“You lied,” she heard from behind her.
“What?” She twisted around and there was Mase, light and shadow flickering on his handsome face.
“You lied. It is you,” he said, and then he leaned close. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Mase did not have to twist her arm. She rose without answering, looking around to see who might be watching, and then she quietly followed him into the night.
They went out of camp, away from the firelight and noise and commotion, up a dry streambed between two hills. Overhead the sky was a black velvet cloak upon which diamonds had been spilled. And the coyotes were serenading a lopsided moon, yipping and screeching and singing off in the darkness.
“Nice,” Mase said.
“Yes, nice,” Callie replied, and the questions bubbled up inside her. If she asked him—even one single question—would she shatter the moment? She had to risk it. “Mase, what about the trial? Isn’t it soon? I mean, do you know how long you’ll be staying here?”
He took his time answering. “No.”
“But the murder trial…”
“Callie,” he said, his voice a caress, “I understand that there are things you want to know. You have to be wondering. I’d like to tell you. I want to tell you everything. I can’t right now, though. Can you understand that?”
She could lie. But she wouldn’t. “No,” she breathed. “I’m not a child.”
Mase laughed softly then, and he took her arm and guided them to a rocky outcrop, where they both sat down. A breeze stirred her hair, cool and pine-scented, and she reached up to tuck a stray strand behind her ear.
“Fall will come soon,” she said, staring toward the distant peaks. “It’s hard to believe now, but it will come so quickly....”
His shoulder was touching hers; she felt it not as a touch but as pure sensation, a firing of all the nerve cells in her skin, radiating out to the rest of her body and leaving her out of breath. Her skin prickled, and her heart sounded drumbeats in her ears.
She closed her eyes for a moment. “You don’t trust me,” she said, and she realized her voice was thick, her throat tight.
“Callie, I…” But he hesitated, and slowly shook his head.
She saw his hand, pale in the darkness, lying on his lap, and she couldn’t stop herself from resting her fingers on it. “It…hurts me,” she breathed. “I wish you would just trust me, Mase.”
He turned his hand and captured her fingers, then his head tilted toward hers. “I do trust you,” he whispered.
She wanted to say so much more, but her breath had stopped in her chest. She couldn’t halt the inevitable. Not anymore. Oh, Lord, what was she doing?
His lips met hers. Featherlight. And his mustache tickled sweetly. She felt his hand move to the back of her head and cup it, and he drew her close. His breath was hot and quick now, and she let herself sink against his strong chest, the rise and fall of it matching her own.
His kiss deepened into her mouth, and she opened to him, a flower opening to the sun. Her arms went around him and he enfolded her tightly. She was lost in his scent, the feel of him, his strength, drowning in her own need, and an ache was building deep inside.
They drew apart for a moment and searched each other’s face, their features shadowed in the darkness, their eyes locked in passion. Then they came together with sighs and murmurs, and she ran her hands down his back, tracing his ribs, up to his neck and the thick hair above it.
Mase eased her onto her back and stretched out next to her, his body so close that she felt a sudden shock of awareness at how easily, how perfectly they fit together. He kissed her, his fingers resting lightly on her neck then moving downward, tentative yet knowing, and she sighed against his lips. He caressed her breasts through her clothes, cupping them, and she wanted to tear the material away as she strained against him.
“Oh, Mase,” she whispered, “oh, yes.”
She could feel his hardness, he was pressed so tightly against her, and tremors of longing moved in waves up her limbs. She was so happy, so blissfully happy.
And then, abruptly, he sat up.
Callie felt as if the earth had fallen away beneath her.
“No,” he breathed. “This isn’t what you want.”
“Mase…”
“No, Callie. It’s not fair to you. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“But I…I wanted you to, Mase. I…”
Suddenly he stood, and she heard him swear. “I said no. I’m sorry, Callie, this was my fault, and it’s all wrong.” He shook his head wordlessly, angrily, and her heart sank into an abyss. What awful secret held him in its grasp? Was it something about his wife? Was he still in love with his dead wife?
Callie would have asked, begged, wheedled an answer out of him. She didn’t care what it might cost her, but she never had the chance, because just then a scream, a thin, distant wail, rose from the direction of the campsite.
She and Mase looked at each other, frozen for a heartbeat of time, and then suddenly they were both running, scrambling down the dry streambed toward the camp. When they reached the edge of the firelight, they could see people rushing around aimlessly, confused.
Callie went straight to the tents housing the kids—one for the boys, another for Rebecca and Marianne—and found Sylvia and her mother there. They had both flashlights and a lantern lit, and were inside the girls’ tent, crowded around Rebecca.
“She had a nightmare,” Marianne was explaining breathlessly. “It woke me up because she was crying in her sleep, so I got up, and then she awoke and started to scream. Oh, wow, it scared me! She screamed and I jumped, and then I realized she’d said something. I mean she actually talked.”
Callie gasped. “What? What did she say?”
But Marianne didn’t need to reply, because Callie heard Rebecca’s voice herself, a little girl’s voice, sobbing, “Joey, I want Joey.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” Callie whispered, and she pushed her way through the women gathered around Rebecca.
“Get Joey,” she said, turning toward the tent flap, where a crowd had gathered. “Someone get Joey.”
Liz was holding Rebecca on her lap, stroking the little girl’s hair and crooning to her. “It’s all right, honey, it was just a bad dream. Joey’s coming. Don’t worry, he’s coming. You’re fine. Everything’s okay.”
Callie kneeled down beside Rebecca and took the child’s hand. “He’s coming, sweetheart. Don’t cry. Hey, kiddo, can you say his name again?”
“Joey,” Rebecca wailed.
“Oh, my goodness,” Sylvia said in an awed tone. “She’s talking. She’s really talking.”
The Browns arrived then, rushing into the tent, wild-eyed, jackets hastily thrown on over sleepwear. “What is it?” Rebecca’s mother, Leslie, asked, her face ashen.
“Is she all right?” Her father, Dennis, stood there, equally distraught.
“She’s fine,” Liz said. “She had a nightmare, that’s all.”
Rebecca’s mother sank down on the tent floor and gathered her daughter in her arms. “Oh, my poor baby.”
“She spoke,” Liz said quietly to the Browns. “She wants Joey. She said his name.”
“What?”
“Yes.”
“She did, really? My God,” Leslie said. “Sweetheart, can you talk to your mommy?”
“Joey,” Rebecca said. “Where’s Joey?”
The boy appeared at the door of the tent just then, sleepy-eyed. Mas
e had a hand on his son’s shoulder, and they pushed through the throng into the crowded tent.
“Here he is,” Mase said.
“Rebecca,” Joey said, yawning. “I was asleep.”
“Joey,” the little girl sobbed. But she quieted down, hiccupping once and taking a deep, heartbreakingly ragged breath.
“You want to play?” Joey asked, not quite awake. “Isn’t it kinda late?”
Callie couldn’t help smiling. A titter of suppressed laughter ran through the gathered crowd.
“She had a bad dream, Joey,” Liz explained. “She was frightened.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Joey. I want…” Rebecca struggled for words.
“What do you want, honey?” Liz asked.
“Joey sleep here,” she said.
“She’s talking.” Dennis Brown’s voice was filled with wonder.
Rebecca’s mother bent her head down onto her daughter’s golden curls and cried. “Yes, he can sleep here. Okay, Joey?”
“Sure. I just gotta get my sleeping bag. What was your dream about, Rebecca?”
“It was scary.”
“Oh,” Leslie breathed. “Oh my goodness.”
By the time Callie and Rebecca’s parents got the children settled and everyone else cleared out of the tent, it was very late. All the adults were too hyped to sleep, so they built up the campfire and talked, discussing Rebecca’s breakthrough.
“I think keeping things as normal as possible is best,” Callie suggested. “Don’t make a big fuss, just accept it. The way Joey did.”
“You don’t want to make her self-conscious,” Sylvia added. “She’s a very sensitive kid.”
“My little girl,” Rebecca’s mother said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Who would have guessed it would take another kid?” Tom Thorne mused.
“Not just any kid,” Jarod said. “It took Joey. They have some kind of special bond.”
“I don’t care what it took or who or how, I only care that it worked. Whatever it was,” Dennis said.
“Amen,” James put in.
The discussion went on until, one by one, people drifted away to their tents. It was dreadfully obvious to Callie that Mase was avoiding her, and her emotions were torn asunder; on one hand she was ecstatic about Rebecca speaking, and on the other, she was deeply troubled by Mase’s reaction to a thing as simple, as natural as their kiss.
Eventually she climbed into her sleeping bag in the tent she was sharing with Sylvia and Francine. The two other women were still awake, talking quietly about Hal and Rebecca and the wonderful events of the day.
“Well,” Sylvia said, “I sure hope Rebecca doesn’t have a relapse, because eventually Joey will leave for home.”
“Oh, my,” Francine whispered, “I hadn’t thought of that. What do you think, Callie?”
“Huh?”
Francine repeated her question.
“Oh, oh, I don’t know. We’ll figure something out,” Callie whispered absently.
The two women chatted in whispers for a while and then finally drifted off to sleep. So did Callie. But sometime in the wee hours she woke up with a start, positive something, someone, was on top of her. It was so hot, heavy…Mase? But it was only her tangled sleeping bag. She unzipped it and sat up, mopping at the sweat on her neck and chest. The dream she’d been having rushed back—she and Mase, making love. His hands, his mouth, the length of him possessing her.
She kicked away the bag and muttered to herself.
“Callie? Are you okay?” came Francine’s groggy voice.
“No,” Callie whispered harshly. “I can’t sleep. I…I want something and I…I can’t have it.”
“Chocolate,” Francine murmured. “Have some chocolate.” Then she was snoring lightly again.
Chocolate, Callie thought. I wish.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SUNDAY WAS ANOTHER tumultuous day of events at the Someday Ranch gymkhana. Reese Hatcher, in his annual performance, won the adult barrel racing with his aged gelding, Mr. Macho. Jarod led a hike of all children ten and older, with Peter as his right-hand man. Callie watched them go with pride and a little bit of yearning. She’d love to be hiking with them, leaving the pandemonium of the camp behind. Leaving Mase LeBow behind.
His politeness was agonizing and wounded her more than rudeness or anger. She’d melted in his arms last night, kissed him with abandon, and he’d kissed her back. Now here he was, smiling distantly, saying, “Would you like these tables set up over there?” as if he were a stranger. All morning he had helped set things up, and they were together, of necessity, but his infuriating courtesy never wavered.
Callie was distracted and she kept having her crazy, dreamlike visions. In the middle of setting up orange cones in the riding ring for the kids’ agility contest, a fantasy came out of nowhere.
She was eating lunch with the whole crew—crispy fried chicken, potato salad, sliced tomatoes—and everyone was chatting about what a great gymkhana it had been, when Mase stood before her, his eyes dark with passion. She put her plate down and faced him. He pushed her onto the lunch table, scattering food, knocking over drinks, scrunching up the paper tablecloth, but neither of them cared. He was on top of her, kissing her, and suddenly no one was around, no kids, no parents, no horses, and he was whispering in her ear....
“Callie, what time is the agility class? What time, Callie? I’m back from the hike already. Do I have to get my horse yet?” Peter’s voice intruded on her fantasy and it went up in a puff of smoke.
“What? Oh, Peter, it’s in, let’s see, an hour. Yes, go find Cinderella and start getting ready. Tell Joey and Rebecca, too. And the Sanderson kids from town.”
“Okay, Callie, I’ll do it. I’ll find everyone. Think I’ll win, Callie? Am I good enough?” Peter demanded with rapid-fire delivery.
Callie thought of Peter’s unusual ability to foresee the future and almost smiled at his uncertainty now. But he was becoming overexcited, so she took hold of his arm, a signal to him to concentrate, to listen. “You were right,” she said, “about Rebecca. That was pretty special, Peter.”
“No one ever believes me,” he said with a pout. “I’m always right.”
“I believe you, Peter, you know that.”
“Yeah, Callie, you do, you believe me.”
“Go on now, find the kids and tell them to get hopping.”
She looked after Peter as he ran—he never walked—to locate the other youngsters, and she smiled after him, but her lips went stiff as soon as she spotted Mase again. He was standing in the shade under one of the few trees, talking to Dennis and Leslie Brown. He leaned a shoulder against the tree, and his arms were crossed as he listened to something Rebecca’s mother was saying. Joey and Rebecca were teasing Beavis and Butt-Head nearby.
What were they discussing? Callie wondered. Rebecca’s newfound power of speech, no doubt, or maybe how to get their kids together once school started. Something important, she was sure. Mase looked serious as he listened, his dark brows drawn together, but then Rebecca screeched at something Beavis did. “Stop it, you dog!” she said. Callie could hear it, too, even from where she was. And Mase and the Browns turned and watched, and they looked so darn happy. Even Mase grinned, seeming carefree and young. Sadly, Callie realized he’d never looked like that with her. Not once. When he was with her he looked tortured, or at best faintly amused. But never happy.
She turned away, unable to bear
his lighthearted response to everyone and everything except her. Oh, shut up, Callie told herself. Quit whining, Thorne.
The kids were wonderful in the agility contest, guiding their horses in a serpentine pattern between the cones, then around the end one. They couldn’t miss any or knock one over, and they were timed.
Hal and Marianne were there to watch, and Hal stood, steadying himself on a cane, taking slow, careful steps. Marianne never left his side, seemingly as proud as he was. Callie wondered more than once if Marianne had been in on the plan all along.
Callie’s friend Twyla tapped her on the shoulder. “Aren’t they having fun?” she asked. “Isn’t it great?”
Callie turned around and smiled at the redheaded hairdresser. “They sure are. Did you just get here, Twyla?”
“Afraid so. I promised to give Doreen Kovac a perm this morning. It was an emergency.”
Callie rolled her eyes, and they both laughed.
“Come in for a trim next week,” Twyla said. “Your hair’s beginning to look straggly.” And she wandered off.
One of the kids from town won the agility contest, Peter came in second, and Joey got a prize for most improved. He glowed with pride as he held his ribbon up for everyone to see. Mase stuck his thumb up in a victory gesture and Joey did the same.
After lunch began the laborious process of packing up the entire camp and returning everything to town or the ranch. Everyone was tired and dusty and sunburned, the normal outcome of the weekend.
Some of the families were driving home or to the airport in Casper, but a few would spend the night. The Browns were staying for a while, trying to decide on how to part Rebecca and Joey when the time inevitably arrived.
People flowed in an unending stream to congratulate Callie and her folks and the ranch staff. Callie smiled and joked and thanked every single person, from Sheriff Hatcher to Rory Reilly, the feed-store owner’s ten-year-old son, who’d brought a big bag of horse cookies from his dad’s store.
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