Miss Lizzy's Legacy (12 page)

Because he understood how Callie felt, he touched her elbow. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

A shudder shook her, but she refused to cry. She lifted her chin and continued to look straight ahead. “Apology accepted. Now if you don't mind, I'd like for you to leave.”

“No.” His hand still at her elbow, he took a step closer, taking her other elbow in hand as well. He molded his body to hers and buried his nose in her hair. The unmistakable scent of wildflowers curled around him.

A sob built in Callie's throat as she fought the desire to turn in his arms. “I already told you, Judd, I don't want another roll in the hay.”

Regret for the callous words he'd thrown at her wrung his heart. Groaning, he skimmed his hands down her forearms to circle her waist and gathered her to him. He dropped his chin to her shoulder and his mouth next to her ear. “It was never that, Callie. Not for me.”

She tried hard to ignore the warmth of his breath, the tenderness of his touch, the strength and comfort of his arms around her. But her heart wouldn't allow it. The love she felt for him, the pain when he'd told her their night together meant nothing, twisted in her heart, reopening the wound. She spun in his arms, her cheeks wet with tears. “But you said—”

He caught her to him, burying his face against the side of her neck as he wound his arms around her, not wanting to hear his own words repeated again. “I didn't mean it. I swear I didn't. I—I'm sorry. I was angry and I wanted to hurt you like you hurt me. But I didn't mean it, I swear I didn't.”

Her body remained stiff and unyielding. He knew that his careless words had cut deeply and knew, too, that if she chose not to forgive him this time, he wouldn't blame her. The decision was hers to make. He stepped from her, letting his arms slowly fall to his sides. “If you still want me to leave, I will.”

Her breath hitched once, then twice as she looked at him through tear-filled eyes. “Don't you dare,” she whispered.

Her response was so unexpected it took a second for Judd to realize what she'd said. When he did, he grabbed her to him so tight the breath squeezed from her lungs.

“I never knew love could hurt this much,” he said, his voice breaking slightly at the admission.

“Oh, Judd,” Callie whispered back. She sank her fingers in the dark hair that curled at his neck and drew his face to hers. “Neither did I.”

* * *

It was the most beautiful time of day in Judd's estimation, those quiet, dark hours just before dawn. He'd seen it from both sides—drawing a shade against it as he crawled into bed exhausted after a long concert or waking up on his bus to peer out the darkened window at an ever-changing highway on the road to a new town, a new show. He'd grown to appreciate the solitude and beauty of this particular time of day, but nothing matched the beauty of this one.

Silently, he watched Callie, standing before the window, naked as the day she was born, one hand caught in the drape. Her hair was mussed, her lips swollen from the pressure of his own. Her eyes had a faraway look that made him wonder what thoughts were going through her head.

Unable to resist, he swung from the bed and crossed to her, gathering her lightly in his arms. He dipped his mouth to her shoulder and nipped. “Couldn't you sleep?”

She crossed her arms over his and relaxed against him, letting his chest take her weight. “No.”

“Penny for your thoughts.”

She laughed softly, her gaze still on that faraway something beyond the window. “They aren't even worth that much.” Sighing, she laid her head against his cheek, a worry wrinkle forming between her eyes.

Judd turned her in his arms. “Hey. What's this?” he asked, rubbing the ball of his thumb against the crease. “Regrets?”

Callie caught his hand in hers and pressed her lips to his palm to reassure him. “No,” she said, smiling up at him. “No regrets.” She turned her gaze on the window again. “It's the statue. I can't get it off my mind.”

“If it bothers you that much, call and cancel. Tell them you can't get it done on time.”

Callie shook her head. “No. I've never failed to deliver a commissioned piece on schedule.”

Judd understood and respected that sense of responsibility. There were times on the road when he would've loved to cancel a show and go home. But he never had. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Short of making Miss Lizzy the model mother?” Callie laughed and hugged him to her. “No, there's nothing you can do.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and turned from his embrace.

Frowning, Judd watched her walk away. “Maybe I
can
help.”

Callie looked at him, her forehead knitted. “How?”

“Have you got time for a little walk?”

Callie looked at him curiously. “I suppose.”

Judd picked up a pair of sweats from the chair and tossed them to her, then reached for his own jeans.

Once outside the hotel, he caught her elbow, guiding her down the brick sidewalk. At the entrance to the alley just behind the building housing the saloon, he stopped. Releasing her arm, he lifted his hand and pointed upward. “See that square of brick up there that looks a little newer than the rest?”

Callie squinted into the darkness, searching the wall until she found the square she thought he indicated. “Yes, I see it.”

He waved his hand, taking in the building that stood opposite the Blue Bell. “That used to be the Elks Hotel. A catwalk used to join the two buildings,” he explained as he slowly drew an imaginary line through the air until his finger pointed at the building the Blue Bell was housed in. Callie saw a similar square of newer brick where he pointed. “Men would register at the hotel, travel across the catwalk and visit the whorehouse and their activities would never be known.”

He caught her elbow and guided her around the corner to the door of the whorehouse. Digging in his pocket, he pulled out a ring of keys, selected one and unlocked the door. “Some used this entrance, but not as many as used the catwalk.” He gestured Callie in, then closed the door. Darkness swallowed them. Not at all sure what this was about, Callie folded her arms across her breasts and rubbed at the goose bumps that had popped up.

The wheel of a cigarette lighter grated in the silence followed by the flicker of a small flame. Judd brushed past her as he stepped to the stairwell and hit a light switch. The single light bulb at the top of the stairs popped on, throwing a ladder of light on the weathered steps. He took the steps slowly, talking. “About nine or ten women lived here at a time. The stories are that the women in this house were the cleanest, most respectable whores in the territory.” His foot hit the top step and he paused, waiting for Callie to catch up. He gestured to the main room. “This was the parlor where the girls entertained the men until they sought the privacy of their rooms.

“Their clients were, for the most part, wealthy and influential men. Government officials, investors and drummers came here on business and usually stayed at the hotel. They'd sneak across the catwalk, visit a while with the girls, then head down that staircase,” he said, indicating the second staircase on the far side of the room that led to the bar. “They'd have a couple of drinks in the Blue Bell, then cross the street to a gaming hall, using the underground tunnel. For the most part, the citizens of Guthrie were never the wiser.”

“This is all very fascinating, but what is your point?”

Judd ducked his head and stuffed his hands deep into his jeans pockets. “Lizzy Sawyer was the madam.”

Callie's chin dropped and her arms fell limply to her sides. “What did you say?”

“I said she was the madam. You do know what a madam is, don't you?”

“Y-yes, of course I do.” Shock gradually gave way to anger. “Why didn't you tell me this before now?”

“I didn't think it was necessary. Your opinion of the woman was already pretty low.”

“And it appears that I was right,” she said, folding her arms at her breasts. “Mary Elizabeth Sawyer was exactly what her family claimed she was, a spoiled woman who thought only of her own selfish wants and needs.” She unfolded her arms and lifted her hands to cover her mouth as her thoughts raced ahead to the effect this would have on her great-grandfather. “Poor Papa,” she murmured against her fingertips. “I can't imagine how upsetting this will be for him.”

“She wasn't a bad woman, Callie.”

Callie wheeled to stare at him. “Not bad? For God's sake,” she cried, tossing her hands in the air. “She was the madam of a whorehouse, shipped her own son off to be raised by his grandparents, whom, by her own admission, she detested. And you say she wasn't bad?”

“I don't know anything about how she became known as the madam of the whorehouse, or what transpired with her son. But I do know a little about her.” He caught her hand and dragged her to a window. “See that church over there, the one whose steeple is peeking up over the trees?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Lizzy worshiped there every Sunday. In the early years of the settlement, times were hard. There were droughts, sickness and crop failures. Miss Lizzy cared for those who couldn't care for themselves. She nursed them and provided food. During the depression she started a clothes closet to serve the needs of the community. She provided supplies and helped cook and served meals to those who wouldn't have eaten otherwise.” He took her shoulders and turned her slightly, angling her a little to the left. “And that building over there? See it? That's the old library. There's a new one now, and the old building has been turned into a museum, but the original library was kept open partially by the generous donations of Lizzy Bodean.”

Callie pressed her hands over her ears, unwilling to hear anymore. “Stop it!” she cried. “I don't want to hear this.”

Judd dropped his arms from her shoulders. “No, I guess you probably don't.” He crossed to an old trunk, one that Callie hadn't found the time to dig through yet. He lifted the lid and poked around a bit, then lifted out a book. He crossed back to Callie, extending it to her.

She doubled her hands into a single fist at her waist, refusing to take it. “What is that?” she asked, her eyes riveted to the faded leather volume.

“Miss Lizzy's journal of her journey to the Oklahoma Territory and her first year here.” He prodded her hand with the book, forcing her to accept it. “You might want to read it.”

Her gaze flicked to his. “Why?”

“It might help you understand her more.” He stepped back, knowing he'd done all he could to remove the ill feelings she held for her great-great-grandmother, the woman whose legacy threatened to rob her of her creativity. The rest would be left up to Miss Lizzy and the power of her words...and the story she had to tell.

* * *

Callie tossed the book to the table and dragged the plastic from her statue. She didn't need to read the journal to know what kind of woman Lizzy Sawyer was. She was selfish and cold-blooded, just like the rest of her family. So what if the woman spread a little of her wealth around? She'd probably done those good deeds to ease her guilt over abandoning her son.

Sniffing, she sank down on the stool and picked up a sculpting knife. She gently rolled it back and forth, warming the wooden handle between her palms, while she stared at the blank face before her. She didn't have time for thoughts of Lizzy Sawyer Bodean. She had work to do.

Carefully and methodically, she emptied her mind of thoughts of her sordid relative. She closed her eyes, willing the emotions she needed to the surface.

Slowly they washed over her and the image appeared behind her closed lids. A mother. Gentle, loving. Holding her baby for the first time. Emotions pushing at the young mother's throat, gathering behind her eyes as she marveled at the miracle before her. A part of herself, created in love, nourished by hope. Born of strength and determination.

Callie slowly opened her eyes, the emotions fresh, the sculpting knife warm in her hand. She lifted the tool, her eyes unfocused, still seeing the mother's face in her mind. She shifted on the stool, bringing the knife and the image to the clay. Her hand stopped an inch short of the statue, as if grasped by a hand from behind. She strained against it, fighting to hold on to the emotions, needing to sculpt that image before it was lost...but her hand slammed to the table. The knife shot from her grip, cartwheeled across the table and fell to clatter against the hardwood floor.

Dropping her head to her hands, Callie heaved a deep, shuddery breath and gave in to the anger. Hot tears streaked down her face while she funneled her fingers through her hair.

Callie, dear, don't cry.

Callie snapped up her head, her heart thudding at the sound of the familiar voice. “Who are you?” she whispered, her voice tinged with fear. Her question echoed hollowly in the empty room. Slowly she spun on the stool, dragging her fingertips beneath her eyes to clear them, but saw nothing but the cracks in the walls and the cobwebs draping the corners.

“Please,” Callie begged, her voice thick with frustrated tears. “Tell me who you are, what you want from me.”

The voice came again, this time from behind her.

I want nothing, only to give. Read the journal. Perhaps then you'll understand.

Callie whirled to find the doorway behind her empty.

* * *

The leather spine cracked and popped like an old woman's knees as Callie laid open the book. The handwriting was familiar, the same flourishes and sweeps of the diary she'd read earlier.

Scowling, she settled into a corner of the tattered sofa and began to read.

January 3, 1890:

I cannot believe I found the courage to do it! My heart races at the very thought! Sneaking out the window, sliding down the roof, the frightening climb from the branches of the elm tree...and Ethan, my love, my champion, waiting in the shadows beneath it.