Callie's Cowboy (16 page)

“Of course not. I can see now that I'd have just been in the way. But I would like to watch what you're doing here.”

“Excuse me? You almost fainted a minute ago.”

“That's because I wasn't prepared. I'm okay now. I
can handle it. This work is so much a part of you, Sam, and I want to understand it.”

He grinned at the bit of flattery.

When the men were finished with lunch, Callie silently helped Rena pack up the leftovers and the trash. “I'm going to stay and watch.”

Rena looked at her speculatively. “Why?”

“It's interesting.” And she wasn't ready to leave Sam. She hadn't gotten her fill of seeing him flex his muscles beneath his Western shirt.

Rena shrugged. “It's your life.” Without another word she climbed into the truck and drove off, leaving a wake of dust behind her.

Callie still wasn't thrilled by the sight of blood and the calves' pitiful bleating. When she'd had her fill, she wandered over to where the calves were penned, put her hand through the fence, and petted one of them on its scruffy neck. It shied away from her, snorting indignantly, and she laughed before finding a safer vantage point.

When the crew was done “processing” the calves, they loaded the steer calves onto huge transport trailers. They were being taken to a commercial feedlot, where they would spend the winter being fattened up for market. The females remained behind, to become part of the breeding herd.

The cows, newly separated from their babies, bellowed plaintively. Callie tried to harden her heart, like Sam, but she still felt sorry for the big animals.

She felt a nudge against the back of her leg. Turning swiftly, reflexes coiled, she was surprised to find a dog. He had definitely sought her out.

“Hey, I'm not one of your cows,” she said indignantly to the German shepherd, who was hunkered down, panting, ears perked up, ready to play now that his day's work was done.

“Ah, I see you've met Punky.”

Callie turned again at the sound of Sam's voice, and jumped when she realized he was leading a big brown horse behind him. She edged closer to the dog. “This is your prize cow dog?”

“He's a little more impressive when you see him at work. He did his job well today.” Sam bent down to scratch the dog between the ears. “There's not a cow in my herd that ol' Punky can't get the best of.”

Callie petted the dog cautiously. She'd always been a little bit afraid of big dogs, but not as scared as she was of horses. She kept the big brown one in her line of vision at all times, but it appeared exhausted and not intent on doing her any harm.

Her hand brushed against Sam's. Rather than pull away self-consciously, as she wanted to do, she let the touch linger.

Sam tipped back his disreputable hat and smiled like the devil. “So, what'd you think?”

“Dirty, messy work, like your mother warned me.”

He looked decidedly disappointed. “We're still a ways from being done for the day. Have to dismantle these pens and get them ready for tomorrow. You can hitch a ride back to the house with the trailer.”

Callie couldn't tell if Sam was giving her an option, or if she was being dismissed. Maybe he'd been testing her, and she should have shown more enthusiasm for his work.

“All right, I think I'd like to clean up before dinner.”

“Would you tell Deana I love her, and I'll be home in time to tuck her in?”

“Sure.” She turned toward the cattle trailer, but Sam stopped her with a hand to her shoulder.

“Callie.”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for coming. It means a lot that you spent the day learning about my ranch, my work. I want you to like it here.”

Callie didn't quite know how to respond. Why would he want her to like it here, unless he wanted her to
stay
?

Despite his promise, Sam didn't make it back to the house for dinner.

“He's just tending to a few details,” Dalton said to Callie, eyeing her with unguarded speculation. All right, so she'd showered and washed her hair, changed into fresh clothes, and put on makeup. Was that such a big deal?

Callie wasn't the only one disappointed by Sam's absence. Deana was crying because she missed her daddy, and she wanted nothing to do with the tasty stew in front of her.

Callie sat down by Deana's high chair. She tried to remember how Millicent did it. Distract the kid, Callie decided. Focus on something other than food.

“Deana, you shoulda seen your daddy out there riding his horse,” she began, not sure where she would go with this conversation. “He can make those cows go
wherever he wants them to.” Callie spooned up a bit of potato and broth and pretended to eat it. “Mmm, this is good. Anyway, your daddy and his horse—what's the horse's name?”

Deana showed a faint smile. “Clyde.”

“Clyde, that's a good name,” Callie said, delighted she was getting through. “Daddy and Clyde herded a whole bunch of cows onto this big truck. And they were all hollering—the cows, that is—'cause they'd been taken away from their mothers. And they were real sad.”

Deana stared with rapt attention. Callie held a spoonful of diced roast beef up to the little girl's mouth. With her eyes still fixed on Callie, she opened her mouth and accepted the food.

Hey, this isn't so hard, Callie thought with a triumphant smile. “Where da cows go?” Deana asked.

“Well, they're being taken to a feedlot. Instead of having to eat grass, they'll be given oats and corn. They'll get such yummy food, and lots of it, so they'll forget all about their mamas and concentrate on growing up into great big cows. Er, steers, actually.” And then they'll end up like this fella here in your bowl, she almost added, though she decided not to. Ranch baby or not, maybe Deana wasn't ready for the concept of where her meat actually came from.

Deana ate another bite of meat and some potatoes, and even a green bean. Before Callie knew it, the child had taken the spoon into her own hand and was shoveling stew mostly into her mouth.

When Sam finally made an appearance, Deana shrieked and nearly knocked the high chair over trying
to get to him. With a sigh, Callie extracted her from the chair and set her down so she could run to her daddy.

“Deany!” Sam called out as he scooped his child into his arms. “Am I ever glad to see you. Did you miss me today?”

“Uh-huh,” Deana answered, nodding vigorously. Then she launched into another of her monologues, which Callie simply couldn't understand, though Sam seemed to get the gist of it.

“I'll sit down and have some dinner in a minute,” he said. “Right now, though, I need a shower in the worst way. Tell you what, later I'll split a piece of pie with you for dessert, how's that?”

Deana liked that idea.

Finally Sam focused on Callie. “Well.”

'Bout time, she thought. She didn't gussy up for just anyone.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“I doubt she's had time,” Beverly said. “She's been feeding Deana.”

“Good.” He gave Callie a searing look. “I'm glad you waited.” With that he disappeared.

“I think Deana's eaten about all she's going to,” Beverly said. “Why don't I get her ready for bed? I'll bring her back down in time for pie.”

Callie appreciated Beverly's discretion, the subtle manner in which she'd cleared the way for Callie and Sam to eat alone so they could have some badly needed private time. She smiled her thanks.

After urging Deana on her way, Callie set the table in the formal dining room, since there would be only the two of them. On impulse she even lit a candle, then
served up two bowls of stew, along with some leftover corn bread from this afternoon. She put it all in the oven to warm.

Unfortunately, her romantic candlelight dinner didn't turn out quite like she'd planned. Oh, Sam was appealing as ever, even in a sweatshirt and jeans, and he smelled so good Callie was tempted to climb right over the table toward him. But twice he nearly fell asleep with the fork halfway to his mouth. He was having a hard time following the conversation. She could see the weariness around his eyes.

“Sorry, darlin'.” He shook his head. “Been a long day. But I bet if I had two minutes alone with you—I mean completely alone,” he added, his eyes shining with a predatory gleam, “I'd perk up real quick.”

Though they weren't about to be “completely alone,” her heart beat faster at the thought.

The door opened, and Beverly cautiously peeked around the corner. “I was going to bring Deana down for pie, but she fell asleep on me.”

Sam's expression was immediately contrite. “Damn. I worked so late today I didn't even get to spend time with my little girl.”

“I'm sure she'll take a rain check,” Beverly said diplomatically. “I forgot to tell you, Callie, that you had a phone call while you were out this afternoon.”

“My mother?” she asked, hoping she'd gotten something interesting in the mail.

“No, it was a gentleman. He didn't leave a name, said he'd try back tomorrow.”

Callie closed her eyes. Sloan. He was the only “gentleman” who knew where she was.

“Well, I'm turning in, kids,” Beverly said, oblivious to the hard stare Sam was treating Callie to. “See you in the morning.” She wore a cat-in-the-cream smile as she turned and left the room, apparently believing they were on the brink of some romantic interlude.

Romance appeared to be the last thing on Sam's mind at the moment. “What was that all about?”

She couldn't lie to him. “I'm sure it was Sloan Bennett. I asked him to call me.”

“Why?”

“Because …” Well, heck, she might as well spit it out. “I had some thoughts about Johnny's death that I wanted to share with him. It's just possible that your father left a suicide note on his computer. He printed something out just before he died, but I don't think it's what he wanted to print out. He may have been distraught, confused, and he pushed the wrong buttons.”

“Dammit, Callie, why do you have to keep after this? Can't we just put it behind us?”

She was bewildered by the fierceness of his attack. “Sam, a suicide note would put it to rest, don't you see?”

“It would already be to rest if you weren't meddling. I thought if I brought you out here—”

She threw her napkin onto the table and stood. “Is that what this is all about? Drag Callie to Nevada so she stays out of trouble?” Not so he could spend time with her. Not so she could learn about his work.

“That wasn't my original intention,” he said, suddenly on the defensive. “I wanted you to come for me, for us too. I wouldn't have made love to you if I hadn't thought we had a second chance. But maybe that was
just a pipe dream. Sometimes I think I don't know you at all, Callie.”

Through a film of tears she looked down at the table, now a shambles of leftovers, dirty dishes, and melted candles. “I'll clean this up in the morning,” she said. She couldn't bear to stay here, in this room, with Sam any longer.

She fled, and Sam made no attempt to stop her.

As she undressed, fighting back sobs, she acknowledged that coming to Roundrock was a bad idea. She'd told herself that she'd come for Beverly's sake, but perhaps she'd been harboring her own pipe dreams, no more substantial than wisps of smoke. She would have to go back home—immediately.

And then what? Maybe she would go on some job interviews, or work on some freelance story ideas. She could work on her Great American Novel, which she'd started several years ago and had three and a half pages done.

The prospects were downright depressing.

Callie slept in the next morning, deliberately missing Rena's breakfast and avoiding Sam. She realized, almost immediately, that she wouldn't make it home today. No one could be spared to drive her the four hours to Salt Lake City, where she could catch a plane.

So she devoted herself to mindless activity—checking phone messages, calling her mom, sending out résumés.

At close to noon she finally got hold of Sloan. “I think someone should go to the Sanger house and check
out Johnny's computer,” she told him. “Will is staying at the house. He's working nights, so he can let you in during the day.” If he's not trying to hide something.

“Why the computer?”

Callie dutifully repeated the recent conversation she'd had with Beverly.

“Hmm. Printing up a week-old feed order would have been a very strange thing for Johnny to do just minutes before killing himself,” Sloan concluded.

“Exactly. It had to be a mistake.”

“You think he might have intended … oh. A suicide note.”

“If you could find one, it might explain a lot of things.”

“I'll get on it right away.”

“Find someone who can sort files by date. Whatever he might have been doing that day would be the most recent file created. I don't think anyone has touched the computer since he died.”

“Great. Thanks, Callie. Maybe we can wrap this thing up today.”

“Yeah.” She mumbled a closing pleasantry and hung up. She would like nothing better than to put all the questions behind them so she and Sam could get on with healing the rift between them her confounded reporter's instincts had caused.

Since the men were working closer to the house today, they returned for lunch. Rena served them huge helpings of ham and cheese for sandwiches, along with a hearty bean soup, lemonade, and coffee. Callie found
herself playing hostess along with Rena, a role she didn't feel very comfortable with. It was hard to ignore Sam when she was serving him lunch.

“Sit down and eat, Callie,” Sam said somewhat testily. “You don't need to wait on us hand and foot. We're big boys.”

“You've been working hard.”
And I haven't.
Again she was seized with that useless feeling, like she didn't belong.