the explanation he'd demanded from her, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know her thoughts on
his father's death. Just being with Callie was more soothing than talking the subject to shreds.

He and Callie had always been there for each other during times of adversity. Somehow, when one of them was hurting, all quarrels were forgotten. He remembered the time her father had passed away from an unexpected heart attack. Sam and Callie had fought the week before and were officially “broken-up.” But the moment he'd heard about Mr. Calloway, Sam had gone to Callie. She'd accepted his presence and his comfort without question, and whatever stupid thing they'd fought about—he couldn't remember it now—had melted into insignificance.

“Sal's, please hold,” a voice said.

It was his own father's death that had brought her back to him this time. Only he hadn't accepted her attempts to comfort as readily as he should have. Looking back a few days, he was truly ashamed of the hostile way he'd treated her. Oh, he wasn't ready to take her completely at face value. She was still a journalist first, job or no job. But she'd been very perceptive when she'd accused him of holding on to the bitterness from their last breakup.

“Sal's, can I take your order?” The voice belonged to Sal himself.

“Yeah, hi, Sal. I need a large sausage-and-mushroom deep dish to go—”

“Sam? Sam Sanger?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Wow, I thought I'd gone back in time there for a minute. Don't tell me. It's for you and Callie, right?”

“Right.” He hoped Callie didn't mind if people gossiped about them.

Sal laughed. “You two are as predictable as sunshine on the Fourth of July. Same order, every Friday night. I got to where I didn't even wait for you to call in the order, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” He was remembering a lot of things. He and Callie'd had some good times. The ache of nostalgia squeezed his chest. But it was only nostalgia, he cautioned himself. They couldn't throw their quarrels out the window like they used to. Their differences were too fundamental these days.

“Okay, I've got you down,” Sal said. “Pizza'll be ready in about twenty minutes.”

“Great, I'll be there to get it.”

Before returning to the living room, Sam rummaged around in the red-and-white-tiled kitchen for some things he knew Callie would have—a pretty china cup, some herbal tea, a kettle. He filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then put a tea bag in the cup.

“The water should boil in a few minutes,” he told Callie as he put on his denim jacket. She hadn't moved since he'd left the room to order the pizza. “I put out some tea for you. Raspberry and chamomile. I'll be back in half an hour.”

He started to walk out the door, but at the last moment he strode quickly to her chair, leaned down, and kissed her too pale cheek. He wanted to do more, but decided not to push his luck. “Chin up, Callie. You're strong, and you can get through this.”

As soon as Sam was gone, Callie released a pent-up sigh. A few minutes ago she'd been in a state of panic, wishing there was some way she could call off this … meeting, or whatever it was if it wasn't a date. She'd even started to phone him as her mind scurried around looking for some believable excuse. But she'd hung up before the connection was even made. She'd known Sam wouldn't be put off by anything. He was too damned determined.

She didn't need the extra stress of dealing with Sam right now, she'd told herself when the bell had rung. Didn't she have enough on her plate? But the moment she saw him, everything had changed. He'd always been there during her worst times, even when she didn't deserve his devotion. During disasters, he made sure she ate, he rubbed her shoulders, he bolstered her spirits. Suddenly she felt silly for having dreaded Sam's arrival. He was so easy to talk to—when he wanted to be—and unburdening herself had come as naturally as breathing.

He had uncanny abilities, Sam did. He could make her feel awful with one cold look, as he had at the cemetery. And he could also make the hurt feel better with a touch, a smile. She rubbed her hand against her cheek where he'd kissed her, and a pleasurable shiver wiggled down her spine.