“Would you mind ice cream instead?” Callie asked. “The Roadkill Grill…”
“The what?”
“You know, the Main Street Grill. But people haven’t called it that for ages. You must remember its great sundaes. And if you want a beer, you could get one there, too.”
“Ice cream sounds good, to tell the truth.”
Callie ordered her usual, the triple-scoop banana split with hot fudge, caramel and strawberry toppings. And whipped cream. Mase gaped when it arrived. A small bowl of vanilla ice cream with fudge sauce was set down in front of him. Callie raised her spoon and took a moment deciding which end to start at, when she realized Mase was staring at her.
“Oh,” she said, “you want to try some? We can share if you want....”
He shook his head. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Eat so much and stay so skinny.”
She raised her shoulders, then lowered them again. “Just lucky, I guess.” Then she dived into the fudge-covered end.
By the time she’d finished her banana split, raised voices were coming from the bar section of the restaurant.
Mase heard the fracas, too. Probably his cop instincts were itching to go investigate, Callie thought. He looked as if he wanted to stride right in there.
But he was saved from his sworn duty by the appearance of Sheriff Reese Hatcher, who had obviously been called by the bartender. His weathered face set, the sheriff sauntered through the café and disappeared inside the saloon. His quiet voice issued a warning, and the drinkers subsided.
“That was fast,” Mase said.
“Oh, everyone knows Reese, and they know he won’t stand for any fighting on his turf. He keeps a pretty tight lid on this town, well, on the whole county.”
“Maybe we should recruit him for the Denver police force,” Mase said dryly.
But Callie shook her head. “There’s no way. Reese has been trying to retire for ages.”
The sheriff finally came out of the barroom.
“Hi, Sheriff Hatcher,” Callie said.
“Well, hello there, Miss Callie.” He grinned, and his stern expression changed completely. He looked at her with such affection he could have been her grandfather.
“Sheriff, this is…”
“Oh, I know who he is. He’s the Denver cop I gave a speeding ticket to. Yeah, right. Mason…Mason…”
Mase stood up, reached out his hand. “Mase LeBow.”
“Nice to meet you, son,” the sheriff said, shaking hands with Mase as if they’d never met before.
“What was going on in there?” Callie asked.
“Oh, the usual. You know, coupla young bucks feeling rowdy. Jerry Lawton and Mikey Scott.”
“Oh, them.”
“Yeah, them.”
“You in a hurry, Sheriff?” Mase asked.
“Hell no. Only got duty till midnight. Nothing going on.”
“Maybe you’d like to sit down for a few minutes and we’ll compare notes about law enforcement,” Mase said.
Callie looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“Wouldn’t mind that a bit.” Hatcher lowered his big frame onto a chair. He looked around for the waitress, saw her, raised a hand and nodded. The waitress nodded back.
Over coffee, the sheriff and Mase talked. Big-city versus small-town law enforcement. Callie listened, interested, but she wasn’t really involved in the conversation. It was as if two neurosurgeons were talking in front of a layman.
“Well, we got problems here, too. Small town, you know every last soul,” Hatcher was saying. “Now, how am I gonna pull in Katy Mercer’s only son for drunk drivin’ when I know he’s the only way poor Katy gets around? I was raised with these folk, and I have a hard time causing ’em more pain.”
“You at least have hope here, though,” Mase countered. “I see so many young kids, and I know they’re going to be dead before they’re twenty. Drugs, guns, no life at all. No way to reach them.”
“I read about it in the papers,” Hatcher said, “and that’s about as close to it as I wanna get.”
“Yeah, me too, sometimes,” Mase agreed.
“So—” Hatcher gave Mase a look from under bristly gray brows “—what’s a big-city fella like you doing here? You still here or you back again?” His gaze switched to Callie, and there was blatant curiosity in it.
“Oh, I’m staying at the Thornes’ ranch. You know, that bachelor auction thing.”
Hatcher peered closely at Mase. “You’re one of those boys from Lost Springs Ranch?”
“I sure am.”
“I knew you looked familiar.”
“Were you sheriff back then?” Mase asked, surprised. “Twenty years ago?”
“Always been sheriff here,” Hatcher said. “So, Callie, is this the guy you bid on?”
“Yes, this is him.”
“Not bad for a city fella,” Hatcher allowed.
Mase grinned. How come, Callie thought, he never grinned like that at her? Male bonding was fine and good, but why couldn’t Mase be pleasant to her, too?
The sheriff leaned across the table and spoke quietly to Mase. “You know that speeding ticket I gave you?”
“Oh, yeah, I sure do.”
“Well, I haven’t sent it in to the state yet. It might just get changed to a warning.”
“That’s not necessary, Sheriff. I was speeding.”
“Don’t be so damn honorable, son.” Hatcher laughed. “I am a mean old son of a gun sometimes. Mighta had some indigestion that evening.”
“Well, thanks,” Mase said.
“Gotta go. Nice talking to you.” Hatcher stood, put a finger to the brim of his Stetson and clumped out of the restaurant.
On the ride home, Callie was very quiet. She’d seen many sides to Mase LeBow: father, widower, policeman, one of the boys. But to her he was always the same—cool, withdrawn, almost defensive. He simply didn’t like her. Well, maybe he didn’t actively dislike her, but she obviously wasn’t his type.
She pondered that. She’d tried her darnedest to let him off the hook about their dumb date. Why had he driven all the way up here, three hundred miles, to be with someone he couldn’t care less about?
Her hands were in her pockets and her fingers closed around the damp hankie. She couldn’t help remembering the way his hand had closed over hers in the theater and the warmth of his touch. She shivered a little then, glad her face was hidden from him in the dark interior of his car.
How silly, Callie mused, to be so sentimental over an old hankie.
CHAPTER SIX
JOEY WOKE MASE BRIGHT and early the next morning. “Daddy, I already had breakfast, and Sylvia told me to ask you if I could go out and play.”
“What…” Mase mumbled, half-asleep, an arm flung over his eyes.
“Can I?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, Daddy.” And he was gone, his shoelaces untied, yesterday’s grubby T-shirt back on.
Mase lay there in the guest room, the sun pouring in the window, and it suddenly hit him as his brain came fully awake that Joey wasn’t clinging to him anymore; he’d gotten up by himself, dressed, eaten breakfast and made plans. All by himself. This is good, Mase told himself. Very, very good. And yet, deep in a corner of his mind, there was a minuscule ember of resentment, well, almost jealousy—all of a sudden Joey didn’t need his old dad anymore. Okay, maybe they’d had a dysfunctional dependence on eac
h other since Amy had died. Joey’s counselor had hinted at that. But who else did Joey have now? His grandparents, sure, but Mase was his father.
He doused that pernicious little ember with the cold water of reason. It was definitely good for Joey to become independent. Absolutely terrific.
He got up and showered and realized he felt great. Joey was safe and he had the whole day ahead of him with nothing to do, no life-or-death decisions to make, no killers to deal with. A vacation.
He thought about last night as he shaved and trimmed his mustache. It had been a surprisingly good movie. A study of passion. Tragic passion. Callie had sobbed so hard he wondered if she’d seen most of the film. He shook his head, smiling. Her eyes had been red and swollen, her nose shiny, and there had been mascara half-moons beneath her lower lids. She’d been appealing, anyway, her face scrubbed clean like a kid’s, her pretty pink lipstick chewed off her wide, curvaceous lips.
And, boy, could she put away ice cream.
He splashed his face with water, cleaned his razor and dressed in jeans and a Police Athletic League T-shirt.
The ranch was bustling. There was a buffet breakfast set up in the dining room, and Hal and Marianne were just finishing their meal. Linda, another guest, sat at the table in a wheelchair.
“Good morning,” she greeted him. “I’d recommend the scrambled eggs—they have ham and mushrooms in them.”
“Sounds great.”
Mase ate a much bigger breakfast than he was used to, but it was a good thing, he found out later. When he headed outside, he was greeted by a scene of controlled mayhem. Several cars and trucks were drawn up by the barn, one of them Sheriff Hatcher’s Blazer. Callie and Jarod were walking a horse around in the ring, and on its back was a little girl of seven or eight wearing thick glasses. She was giggling as she performed certain movements on the horse’s back. He could hear Callie’s voice, encouraging, praising. Was this playing therapy?
Reese Hatcher was standing by the fence of the riding ring watching, one foot up on a rail. From the barn’s open door Mase could hear people talking and horses whinnying. A regular circus.
“Good morning,” Mase said, moving up to stand next to the sheriff. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Oh, yeah, some of us come out from town on Saturdays to help out. Volunteers. Callie needs a lot of help with some of her patients. It’s a good cause.”
“Do you need to be trained to do it?”
“Nah, just common sense. Callie does all the technical stuff. I’m a side-walker. I walk next to the horse and hold on to the rider’s leg to steady ’em—for the ones that need that.”
“So, what’s she doing with this little girl?”
“That’s Mary Hardaway’s daughter Emmy. She was born real premature, has some coordination problems. Boy, has she improved, though. Mary brings her out once a week. You know, she’s been coming since she was a little bitty thing. Took her first step after she got off a horse. It was something to see.”
Mase watched the session in the ring. Around and around the pony went, while Callie instructed the little girl with her exercises. They all seemed to be having so darn much fun. Mase quickly grasped what was going on. Before his eyes, the little girl was learning balance and muscle control. To sit on the moving horse, every muscle in her body had to adjust constantly.
When the session was over, Emmy was able to get off the pony by herself, sliding down onto the mounting block. She was so excited she jumped up and down, calling out to a lady who’d been watching. “Mommy! Did you see?”
“Yes, Emmy, I saw. You were wonderful,” her mother called back.
Mase saw Callie bend down to say something to Emmy and then she hugged the girl, a great big hug, and Emmy hugged her back.
“See you next week,” Callie called out to Emmy’s mother. “She’s doing great, Mary.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Hatcher said.
“Seems to be.”
“A real miracle is what it is,” Hatcher insisted.
Mase went back to the house to check on Joey, a little nervous that he hadn’t seen him in a while. The house seemed empty, but when he stuck his head in the fragrant kitchen, there was Joey, standing on a chair and mixing something in a bowl next to Rebecca, who stood on her own chair. They were dusted with white.
“They’re kneading bread dough,” Francine said.
“Good God, I hope he washed his hands,” Mase replied.
“I did, Daddy.”
“I’m very relieved to hear that.” He turned to the petite cook. “Are they bothering you, Francine? I can take the kids and…”
“They’re fine, Mr. LeBow,” she said. “Good company.”
“Well, okay.”
“See, Rebecca,” he heard Joey say, “I told you he’d let me.”
As far as Mase could tell, Rebecca didn’t answer, not in words, but Joey seemed to understand her as well as if she had spoken.
“You be good, kids,” Mase said. “I’ll be hanging around outside somewhere.”
That “somewhere” proved to be the back forty on Tom Thorne’s new tractor.
“Come on, I like company,” Tom said. “Get away from all the commotion. Saturdays are nuts around here.”
A fence line was down beyond the hay fields. Some horses had gotten out, and although they had been rounded up, it had taken a few days to find the break in the fence. Mase wasn’t much help; all he could do was hand Tom tools. The wire was restrung, tightened and fastened to the fence post in short order.
“There,” Tom said, standing with his hands on his hips, “that’ll keep them in.”
Then he rode in the big tractor with Tom as he picked up a huge complicated-looking attachment. They pulled it out to a hay field, recently cut and baled, where Tom drove down the rows and the attachment picked up bales on a kind of moving belt and stacked them neatly on a platform.
“Wow,” Mase said.
“Easier than doing it by hand, huh?”
“Impressive.”
“Expensive,” Tom said. “I share it with some other ranchers around here. Next week it goes to Rich Metger.”
When the platform was full, Tom drove back to the hay barn and unloaded the bales. This time Mase could help, directing Tom and piling up bales that fell. Farm work. Physical work, pure and simple. And when it was over, no worries, no danger, no death threats to his son hanging over his head. Not a bad life.
Lunch was another buffet-style meal, because everyone operated on different schedules. Mase ate too much again, but he’d worked hard that morning, physically hard. Callie came in to grab a bite as Mase was finishing a sandwich.
“I noticed that my dad had you working,” she said. “I warned you.” She was hot and dusty, her cheeks flushed. Her blue tank top and jeans were worn—nicely, Mase thought—and there was a faint sunburn on her shoulders. She was slapping her wide-brimmed Stetson on her thigh as she spoke.
“I enjoyed it,” he said.
Joey was squatting in a corner with Rebecca, and they were feeding Beavis and Butt-Head scraps from the lunch table.
“Is that okay?” Mase asked, gesturing to the kids.
“Sure, those dogs have garbage disposals for stomachs.”
He watched Callie as she piled tuna salad and pickles, sprouts, tomatoes and lettuce on bread. She said something to her mom, then to Marianne, and they laughed together. She tousled Joey’s head in passing, patted the mutts, had a word with James, then
went and sat next to Linda at the long oak table and began to eat that huge Dagwood sandwich.
Mase got himself a refill of iced tea and sat on a couch. He had a view out the window, across the fields to the rising foothills. But if he turned his head a bit, he could see the dining room and the various guests eating lunch. He could also see Callie. She managed to eat and talk at the same time, and her hands made airy gestures to punctuate her speech.
He found himself studying her, watching those dancing expressions on her face. In a matter of seconds they changed from sympathy to humor to understanding to earnest caring. He saw the way wisps of her hair fell across her cheek and how she pushed them back with a slim wrist because her hands were holding the sandwich. He noted the smiles—genuine smiles—she bestowed on everyone within the circle of her radiance, as if she were a shining sun. Only Mase was in eclipse, untouched by her brightness.
Tom approached as Mase was finishing his iced tea and a brownie Francine had pressed on him. Slapping his own belt, Tom asked if Mase had eaten enough.
“I’d say so. Me and those dogs, we’re stuffed,” he replied.
“Oh, them.” Tom turned and watched the kids make the mutts sit and shake hands for scraps. “It’s good for ’em.” He laughed when Beavis licked Joey’s face. Rebecca smiled shyly.
“Guess Rebecca needed a kid her own age,” Tom said. “But then again, maybe not just any kid woulda helped. Joey is a godsend. She’s coming out of her shell with him around.”
“Uh-huh,” Mase said, wondering whether there really was something in the water on the Someday Ranch that made everyone so darn optimistic.
“How about a ride this afternoon?” Tom asked. “Jarod and I were talking about it.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Like I said, horses and I don’t get along. Maybe some other time.”
“Sure, just let me know.”
“Oh, I will.” Right, he thought.
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