by Sharon Sala
SHARON SALA
Chance McCall
Once in a lifetime, if we are fortunate enough, we love that someone special. When it happens twice, we are blessed.
This book is dedicated to the people who find that love is better, the second time around.
Contents
Prologue
A strange anxiety seized him. It was time! Suddenly he…
1
Jenny stood in the shadows of the hallway adjoining her…
2
He moved with grace and power. Bare to the waist…
3
Chance stared down at the dust on the floor of…
4
“Jenny Tyler, where are you going? Your daddy’s still got…
5
It was midnight. The hour of uncertainty when life hangs…
6
“Welcome home,” Jenny said. She parked the car in front…
7
“Marcus, have you got a minute?”
8
It didn’t. Chance stepped out of the motel room and…
9
Thanks to the school caretaker, Chance had a name. It…
10
He moved quietly, his face in shadow as he walked…
11
Chance tossed the disposable razor in the trash, glared at…
12
“But I want you to take me to my prom,…
13
Charlie Rollins was running. The first customer he’d had when…
14
Jenny began to cry. Not loudly. Not at first. The…
15
Logan Henry hadn’t slept in days. Not since the call…
16
“What did they say?” Henry asked when Marcus hung up…
17
The phone rang. Victoria rolled over in the darkness and…
18
Victoria heard Logan coming before she saw him. She looked…
19
“Momma! He’s here,” the twins shouted, then each tumbled on…
20
“Juana, did you get all the stuff to make enchiladas…
Epilogue
“Did the caterers get everything in place?” Marcus asked, as…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Sharon Sala
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
A strange anxiety seized him. It was time! Suddenly he couldn’t get away fast enough. He grabbed the can he’d brought from the station and began walking through the house, methodically pouring a thin, steady stream of gasoline on and over everything. Walls and floors, furniture and clothing; nothing escaped his treatment.
He walked out of the house, tossed the empty can into the back of his truck, and stood for a moment in the shadows of the yard, watching the house take its last breaths. He shuddered, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a book of matches. They were from Charlie’s Gas and Guzzle. He stepped up onto the porch, kicked the door open, and yanked the safety match across the pad. It flared instantly. Chance gave it a toss and ran.
The air inside the house ignited before the match ever hit the floor. Chance reached the pickup just as the first window blew, shattering glass and wood across the front yard. He started the truck, put it in gear, and accelerated. The glow of the flames was bright in the rearview mirror over the dashboard. The hair on the back of his arms smelled singed where he’d come too close to the flames. Chance McCall had just burned every bridge connecting him to Odessa. He headed out of town with the sound of sirens fading away behind him. It was time to leave. He never looked back.
1
Jenny stood in the shadows of the hallway adjoining her father’s office and watched the sunlight behind the desk shine directly into the stranger’s eyes. He didn’t blink.
Jenny thought maybe he was blind and then quickly discarded the notion. Blind men couldn’t be cowboys, and Marcus was hiring extra help for roundup.
Jennifer Ann Tyler was small and delicate, an unlikely heir to Marcus Tyler’s vast ranching operation. Thick dark curls and wide, china blue eyes enhanced her doll-like appearance. That deception was her greatest asset. Although she was only eleven years old, she was as tough as the leather on her scuffed cowboy boots.
She was such a fixture on the Triple T Ranch that her father, Marcus Tyler, didn’t even acknowledge her presence as she sidled quietly into the office and listened to him hiring the temporary ranch hand.
“That’s the way we’ll leave it for now, McCall; part-time until roundup is over. After that, we’ll see. Understood?”
The young man nodded silently as he continued to stare into the light.
Jenny wondered if he was “touched” in the head. Everyone knew you weren’t supposed to look directly into sunlight. When you turned away, it made you see fairies that weren’t really there. She continued to stare at the man’s profile and waited, watching with interest as her father moved around his desk.
Marcus Tyler was a self-centered, domineering man. Years ago, he’d become a father and buried his wife within the same month. The thing uppermost on his mind at the time had been making the next payment on his bank loan.
With the passing of each year, he’d packed an extra pound onto his once wiry frame. And each year that passed, he’d become more and more of a stranger to his only child. Close-cropped, graying hair and cold, blue eyes only added to his commanding demeanor. Jenny was a feminine reflection of her father’s stubbornness and bore the same mutinous expression when crossed.
On the Triple T, Marcus’s word was rarely questioned and, when it was, Jenny was the only one who ever got away with it. She was also the only one who saw the young man who was applying for the job silently nod his acceptance to the terms of his employment.
“I can’t find the payroll sheet you need to sign,” Marcus muttered. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He marched out of the room, absently noting Jenny’s presence but choosing to ignore it. Unfortunately for Jenny, he did a lot of that.
Jenny took this as her opportunity to check out the new employee. She shoved her hands into the hip pockets of her faded blue jeans and approached the silent young man seated in front of her father’s desk, still staring into the light.
“Hi!” she said, as she walked up behind him.
The sound of the child’s voice was so close and unexpected, it startled him. He turned, blinking rapidly as he tried to clear his vision.
She chewed the inside of her lip and rocked back and forth on the heels of her boots as she stared at the cuts, discoloration, and subsiding swelling on his face. Her eyes widened perceptibly. It was the only reaction she allowed herself at the sight of him.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“What’s yours?” he countered.
“Jennifer Ann Tyler.”
“Hello, Jennifer Ann,” he said softly, letting his gaze sweep across the doll-like face of the little tomboy. He noted the grass stains on the knees of her jeans, the three-corned tear in the sleeve of her plaid shirt, the wind-blown curls and scuffed boots, and wondered if her mother would have a fit. It would be much later before he discovered she’d never known a mother’s love.
Jenny permitted herself a deceptively sweet smile. She raised an eyebrow and rocked a bit more on already rounded boot heels. Finally the young man allowed himself a smile that didn’t get past his eyes.
“My name is Chance…Chance McCall. Am I to assume you rule the roost around here, Jennifer Ann?”
Satisfied with his capitulation, she ignored the last part of his remark and concentrated on the next point in question. Fixing a hard stare on the left side of his face, where fading bruises and healing cuts drew her att
ention, she asked, “Does it hurt?”
Chance knew what she meant, but his answer was deceptive. The injuries to his face were healing fine. It was what was inside of him that was still sore and festering.
“Yes, it hurts,” he said, his voice quiet and low.
“I’ll fix it,” she announced, and charged from the room. Before he could think, Jenny was back clutching something tightly in a grubby fist.
Chance watched, mesmerized by the lightning quick movements of her tiny fingers as she peeled the sterile coverings from two adhesive bandages decorated with stars and stripes. She stuffed the wrappers in her pocket and carefully peeled back the covering from the first bandaid. Satisfied that she was now ready to proceed, Jenny stepped close to Chance and peered at the cuts and bruises, squinting one eye just a bit to judge the best place to administer her first aid.
Chance sat spellbound, touched beyond words as the little girl gently placed the strips of sticky bandage across his cuts and bruises. The tip of her tongue worked out of the corner of her mouth as she pulled the last bit of cover from the sticky plastic.
“There!” she said, patting her work with a butterfly-light touch, “that will help.”
“It already has, Jennifer Ann,” Chance said, as he swallowed a huge lump in his throat.
Footsteps announced Marcus’s return and sent the child scurrying out of the room. Chance blinked and she was gone. He ran a tentative finger across his cheek, just to assure himself that he hadn’t imagined her. But the bandages were there. He allowed himself a smile. It was the first in so long, it felt strange. The adhesive pulled across the flesh of his face as he regained his composure. He ignored Marcus Tyler’s look of surprise and then dawning comprehension as he stared at the strips of red, white, and blue. Chance picked up a pen from the desk.
“Where do I sign?” he asked, and sealed his future on the dotted line.
It had been raining since midnight last night and hadn’t let up once all day. The water ran in torrents off the roof of the bunkhouse and onto the already over-soaked Texas earth.
Chance paced in the empty bunkhouse, from an easy chair, past the row of beds, and back to the window. He never thought he’d be sorry that he didn’t have to be out working in this miserable weather, but in his present frame of mind, boredom overrode good sense.
His shoulder muscles bunched, straining against his soft denim shirt. The shirt was old, chosen especially for his current problem. His long, blue jean clad legs traveled the distance between the spare furnishings in the bunkhouse with stifling repetition. He stopped at the window, squinting against the dismal sight through the muddy panes of glass. He stared blankly at his reflection. I wonder if they would recognize me now.
The old scars across his face were barely visible. The thin young man who’d driven onto the Triple T over two years ago with nothing on his mind but crawling into the nearest hole was gone. He’d grown four more inches and, at twenty years old, stood three inches over six feet without his boots. His dark brown hair was streaked with gold, bleached from the hot, endless days working in the sun. His features had changed from the softer gentleness of youth to those of a man, with hard, sharply defined cheekbones, a square jaw, and a mouth that rarely smiled. But his dark eyes were still the same…and still hiding a world of hurt.
“Dammit!” he muttered. He flexed his arm again and looked down in disgust at the reason for his confinement. His left hand was in a cast halfway up his arm, thanks to a cranky horse and a mutinous steer. Only his fingers had escaped the doctor’s plaster. He wiggled them in frustrated boredom.
If it weren’t for the weather and his injury, he’d have been riding fence or working on the constantly faltering innards of some truck or tractor. But the persistent rain had ended that escape. The doctor had been adamant about keeping the cast dry and Chance damn sure didn’t intend to go through having his wrist set again.
Juana Suarez walked through the open door of the library. Marcus looked up, frowning at the interruption.
“What?” he asked sharply.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Marcus,” she said, “but it’s raining very hard…and Jenny will be getting off the bus anytime now. Don’t you think you should go pick her up?”
Marcus sighed at the intense worry evident in the housekeeper’s soft brown eyes. She was right, but he was waiting for an important phone call. If he left, sure as the world he’d miss it.
“Can’t you go?” he asked. “I’m waiting for a call.”
“No, it is not possible,” she said. “The ranch wagon esta’ mal…muy mal. It does not work at all. And with Chance’s injury…it will be a while before he can fix it.”
Marcus grinned at his housekeeper’s lapse into Spanish. It always happened when she was upset or nervous. When he glanced out the window he saw the wisdom of her concern. The rain continued to pour.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. She started to leave when he called out, “Juana?”
“Yes?” she answered.
“Thanks for reminding me,” he said.
She smiled and walked away.
Juana had come to work for Marcus Tyler when Jenny was six months old. She’d been widowed fairly young and had no children of her own. Juana had been the fourth in a long line of nannies that Marcus had hired, but she’d been the keeper. She’d taken one look at the tiny, dark-haired baby and fallen in love. She moved in that same day and never regretted it.
Marcus glanced at the clock, trying to figure a way out of his dilemma when something Juana had said registered. Chance! Because of his recent injury, he was probably still in the bunkhouse. He grabbed the intercom phone that connected all of the ranch outbuildings to the main house.
Chance jumped and turned away from the window as the phone rang loudly into the silence, startling him into hurrying to answer its summons.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Good,” Marcus said, “you’re still there. I need a favor.”
“Sure.” Anything would beat this enforced inactivity.
“I’m waiting for a phone call. Go pick Jenny up at the school bus stop. I don’t want her to walk home in this rain. Okay?”
“Okay boss, my pleasure.”
He liked the feisty little girl and it was fortunate that he did, because whenever he was around the ranch house, Jenny Tyler walked in his shadow from dawn to dusk. She always had more questions than he could answer, and offered more advice than he needed, but he dealt with her patiently. He sensed her need for companionship as much as he craved her company.
He stepped onto the porch and then shivered. It was chilly, a result of the early spring rains. He ducked back inside, grabbed his heavy sheepskin coat and shrugged into it. He lifted a sweat-stained Stetson from a hook by the door, and jammed it on his head as he hurried outside into the downpour.
The rain showed no sign of abating as Chance pulled out of the driveway and onto the blacktop road that was a quarter of a mile from the bus stop. He shivered and turned on the heater, warming the pickup truck’s interior against the chill Jenny would be feeling.
The worn windshield wipers scraped frantically at the downpour, staying about two swipes slow of a clear view of the road, but Chance was so glad to be out of the bunkhouse he didn’t much care that they needed replacing.
His relief at being released from the bunkhouse quickly turned to concern as he neared his destination. What he saw made him brake to a sliding halt in the water running across the roadway.
“What in hell…?”
Two figures were barely visible through the sheet of water pouring off the truck roof and across his windshield. They were rolling around in the ditch, kicking up mud and sending grass and water flying about in wild abandon.
Chance hit the ground at a run and jumped into the ditch. Ignoring his cast and the loss of his hat, he grabbed at a flying arm then cursed as it slipped out of his grasp. Dodging a kicking boot, he braced himself astride the muddy pair and tried to pull them
apart with his uninjured hand.
“Dammit to hell, Jenny. Stop it!” he yelled. It was futile. The little tornado on top was bent on destruction.
“Make her quit, mister. Make her quit,” a boy begged from the bottom of the ditch.
Jenny’s fury was obvious as she pummeled the face and body of her victim.
“Jenny! I said, stop it,” he repeated loudly, and grabbed at her coat sleeve. His hand came away with nothing but mud and grass for his effort.
Jenny was too lost in anger to listen to Chance’s demands. She swung her fist and landed another blow. This time it connected with the already bloody nose of the boy beneath her.
“Yeowch!” he yelled, and covered his face with his arms. “Jenny, I’m sorry. I already said so. Please! Don’t hit me no more.”
She ignored his plea.
Chance braced himself in the mud, swiped his coat sleeve across his face to clear his vision and reached for a firmer grip on Jenny’s flailing arms. He connected and pulled. She flew backward, landed on her rear end in the water running down the ditch, and then gasped in angry shock at the interruption.
The sorry-looking trio silently faced each other, oblivious to the thundershower that continued to pour down upon them. Chance’s chest was heaving, his mouth firm with concern and determination as he looked at Jenny’s face. She was furious.
The boy was another matter. He looked like a whipped pup. Rain diluted the blood that was seeping from his cut lip and bloody nose. It ran in pink rivulets down the front of his coat and shirt.
“Get in the truck, both of you!” Chance ordered, as he began dragging them from the ditch. He met with mutiny.