Callie's Cowboy (2 page)

“Gee, I'm not sure I want to know.…” Millicent said, but Theodora was already staring into her crystal ball.

The gypsy was silent a long time while the girls collectively held their breath. Then, unexpectedly, she looked up and began to recite a poem:

Callie shivered, even though she knew this was all a bunch of silliness. She'd always harbored a secret worry that she and Sam would marry and that he would die, leaving her a widow. If the brutal ranch work didn't kill him, his rodeo bull riding would.

“The poem's nice, but it's not very helpful,” Lana pointed out. “I want a name. How will I know my future husband when I meet him?”

Theodora smiled indulgently. “Everyone who has her fortune told by Theodora gets a souvenir. These mementos will help you recognize the man who will make you happy.” She reached under the table and pulled out a cardboard box that appeared to be filled with gum-machine toys and other worthless stuff. She rummaged around in it for a moment, then held out her hand toward Callie.

Callie couldn't contain her curiosity. She accepted Theodora's gift. It was a plastic key chain in the shape of a cowboy boot.

Her skin broke out in goose bumps. How could the fortune-teller know about Sam? “I'm not marrying anyone
who wears cowboy boots,” she said firmly. Theodora merely gave her a knowing smile.

Lana frowned, obviously puzzled, at her gift from Theodora. It was a toy policeman's badge made of tin.

Theodora had to search a bit longer for something to give Millicent. She finally came up with a tiny brown glass bottle, the kind used for medicine a hundred years ago.

As the three girls stood contemplating their gifts Theodora quietly stood and walked to the back of her booth. Callie was the first to notice that she was gone. “Hey, where'd she go?”

Lana pointed to the wavering curtain in the rear of the booth. “Back there.”

Callie barged forward, her skepticism returning with fall force. If this pseudo-gypsy thought she was going to distract her with her mumbo jumbo and a worthless trinket …

She pulled back the curtain. No one was there. The girls stepped outside the booth, looked around corners, under tables. There was no sign of Theodora. Then Callie saw a flash of brightly colored silk vanishing through the back door of the gym. “This way!” she said to her friends, and they all three ran off in hot pursuit of the fortune-teller. But when they got outside, they couldn't find her.

“I knew it.” Callie tried to catch her breath. “I knew she was some kind of charlatan.”

“I didn't think she was so bad,” Lana said. “She told our fortunes for free.”

“We'll have to go to Mr. Stipley,” Callie said. “Something's definitely fishy.”

They went back into the gymnasium, but almost before the door slammed behind them, Callie came to a screeching halt and the other two girls ran into her. “Look.” She pointed toward Theodora's booth—or rather, the place where Theodora's booth had stood a minute or two earlier. There was no sign of red silk or glitter. A dart game occupied the space.

The three girls looked at each other, their eyes wide with apprehension. Callie knew her friends were thinking what she was thinking—there was no way anyone could have moved Theodora's booth that quickly.

“D-did we just have a group hallucination?” Millicent asked, her voice a timid squeak.

Callie opened the hand in which she'd been clutching the key chain. It was still there. She could see that the other girls still held their souvenirs from their visit with Theodora. “I'm not sure what it was,” Callie said. “But I don't think we should tell anyone about it.”

“Agreed,” the other two girls responded together. They all clasped hands, knowing that the secret they must keep would bind them to each other forever.

Callie hated covering funerals, but she hadn't trusted anyone on her staff to handle Johnny Sanger's send-off. She'd felt compelled to be there herself. Johnny's sensational death was the type of event that naturally led to gossip and speculation, but Callie had forbidden her reporters from pursuing the story. If anything beyond an objective accounting of the facts was to be written about the Sangers, she would be the one to do it.

Callie's chest tightened as her gaze focused on Sam, who sat with his family in a special section reserved for them on the opposite side of the closed casket. She couldn't see his face. He'd kept his head bowed during most of Reverend Snyder's endless eulogy, the oblique autumn sun glinting off his sun-bleached hair. She wondered if he'd seen her, and if he had, what he would think.

Then she had to laugh at herself. He had more important things on his mind than an ex-girlfriend. His father had just died, violently and unexpectedly, and he
must be devastated. Though he lived far away, he was devoted to his parents. Callie suspected that the only reason the Sangers had held on to their farm was because Sam helped them out financially.

Her physical reaction to him was undeniable, even after all this time. Much to her chagrin, her breasts tingled, and she couldn't seem to get comfortable in her chair. True, they'd hardly spoken in years, but they'd once been involved in a rip-roaring, explosive relationship, complete with all the passionate declarations, tearful arguments, and lonely, anguished nights that often come with the territory of first love.

Callie tried to push those old memories aside. Whatever the ups and downs of their past, the Sanger family would always be special to her, and she wished there was some way she could lend her support. Just because she'd turned down Sam's marriage proposal didn't mean she'd stopped caring about him. They had always been there for each other in times of trouble.

The last eight years had been good to Sam. His body looked tough and solid beneath his dark blue suit, while his tanned skin contrasted with the crisp white shirt he wore.

His nervous hands fiddled with the bow at the back of his two-year-old daughter's dress. Callie wondered where Debra, Sam's wife, was.

Little Deana Sanger wiggled down from Sam's lap to play at his feet with a pink stuffed animal, oblivious to the fact that she was witnessing her grandfather's burial. A lump formed in Callie's throat, and she determinedly swallowed it back. That poor child would have to live
the rest of her life with the knowledge that her grandfather had shot himself.

The police had ruled it suicide, anyway, and Callie had dutifully reported it as such. But something hadn't felt right about the story from the moment she'd first gotten the news of an accident at the Sanger farm.

She focused her attention on the rest of the family. Beverly, Sam's mother, looked grim and determined, as if all she wanted was to get through this tedious ceremony so she could go home and fall apart. Callie wondered how in the world she would get along without Johnny.

Beverly's older son, Will, sat next to her holding her hand. Callie didn't know Will very well, but from what Sam had told her over the years about his half brother, that was for the best. Will had been responsible for a fatal drunk-driving accident when he was in high school and had been in and out of jail ever since. The girl who'd died in the crash was the daughter of a prominent Destiny businessman, and the Sangers had never quite gotten over the scandal.

Will looked sober and respectable now, Callie thought, surreptitiously making a few notes in her notebook. His face was a mask of grief, his suit was properly somber, and his dark hair was cropped short and neatly combed. A slight woman with light brown hair in limp curls sat next to him, clinging to his arm. Callie assumed the woman was Will's wife, Tamra. Callie had never met her, but she'd read her name in the police report on Johnny's death. She was pretty in an ethereal way, but she looked wiped out.

No wonder, poor girl. She and Beverly had discovered the body.

The ceremony concluded, the coffin was lowered into the ground, and family members each tossed a bit of dirt onto the casket. Out of sheer habit, Callie leaned into the aisle, raised her camera, and caught a poignant image of little Deana solemnly letting a handful of dirt sift through her fingers into the yawning grave.

Still, hearing the click of the shutter, Sam looked up and scowled at Callie. She bit her lip and immediately put the camera away. Eight years ago, when she was in college, Sam had been hurt and angry at her decision not to marry him and move to Nevada. The few times she'd seen him since then had been uncomfortable, but she didn't want to believe that he truly disliked her.

Callie felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned and was surprised to see that her friend Millicent Jones had claimed the chair next to her.

“I had a feeling I might find you here,” Millicent whispered. “I'm glad you're personally covering the funeral. I know you'll handle it with dignity. You did such a nice job with Ronnie's.”

“Thanks,” Callie mumbled. She was already on the verge of tears. She didn't need to think about Millicent's husband, Ronnie, who was buried not a hundred feet away in a shady spot between two hickory trees. She looked down at her feet, up at the puffy white clouds overhead—everywhere but at Millicent's pregnant stomach. At four months, she was starting to show.

The service ended. Callie and Millicent stood up along with everyone else as the attendees began to mill
around and wander away. “Did you know Johnny Sanger?” Callie asked.

“Not well, but I know Beverly. I've bought eggs from their farm for ages. And of course I know Sam from when you two …”

Callie nodded.

“The crowd's thinning out,” Millicent said. “Are you going to pay your respects to the family?”

Callie hesitated. She and Beverly Sanger had always gotten along well, even after Callie and Sam had broken up for the last time. But she didn't want to cause Sam any extra stress.

“Come on,” Millicent urged. “I'll go with you. I was thinking of volunteering to baby-sit Sam's little girl, anyway, so while he's in town he can be free to help his mother.”

Typical Millicent, Callie thought. Her own life was a tragedy in progress, yet she was always thinking about ways to ease someone else's burden. “I wonder where Sam's wife is,” Callie asked, thinking aloud.

Millicent stopped. “Lord, Callie, you mean you don't know?”

“Know what?”

“They divorced more than a year ago. Debra left him and their baby.”

“No way,” Callie said flatly. “I'm the newspaper editor. I know everything.”

“Apparently not everything. Beverly Sanger herself told me a few weeks ago.” When Callie continued to stare, her mouth hanging open, Millicent added, “I just assumed you knew, and I didn't think it polite to bring it up.”

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.”