Callie's Cowboy

by Karen Leabo

  “Sleep well, princess?” Cole asked, his deep voice cutting through the mist. Theo snickered softly from behind his book.

  “Mmm,” Seb grunted. He tried to ignore them but he knew it was futile. His brothers were dead set on giving him hell for sleeping late. Cole pushed his sunglasses up on his head, revealing deep blue eyes. Funny, he didn’t remember his brother looking so hardened. Ever since Cole had returned from Afghanistan where his Special Forces unit had been stationed, he’d been on edge. Seb was glad Cole had left his job as a cop in Boston to become the sheriff of Star Harbor. Maybe being back in their small hometown would do him good.

  “Seb needs his beauty sleep, isn’t that right?” Theo teased with a smile.

  They weren’t going to quit ribbing him until he rose to the bait. “Any one of you could have woken me up,” Seb complained.

  “No one would dare. Don’t you sleep next to your wicked sharp knives rolled up in that nylon bag?” Cole said, his mouth curving up in a half smile.

  “At least I don’t sleep with a loaded Glock on my nightstand,” Seb retorted before he could stop himself. In less than a second, Cole’s smile was gone and he was standing up, his posture putting all of Seb’s senses on high alert.

  “Not today.” Val’s calm, even voice sliced through the tension. Both brothers backed down, realizing that Val was right. For a moment they had forgotten that they were here in Star Harbor for one reason: to pay homage to their father, who’d died twenty years ago during a hurricane. No matter where they were or what they were doing, they always gathered together in their hometown on Labor Day weekend, the anniversary of his death.

  Val and Cole lived in Star Harbor, but Seb had driven his motorcycle in from New York City and Theo had flown in from San Francisco. As was their tradition, they’d spend the long weekend together, remembering their dad.

  Seb swept his gaze over the misty water, watching the boats pitch and roll through the haze as the tide slowly went out. Then he turned toward the town. The old-fashioned gas lamps that stayed on all night were still lit, but the fog was thick and he could barely make out the Victorian houses lining Harbor Street. Star Harbor looked exactly the same as it did when he’d left it so many years ago.

  God, being here brought back so many memories. Like the time he and his brothers had rigged those fireworks to go off seconds before the annual summer small craft regatta started. It had taken the organizers at least an hour to get everything back on track. Or the time they all ditched school to head to Providence for Oktoberfest. Their mother had been furious. A smile crept onto his face. For a few moments, he could almost forget his weariness and the mountain of work waiting for him back in New York—planning his fall menu, brainstorming for his television show, and figuring out where he was going to open his new restaurant. He thought he might have settled on Boston, but he couldn’t be sure until he found the right venue. Crap, he’d better be sure. He’d already spent too much time trying to make that decision.

  Seb sighed. He used to love being a renowned chef, and had thrived on the sheer volume of work. But lately, it had started to seem like a slog. Had he lost his passion or was he just exhausted?

  Damn. He had to stop stressing so that he could enjoy the weekend, but that probably wasn’t going to happen. He had only himself to blame. His plan was to stay in Star Harbor for a full week, but it wasn’t going to be much of a vacation. He would need to spend at least part of the time working on his upcoming projects. Later on in the morning, he was scheduled to scout out spaces in Boston for his new restaurant. His brothers weren’t too happy about it—their tradition was to spend the weekend together, after all—but it was rare that he ever got time away from his restaurant, Helena. Suddenly, the fact that he was tired, damp, cold, and seriously decaffeinated started to wear on him. He needed that coffee, bad.

  “So how’s the writing going, Theo?” he asked, trying to think about something else.

  Theo set his book down. “Not as well as I’d like,” he admitted. “I’m having trouble getting started on my next project.”

  “Lower your standards,” Cole joked.

  “Never.” Theo shook his head. “I just wish I could find some real inspiration.”

  “It’s everywhere, all around you,” Val said sagely. He was right. Seb himself could draw inspiration for one of his entrées from anything—a smell, a color, or even an interesting texture. Val didn’t talk much. Never had. But when he said something, it was worth it to listen. Val had been his rock—everyone’s rock, really—since their father had died. And after their mother had passed away twelve years ago, taken from them by a stroke, Val was the closest thing they had to a parent.

  He looked at his oldest brother. Calm. Resolute. His face bracketed by a square jaw and steely blue eyes. Their mother’s eyes. He’d trust Val with anything. He trusted Theo and Cole, too, of course, but Val was the most solid of them all. The younger Grayson boys had gone wild when their dad had died. But somehow, despite the fact that he was only a few years older than Cole, Val had brought them back to Earth. Grounded them. Without him, they would have stayed adrift. Val hadn’t supported most of their rowdy adventures, but he had always stepped in to keep things under control. It was Val who’d suggested Seb travel to pursue his passion. He had taken that advice, and now he was at the top of his culinary game.

  “Maybe you should come back to Star Harbor for a while. Get some good ideas for your new book,” Cole suggested.

  “Maybe,” Theo responded ambiguously and went back to reading. Though not as soft-spoken as Val, Theo was quieter than either Cole or himself. They’d called him “the Professor” growing up because he’d always had his nose in a book or his pen to paper, meticulously plotting their escapades. Cole had been their logistics guy, so it had come as no surprise to anyone when he joined the military. And Seb? He’d been the charmer, able to sweet-talk anyone into anything. Just like their father.

  Seb had loved his mom, but like most boys, he’d worshipped his dad—his slow but easy smile. The way the corners of his eyes would crinkle up when he found something funny. The old pirate stories he used to tell the boys before bedtime. Seb thought about him every day. It was hard not to. Every time he opened his mouth or looked at himself in a mirror he was reminded of his father. But most of all, he missed his dad’s laughter echoing off the sides of his fishing boat as he hauled in the day’s catch.

  “Hey, you guys talk to James Bishop lately?” Seb asked, trying to snap himself out of his funk. Jimmy had been a part of their high school crowd and Seb felt a brief twinge of regret that he hadn’t kept in better touch.

  “I haven’t talked to Jimmy in years,” Theo said as he broke down his rod and reel.

  Val nodded. “Yep. Owns his own tour boat and sailing company now. He’s getting married in a few weeks. Asked me and Cole to be in his wedding party.”

  “Really?” Seb couldn’t imagine Jimmy—a huge bear of a man with an outsized voice and a nose for trouble—tying the knot.

  “To Emma Newbridge, Kate Everhart’s niece,” Cole said, as if he were reading Seb’s mind. “Emma’s been helping run the Star Harbor Inn since Kate was diagnosed with cancer a few months ago. Jimmy’s a changed man. Or so he says.” Cole chuckled as he reeled in his line and started packing up his gear.

  “I’ve met Emma,” Seb said. “Can’t imagine how Jimmy snagged someone so … so …”

  “Sweet?” Theo interjected.

  “Yeah.” Emma was appealing and engaging, the exact opposite of Jimmy. Or at least how Jimmy used to be.

  “Well, you can ask him yourself. He’s at the Rusty Nail most nights after work,” Val said. “We can join him later for a beer.”

  “Beer sounds good,” Seb said, reminded of his aching body, “but coffee sounds better. Any idea where I can grab a decent cup of joe around here?”

  Val smiled and closed his tackle box. “I know just the place.”

  Read on for an excerpt from Kristen Kyle’s

&n
bsp; The Last Warrior

  Chapter One

  A warrior walks, swishing the dew aside with the ends of his bow.

  —YOSA BUSON (1716–1783)

  “You’re certain this is where he can be found?”

  “I’ve been followin’ Cap’n Talbert, jes’ like you asked me to, fer the last three days. He’s been comin’ to this place every evening at the same time. That’s how I knew to send you a message to come.”

  Meghan McLowry looked up at the Oriental script over the door of the small building. The white lettering glowed with the last rays of the setting sun, bold strokes against the dark, weathered wood. She clutched the hood of her cloak beneath her chin, as much to conceal her face and hair as to protect herself from the brisk wind blowing in from the bay.

  “What kind of place is this, Mr. Boone?”

  “Don’t know, rightly. All I can tell you is the cap’n has a powerful hankerin’ fer heathen things from the East. Ain’t enough for him that we make port in Malaysia, Japan, the Philippines, the Sandwich Islands, takin’ on cargo … he heads straight fer this little Japanese corner of San Francisco soon as we drop anchor.”

  So this was Japanese writing. Meg examined the characters with interest, noting the differences from the Chinese script she’d seen since 1852, when her parents first brought her to this booming city.

  “Why does Captain Talbert come here?”

  Boone rubbed his short brown beard and took a step forward. He offered snidely, “Maybe it’s a whorehouse.”

  She looked at him sharply. “A bit small and out of the usual style, wouldn’t you say?”

  Shrugging, he shifted forward again, coming closer in a way that Meg immediately recognized as encroaching. “Like I said, the man has a yen fer the mysteries of the Orient, including them dark-haired, slanty-eyed women. The only thing more important to him is his collection of swords and daggers.” His grin showed teeth marred by a career at sea and several bouts with scurvy. “Now me, I prefer my women white, blond, and fully fleshed out.”

  His hand suddenly appeared at her cheek. Meg caught a glimpse of dirt-stained fingernails just before he caressed a wayward lock of her hair. Damn her unruly curls, forever escaping their bonds.

  She refused to flinch or back away, drawing confidence from the cold, familiar companionship of the pistol hidden beneath her cloak. Eighteen years in this city, since the age of nine, had taught her that although the most rough-hewn miner could treat a lady with the same deference afforded the shiny metal of his dreams, there was the occasional scum who considered women easy prey. In this case, however, she didn’t need to use the gun for defense.

  Two hulking figures, identical in height and breadth of shoulder, stepped from the shadow of the building behind her.

  “Don’t touch,” warned one of the young men in a voice that rumbled from the depths of a barrel chest. They both strode forward on legs like tree trunks, their blond hair and beards glittering in the light of the setting sun.

  “Understand?” the other growled, jabbing Boone in the chest. The seaman staggered back, nodding vigorously.

  Meg struggled not to laugh at the expression on the man’s face. “Meet the Richter twins, Mr. Boone, newly emigrated from Germany. Their mastery of English is minimal, yet effective. I’m not so foolish as to venture into this part of town alone. Now, I believe we have a business transaction to complete.”

  He straightened and jerked his coat into place, then spat in the dirt at Peter’s feet. Quickly, she reached out and touched Peter’s thick forearm. His beefy fists unclenched slowly.

  “What I can’t figure,” Boone said sourly, “is why you’re interested in the cap’n because he got hisself into trouble on the Barb’ry Coast the night we made port.”

  “What interests me is the fact he managed to extricate himself from that trouble, and the manner in which he accomplished the feat.”

  “Eh?”

  “The fight, sir.” His knitted brow cleared now that she was talking down on his vocabulary level. Meg slipped the pistol into the deep pocket of her gown, then pulled out a small velvet bag, communicating in a language he could understand even better. The distinctive clink of coins caused Boone to lick his lips.

  “Gold?” he rasped.

  “That was our agreement.”

  “Let me see.”

  His hand shot out. Meg caught the dangling bag firmly in her fist, jerking it beyond his grasping fingers.

  Boone backed off with a wary glance at the glowering twins.

  Annoyed by his transparent greed, she snapped. “Not yet. First, I need to confirm some things. The newspaper article was true, wasn’t it? Four men, armed with knives and cudgels, attacked Captain Talbert on the waterfront?”

  Boone snorted. “Four men as dumb as miners’ mules, you mean.”

  “You were there? You saw the fight?”

  “It were hard to miss, when that first fella’ came flying through the window of The Golden Mermaid, where me and my crew mates were liftin’ a mug o’ ale. He’s the one ended up with cuts and a cracked skull. Everyone in the tavern rushed out to watch the fight. Yep, another paid fer his trouble with a broken wrist, the third with cracked ribs,” Boone stated, drawing himself up as if he’d played a role in the outcome. “Don’t know why Talbert let the last one get away. Guess those boys were new to San Francisco. Didn’t know any better, poor dumb bastards.”

  So Jacob Augustus Talbert did have a reputation. Better and better. Meg could only hope word of that reputation had made its way to Chinatown.

  She tugged open the string of the bag and poured the coins onto her palm. Boone’s fingers twitched. His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed.

  “One last thing. The newspaper article mentioned that Captain Talbert struck blows with his feet in the fight, as well as his fists. Is this true? I don’t want to base my decisions on secondhand information.”

  “I can give you a guar-un-tee on that one. I watch the cap’n practice them heathen eastern moves on the ship every day. It’s like some kinda’ religion with him.”

  Relief washed through Meg, leaving a tingle of anticipation in its wake. She wasn’t wasting her time here. “Thank you, Mr. Boone.” She replaced the coins and tossed the bag his way.

  He caught it deftly. “Jes’ one word of advice, missie. Don’t let on to the cap’n that you learned about him from that story in the paper.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s real partic’lar about having his privacy cut up,” he said ominously. “That’s why I ain’t stupid enough to return to the Shinjiro.” With one last glare at the twins, Boone turned and disappeared into the gathering darkness.

  Well, that didn’t bode well, for Meg was about to cut up Talbert’s privacy in a way that went beyond the machinations of a nosy newspaper reporter.

  For both our sakes, Captain Talbert, I hope you accept my first offer.

  Meg took a deep, fortifying breath and pressed her palm against the rough, weathered wood. She now had the captain on neutral ground, where she needn’t suffer the indignity, the disadvantage, of seeking him out on his ship. Time for the next step in her plan.

  She pushed open the door.

  Meg came to an abrupt halt inside, surprised by the constricted, dimly lit entryway. A partition rose almost to the ceiling, not much more than an arm’s length away.

  The smell of wet wood permeated the place. How odd. Just as Meg’s natural curiosity peaked, a stoop-shouldered Asian man no taller than her chin rushed at her from the shadows. He jabbered indignantly in what she could only assume was Japanese. The shooing motion of his hands was universal—he wanted her to leave. Now He ignored the twins. Whatever the nature of this place, women apparently weren’t welcome.

  Meg stood her ground. Captain Talbert had proven too elusive to allow this opportunity to slip away. When she didn’t move, the gray-haired doorkeeper grabbed her upper arm and turned her toward the exit.

  “Don’t touch!” Phillip Richter snapped.
He grabbed the man’s collar and lifted him as if he were no bigger than a week old puppy.

  “Aiyeee!” the little man cried. The whites of his eyes glowed in the dim light. His legs flailed.

  “It’s all right, Phillip. Put him down,” Meg said wearily. She cherished the twins’ loyalty and their protection, but high drama always trailed in their wake. They were just too intimidating … to all except a certain breed of men who had brought danger into her family’s sheltered world.

  As soon as the old man’s feet touched the floor, he bolted out the front door.

  Meg blinked over his rapid departure. She’d been willing to pay him for entry, generously, but he’d just saved her the trouble. When no one else came forward to challenge their intrusion, she told the brothers, “Stay here. I’ll call if I need you.”

  Now was her chance. She’d charmed miners, saloon owners, politicians, bankers, railroad barons. Surely she could manage one crude captain of a clipper ship … no matter how dangerous, or how well deserved his reputation. Ignoring the butterflies of doubt fluttering in her stomach, she walked around the partition.

  A strangled yelp—high in pitch yet distinctly male—brought her to a grinding halt.

  Meg felt like echoing the sound when she realized what she’d blithely walked into.

  A bathhouse! She was going to throttle Boone!

  The dismayed cry had come from the only person in the room, a young Asian man, likely in his mid-twenties, standing less than eight feet away.

  And he was naked, for heaven’s sake, with only a square of white cloth held strategically over his loins!

  A huge wooden tub stood off to Meg’s right, deep and wide enough to comfortably hold several people. It appeared empty at the moment. A long pipe, angling down from the side wall, extended out over the tub.

  A bar of soap dropped from the man’s left hand into the bucket at his feet, splashing water onto the plain wood floor. He stared at Meghan, his eyes like black marbles in his pale face. She stared back, equally frozen despite her frantic, jumbled thoughts.