Tumbleweed Weddings (17 page)

Callie smiled. “Your wife was my Sunday school teacher in fifth grade.”

Tom lifted the spare up on the axle. “Lila was pert near everyone’s teacher in Fort Lob who’s under thirty-five. Hasn’t missed a Sunday for twenty-four years.” He lifted the hubcap back in place and tightened the wheel nuts. “There you go, Callie. All fixed.”

“I appreciate that so much. What do I owe you, Tom?”

“Nothing.” He picked up his tools. “Although I wouldn’t mind one of those good Sunday dinners your mom makes.”

Callie laughed. “I’ll talk to Mom, and we’ll have you and Lila over one of these Sundays.”

After Tom pumped down the jack and put everything away, he followed her car down to the end of Highway 270, where she turned right toward the freeway. He turned left toward Lusk and Torrington. She waved her hand out the window as they parted ways.

Callie glanced at the map lying on the passenger’s seat, and her stomach clenched. It would probably take an hour or more before she arrived at Lane’s house, but she hadn’t given a thought to what she would say when he opened the door.

Why did you run away?
No, that was no good.

Come back to Fort Lob—I miss you
. That sounded lovesick.

I’m stalking you, mister!
Too flirty.

She sighed. “Lord, You helped me once today. Please help me again.”

A verse of scripture popped into her mind. It was a verse in Hebrews about coming boldly to God’s throne of grace. She finished the verse out loud. “ ‘That we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.’ ”

The Lord would give her grace, just when she needed it. She smiled. She had learned that verse in Lila Shoemacher’s Sunday school class.

Finally!

Callie slowly drove past number 736, then she turned around and pulled up in front of the two-story brick house. Her stomach growled. She had thought she would arrive way before lunch, but the morning had not gone as planned. First the flat tire, and then she drove around Cheyenne for a while, unable to find Lane’s street.

Sitting in the car, she took a moment to pray and look at her surroundings. The house resided in an older neighborhood, with a maple tree towering in the small front yard and a long driveway leading back to a detached three-car garage. Two tall windows on the left and a large bay window on the right flanked the front door of the house. There was no porch except for two steps that led up to the door. Low bushes grew on either side. The place looked inviting.

Then why am I so nervous?

With a final prayer, Callie got out and trudged up the front walk, still not sure what she would say when Lane opened the door.

Lane opened his refrigerator and looked at the frozen dinners stacked in the freezer. It was one o’clock, and he hadn’t eaten lunch. But he had gotten his heart right with God, and he felt good. No, he felt
clean
. With a happy sigh, he pulled out the Mexican fiesta dinner.

The doorbell rang, the sound echoing through the house. Lane frowned. No one ever visited him. It must be a salesman.
I’ll just ignore it
. He turned the frozen dinner over and read the directions on the back of the box.

Ding-dong!

Lane pulled the tray out of the box and opened the door of the microwave.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

With a frustrated sigh, Lane set down the dinner and walked to the front of the house. The entryway formed an alcove between the living room on one side and the dining room on the other. He passed the flight of stairs leading upstairs before he opened the door.

Callie stood outside, a tentative smile on her face. The wind tugged at her dark curly hair. She adjusted her glasses with one hand while the other clung to the purse strap over her shoulder.

Lane’s mouth dropped open. “Callie?”

“Hi, Lane.” She cleared her throat. “May I come in?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Stepping back, he motioned toward the living room. His heart pounded. Why was she here? She must have heard about what happened at the library Thursday night.
That’s not good
. In fact, it was downright embarrassing.

She walked past him but stopped beneath the archway into the living room. “Nice place you have. I love a formal front room.”

“Aunt Betty decorated it.” He strode across the Persian rug, glad he had dusted and vacuumed after his prayer time with the Lord. The light from the afternoon sun filtered into the room since he had opened the drapes, but he turned on the lamp beside the sofa—just for something to do. He motioned to a wingback chair. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Callie glanced around as she slipped down to the chair. She couldn’t believe how big this room was. The smell of lemon polish hung in the air. A brown sofa faced the two wingback chairs in front of a massive fireplace. Even though it was so formal, the room felt cozy. Homey.

On the mantel rested a framed photograph of Herbert Dreyfuss. It was the same picture that was in the newspaper and on the back cover of his books. A few weeks ago, Callie would have been surprised to see his picture in Lane’s house but not now.

Across from her, Lane perched on the sofa’s edge. His green T-shirt stretched across solid muscles underneath. She had never seen him wearing anything but a tailored shirt with a pocket… .

“So, Callie.” He ran his hand through his hair before he gave her a weak smile. “What brings you down to Cheyenne?”

He’s more nervous than I am
.

She still wasn’t sure what to say, so she blurted out the first thing that came to her mind. “You’re writing those newspaper articles for Herbert Dreyfuss, aren’t you?” It was more a statement than a question.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Well, yes, I am.” He clasped his hands in front of him then unclasped them. “I, uh …” Jumping up, he walked to the mantel and picked up the picture of Dreyfuss. “This was my uncle Herb.”

Callie’s lips parted. “But he’s been dead for seven years.”

He nodded.

“So … the rumor is true? Herbert Dreyfuss is dead?”

Lane sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“And you’re writing everything? Even the history books?”

“Yep.” He smiled, seeming relieved to admit it. He motioned for her to follow him to the opposite side of the room, stopping at a narrow bookcase that Callie had not noticed before. Rows of books, all by Herbert Dreyfuss, filled the shelves.

She paused by his side. “Wow, Lane. This is amazing.”

He pulled out
A History of Gunfights in America
from a shelf that held six more books, all with the same spine. “When I donated those two books to the library, I got them right here. These are my author’s copies.” He grinned. “So when you said they were expensive and I said it was nothing, I meant that literally.”

Callie shook her head. “I just can’t believe this.”

He handed the book to her. “For you.”

“Oh, how sweet.” She took it. “Thank you, Lane. You’ll have to sign it for me.”

“I’ll do that.”

She studied the cover with the author’s name blazoned across the top. “But, Lane, why are you writing under your uncle’s name and not your own?”

His smile faded. “That’s a long story.” He motioned toward the chairs, and she took her seat.

Lane lowered himself to the sofa, again perching on the edge. “Uncle Herb was a prolific writer, but he struggled with his writing. He never gained the fame he wanted.”

Callie adjusted her glasses. “I remember seeing him interviewed on TV when I was fourteen.”

“Really?” He smiled. “I was seventeen. That was his only TV interview, and it was live. Aunt Betty and I were glued to the television.”

“My dad and I were the only ones who saw it at our house.” Hmm … she had been watching Lane’s
uncle
those many years ago. “So how did you start writing under your uncle’s name?”

He lifted his hands then let them drop. “I used to help Uncle Herb edit his articles, especially after Aunt Betty passed away. He taught me everything he knew about writing. Just before he died, he signed a book contract—his first one.” He gave her a rueful smile. “He was so excited. We sketched out the book together, and then he suddenly passed away.”

“That must have been a terrible shock for you.”

“It was.” Lane took a deep breath. “I wrote to his editor, Mr. Porterfield, and told him my uncle died. I thought he would cancel the contract, but he asked me to write the book and send it in.” He shrugged. “I thought it would honor Uncle Herb’s memory if I fulfilled the contract with a book under his byline.”

Lane walked to the fireplace and picked up his uncle’s photo. “That book sold so well that it was on the
New York Times
bestseller list for thirty-six weeks. No one was more surprised than Mr. Porterfield.”

“So you wanted to keep writing books under your uncle’s name.”

Lane turned to her. “No, I wanted to write them under my own name, but the editor wouldn’t let me.” He shook his head. “I was so naive about publishing. Mr. Porterfield talked me into signing an eight-book contract as a ghostwriter for Uncle Herb. So I did.”

Callie’s eyes widened. “Eight books?”

He nodded. “I just sent in the eighth one last week.” He perched again on the sofa, clasping his hands between his knees. “Since the books sold so well, Mr. Porterfield has become very unscrupulous. Over and over, he’s denied the fact that Herbert Dreyfuss is dead. Now most people, especially the general populace, think Herbert Dreyfuss is alive and well, and I haven’t been able to do a thing about it.”

Callie shook her head. “And you’ve kept this to yourself for seven years?”

“It’s nice that I can finally tell someone.” He gave her a sad smile. “I’m glad it was you.”

“Oh, Lane.” Callie gazed at his handsome face.

“And another thing …” He bowed his head, pausing, as if he was struggling for words. “I finally had a good talk with God, Callie.” He looked her in the eye. “I got it right and came back, just like you told me. I have such an incredible peace in my heart I can hardly believe it.”

“Praise God,” Callie whispered.

Lane stood and paced behind the sofa. “I’ve been praying about what to do. First of all, I’m going to get a good agent who can advise me. Mr. Porterfield has been pestering me to sign another contract, but I’d like to part company with him. Then I plan to tell the world my name is not Herbert Dreyfuss, no matter what the fallout.”

She nodded. “You need to publish books under your own name.”

“That’s been my dream for years.” He stopped pacing to face her. “Hopefully a good editor will accept me.”

“I think the publishing world will welcome you, Lane. After all, you’re a bestselling author. You could write that book about living in small-town America under your own name.”

“I’m not sure if I should keep moving to small towns in America.” He started pacing again. “That was something I decided to do without considering God’s will. Now I think He wants me to settle down—somewhere. I don’t know what my future holds, but I want to follow His leading.”

Callie’s heart took an unexpected leap. She walked to where he stood. “I’m so glad to hear you talk like that. God will show you His will because He’s working in your heart. You just have to trust Him.”

He stepped toward her until they were only a few inches apart. “Callie, if God hadn’t brought you into my life …” Leaving the sentence dangling, he removed her glasses and set them on the end table.

For a moment, he gazed into her eyes and Callie gazed right back. He pulled her into his arms. “You’re so beautiful.”

He kissed her, briefly and hesitantly, as if he weren’t sure what her reaction would be. Lifting his head, he looked at her.

“Kiss me again, Lane,” she whispered.

He did—several times, with his kisses becoming more passionate and ending with one slow, deep kiss.

When they finally parted, Callie rested her head against his shoulder. They stood in each other’s arms for a long time.

Callie gave a contented sigh.
This is where I belong
.

I
’m falling in love with Callie Brandt!

Nothing had prepared Lane for the feelings that coursed through him when he kissed her. He wanted her in his arms forever—or at least for the rest of his life.