by Nicole Helm
Nico. The youngest brother, who Callen almost immediately discounted. He was on the rodeo circuit—a bull rider of all things—and was gone a lot. He might not have a clue if something was wrong.
Callen got to Rosy’s name next. The only reason she was in his contacts was because Buck had wanted him to have her number in case there was an emergency. A please on a wedding invitation probably didn’t qualify as one, but since he hated eating up time by waffling, Callen pressed her number. After a couple of rings, he got her voice mail.
“Knock knock,” Rosy’s perky voice greeted, and she giggled like a loon. “Who’s there? Well, obviously not me, and since Billy can’t answer the phone, ha ha, you gotta leave me a message. Talk sweet to me, and I’ll talk sweet back.” More giggling as if it were a fine joke.
Callen didn’t leave a message because a) he wanted an answer now and b) he didn’t want anyone interrupting his day by calling him back.
He scrolled back through the contacts and pressed Judd’s number. Last he’d heard, Judd had moved into the cabin right next to Buck’s house, so he would know what was going on.
“Yes, it came from a chicken’s butt,” Judd growled the moment he answered. “Now, get over it and pick it up.”
In the background Callen thought he heard someone make an ewww sound eerily similar to the one Havana had made earlier. Since a chicken’s butt didn’t have anything to do with a phone call or wedding invitation, it made Callen think his brother wasn’t talking to him.
“What the heck do you want?” Judd growled that, too, and this time Callen did believe he was on the receiving end of the question.
The bad grouchy attitude didn’t bother Callen because he thought it might speed along the conversation. Maybe. Judd didn’t like long personal chats, which explained why they rarely talked.
“Can somebody else gather the eggs?” a girl asked. Callen suspected it might be the same one who’d ewww’ed. Her voice was high-pitched and whiny. “These have poop on them.”
“This is a working ranch,” Judd barked. “There’s poop everywhere. If you’ve got a gripe with your chores, talk to Buck or Rosy.”
“They’re not here,” the whiner whined.
“There’s Shelby,” Judd countered. “Tell her all about it and quit bellyaching to me.”
Just like that, Callen got another ass-first knock back into the time machine. Shelby McCall. Buck’s daughter. And the cause of nearly every lustful thought that Callen had had from age fifteen all the way through to age eighteen.
Plenty of ones afterward, too.
Forbidden fruit could do that to a teenager, and as Buck’s daughter, Shelby had been as forbidden as it got. Callen remembered that Buck had had plenty of rules, but at the top of the list was one he gave to the boys he fostered. Touch Shelby, and I’ll castrate you. It had been simple and extremely effective.
“Buck got a new batch of foster kids,” Judd went on, and again, Callen thought that part of the conversation was meant for him. “I just finished a double shift, and I’m trying to get inside my house so I can sleep, but I keep getting bothered. What do you want?” he tacked onto that mini-rant.
“I got Buck and Rosy’s wedding invitation,” Callen threw out there.
“Yeah. Buck popped the question a couple of weeks ago, and they’re throwing together this big wedding deal for Christmas Eve. They’re inviting all the kids Buck has ever fostered. All of them,” Judd emphasized. “So, no, you’re not special and didn’t get singled out because you’re a stinkin’ rich prodigal son. All of them,” he repeated.
Judd sounded as pleased about that as Callen would have been had he still been living there. He had no idea why someone would want to take that kind of step back into the past. It didn’t matter that Buck had been good to them. The only one who had been. It was that being there brought back all the stuff that’d happened before they’d made it to Buck.
“Is Buck okay?” Callen asked.
“Of course he is,” Judd snapped. Then he paused. “Why wouldn’t he be? Just gather the blasted eggs!” he added onto that after another whiny ewww. “Why wouldn’t Buck be okay?”
Callen didn’t want to explain the punch-in-the-gut feeling he’d gotten with Rosy’s Please come. Buck needs to see you, and it turned out that he didn’t have to explain it.
“Here’s Shelby, thank God,” Judd grumbled before Callen had to come up with anything. “She’ll answer any questions you have about the wedding. It’s Callen,” he said to Shelby. “Just leave my phone on the porch when you’re done.”
“No!” Callen couldn’t say it fast enough. “That’s all right. I was just—”
“Callen,” Shelby greeted.
Apparently, his lustful thoughts weren’t a thing of the past after all. Even though Shelby was definitely a woman now, she could still purr his name.
He got a flash image of her face. Okay, of her body, too. All willowy and soft with that tumble of blond hair and clear green eyes. And her mouth. Oh man. That mouth had always had his number.
“I didn’t expect you to be at Judd’s,” he said, not actually fishing for information. But he was. He was also trying to fight back what appeared to be jealousy. It was something he didn’t feel very often.
“Oh, I’m not. I was over here at Dad’s, taking care of a few things while he’s at an appointment. He got some new foster kids in, and when I heard the discussion about eggs, I came outside. That’s when Judd handed me his phone and said I had to talk to you. You got the wedding invitation?” she asked.
“I did.” He left it at that, hoping she’d fill in the blanks of the questions he wasn’t sure how to ask.
“We couldn’t change Rosy’s mind about using that picture of Billy in the veil. Trust me, we tried.”
Callen found himself smiling. A bad combination when mixed with arousal. Still, he could push it aside, and he did that by glancing around his office. He had every nonsexual thing he wanted here, and if he wanted sex, there were far less complicated ways than going after Shelby. Buck probably still owned at least one good castrating knife.
“I called Rosy, but she didn’t answer,” Callen explained.
“She’s in town but should be back soon. She doesn’t answer her phone if she’s driving.”
Callen couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing on a personal level for him. If Rosy had answered, then he wouldn’t be talking to Shelby right now. He wouldn’t feel the need for a cold shower or an explanation.
“Rosy should be back any minute now. You want me to have her call you?” Shelby asked.
“No. I just wanted to tell them best wishes for the wedding. I’ll send a gift and a card.” And he’d write a personal note to Buck.
“You’re not coming?” Shelby said.
Best to do this fast and efficient. “No. I have plans. Business plans. A trip. I’ll be out of the state.” And he cursed himself for having to justify himself to a woman who could lead to castration.
“Oh.”
That was it. Two letters of the alphabet. One word. But it was practically drowning in emotion. Exactly what specific emotion, Callen didn’t know, but that gut-punch feeling went at him again hard and fast.
“Shelby?” someone called out. It sounded like the whiny girl. “Never mind. Here comes Miss Rosy.”
“I guess it’s an important business trip?” Shelby continued, her voice a whisper now.
“Yes, longtime clients. I do this trip with them every year—”
“Callen, you need to come,” Shelby interrupted. “Soon,” she added. “It’s bad news.”
Don’t miss
Lone Star Christmas by Delores Fossen,
available now wherever
HQN Books and ebooks are sold.
www.HQNBooks.com
Copyright © 2018 by Delores Fossen
Keep r
eading for an excerpt from Rogue Gunslinger by B.J. Daniels.
Rogue Gunslinger
by B.J. Daniels
Chapter One
The old antique Royal typewriter clacked with each angry stroke of the keys. Shaking fingers pounded out livid words onto the old discolored paper. As the fury built, the fingers moved faster and faster until the keys all tangled together in a metal knot that lay suspended over the paper.
With a curse of frustration, the metal arms were tugged apart and the sound of the typewriter resumed in the small room. Angry words burst across the page, some letters darker than others as the keystrokes hit like a hammer. Other letters appeared lighter, some dropping down a half line as the fingers slipped from the worn keys. A bell sounded at the end of each line as the carriage was returned with a clang, until the paper was ripped from the typewriter.
Read in a cold, dark rage, the paper was folded hurriedly, the edges uneven, and stuffed into the envelope already addressed in the black typewritten letters:
Author TJ St. Clair
Whitehorse, Montana
The stamp slapped on, the envelope sealed, the fingers still shaking with expectation for when the novelist opened it. The fan rose and smiled. Wouldn’t Ms. St. Clair, aka Tessa Jane Clementine, love this one.
* * *
TJ ST. CLAIR hated conference calls. Especially this conference call.
“I know it’s tough with your book coming out before Christmas,” said Rachel, the marketing coordinator, the woman’s voice sounding hollow on speakerphone in TJ’s small New York City apartment.
“But I don’t have to tell you how important it is to do as much promo as you can this week to get those sales where you want them,” Sherry from Publicity and Events added.
TJ held her head and said nothing for a moment. “I’m going home for the holidays to be with my sisters, who I haven’t seen in months.” She started to say she knew how important promoting her book was, but in truth she often questioned if a lot of the events really made that much difference—let alone all the social media. If readers spent as much time as TJ had to on social media, she questioned how they could have time to read books.
“It’s the threatening letters you’ve been getting, isn’t it?” her agent Clara said.
She glanced toward the window, hating to admit that the letters had more than spooked her. “That is definitely part of it. They have been getting more...detailed and more threatening.”
“I’m so sorry, TJ,” Clara said and everyone added in words of sympathy.
“You’ve spoken to the police?” her editor, Dan French, asked.
“There is nothing they can do until...until the fan acts on the threats. That’s another reason I want to go to Montana.”
For a few beats there was silence. “All right. I can speak to Marketing,” Dan said. “We’ll do what we can from this end.”
“I hate to request this, but is there any chance you could do a couple of book signings while you’re at home before Christmas, right before the book comes out?” Rachel asked. “I wouldn’t push, but TJ, we hate to see you lose the momentum you’ve picked up with your last book.”
“That would be at least something,” Dan agreed.
“If you don’t make the list, it won’t be the end of the world,” her editor added. “But we’d hoped to see you advance up the list with this one. I love this book. I think it’s the best one you’ve ever written.”
The first week a book came out was the most important and they all knew it. If she didn’t make the list—the New York Times list—it would mean losing the bonus she usually got for ranking in the top ten. It would also hurt her on her next contract, not to mention the publisher might back off on promotional money for her.
“We don’t mean to pressure you,” Dan said. “But I’m sure if the police thought this fan was really dangerous—”
“I think going to Montana is smart,” her agent cut in. “You’ll be safe there with your family over the holidays. We can regroup when you get back.”
She rubbed her temples. “I could do one book signing in my hometown since there is only one bookstore there. Whitehorse is tiny and in the middle of nowhere. The roads can be closed off and on this time of year, so there won’t be much of a turnout though.”
“Isn’t the Billings Gazette doing a story on you as well?” Trish from Marketing asked.
“Yes.” She groaned inwardly, having forgotten she’d agreed to that months ago.
“That will have to do, then,” her agent said, coming to her defense. “Her next book will be out in the spring. Let’s plan on doing something special for that.”
“We have ads coming out in six major magazines as well as a social media blitz for this one,” Rachel said. “You should be fine. You have a lot of loyal fans who’ve been waiting patiently for this book. Your presales are good.”
“Are you all right with this?” her agent asked.
She nodded and then realized she had to speak. Her throat was dry, her stomach roiling. Just the thought of any kind of public event had her terrified. But before she could answer, the call was over. Everyone wished each other a happy and safe holiday and hung up, except for her agent.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I will be once I get home,” she told her and herself. She couldn’t wait to get on the plane. She hadn’t been back to Montana for years except for her grandmother’s funeral.
“Keep in touch. And if you need anything...”
TJ smiled. She loved her agent. “I know. Thank you.” She disconnected. Every book release she worried it wouldn’t make the list or wouldn’t be high enough on the list—which meant better than the last book had done. Not this time.
“You have bigger things to worry about at the moment,” she said to herself as she walked to her apartment window and looked out.
I know where you live. You think you can sit in your big-city apartment and ignore me? Think again.
That ominous threat was added at the bottom of the last written attack she’d received from True Fan. What was different this time was that her fan had included a photograph taken from the outside of her New York City apartment. She’d recognized the curtains covering the window of her third-floor unit. There’d been a light behind them, which meant she’d been home when her “fan” had taken the photo from the sidewalk outside.
It was recent too. One of the wings of Mrs. Gunderson’s Christmas angel was in the photograph. Her elderly neighbor had put it up only two days ago. TJ had helped her.
Just the thought of how recent the photo had been taken made her shudder. She glanced at her phone. Her flight was still hours away but she preferred sitting at the airport surrounded by security screened people to staying another minute in this apartment.
Sticking her phone into a side pocket of her purse, she grabbed the handle of her suitcase and headed for the door.
Nowadays she always checked the hallway before she left her apartment. She did this time as well. It was empty. She could hear holiday music playing in one of the apartments down the hall. The song brought tears to her eyes. She was a mess, way too emotional to spend the holidays with her sisters—especially since the three of them had been estranged for months.
She hesitated. Maybe she should change her flight. Go to some warm resort. But just the thought turned her stomach. She was going back to Whitehorse. Going home for Christmas.
She rolled her suitcase down to the elevator and pushed the button.
When it clanged its way up from what sounded like the basement, she waited for the door to open. If anyone she didn’t recognize happened to be on the elevator, she would make an excuse about forgetting something she needed in her apartment and turn back until the elevator left again.
She knew it was silly, but she couldn’t help it. No one was taking the threats seriously.
But she had watched the tone of the letters degenerate into angry, hateful words that were more than threatening. This person wasn’t done with her. Far from it. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her “True Fan” was coming for her.
The elevator stopped and the door began to open. Empty. She let out the breath she’d been holding. Stepping in, she pulled her suitcase close and pushed the button for the ground floor.
The fan writing her the threatening letters could be anyone. That was what was so frightening. It could even be someone who lived in this apartment complex. Or someone she’d met at a conference. She met so many fans, she couldn’t possibly remember them all. It embarrassed her when they complimented her books. She wanted to hug them all. She doubted she would ever get used to this. Writing had been her dream since she was a girl. Getting published? Well, that was like a miracle to her. She couldn’t believe her good luck.
Until she’d begun getting the letters from her True Fan.
Outside the apartment building, the sidewalk was filled with people hurrying past. Shoppers laden with packages, others rushing off to work... The city was bustling more than usual. She glanced at the faces of people as they passed, not sure what she was looking for. Would she recognize her rabid fan if she saw him or her?
She couldn’t help studying their faces, looking for one that might be familiar. She didn’t even know if her “fan” was male or female. She also didn’t know if the person was watching her right now.
After a while, everyone began to look familiar to her. If anyone made eye contact, she quickly dropped her gaze as she made her way to the curb to signal for a cab. She wrote about crazed homicidal people. Wouldn’t she recognize something in True Fan’s eyes that would give the person away?
With a screech of brakes, a yellow cab came to a stop on the other side of the street. The driver motioned for her to hurry. But a large delivery truck was coming too fast for her to cross before it passed.
She felt something hit her in the back. Letting out a cry, she found herself falling into the street in front of the large speeding truck.