Callie's Convict

by Heidi Betts

  Wade almost chuckled. He imagined she'd do a hell of a lot more than slap him if he tried to kiss her—on her forehead or anywhere else.

  Her jaw rose another notch, and Wade found himself admiring her spunk. She might be little, she might be keeping him from his son, but she for damn sure had enough gumption for any three men combined.

  "I'd guard Matthew with my life,” she replied, her tone and stance giving him every reason to believe her.

  She was the one person standing between him and his son, and yet her devotion relieved a great deal of the worry he'd harbored ever since learning he'd fathered a child.

  Mail had been delivered to the prison about once a month, but only handed out to prisoners if Warden Luckett was in a generous mood. Knowing how much the prison officials despised him, it was a wonder Wade had received any posts at all. But even though Lily's letter had reached him, telling him that she'd given birth to a boy, and where he could find the child if he so desired, he hadn't known what kind of condition his son was in or how he was being cared for.

  Now, he suspected the boy—Callie had called him Matthew—was being taken care of just fine. Better than fine, if this woman's mama-bear performance was any indication.

  "I'm glad you feel that way,” he said finally, “because you may just have to."

  Chapter Two

  Callie didn't know what to make of Wade's words. They sounded less like a threat than a warning. But against what or whom? She decided not to probe further now. For the time being, it was enough that he'd put a stop to his threats and intimidation . . . and his demands to take Matthew away.

  The tension went out of his muscles and he looked suddenly not quite as towering as before. Much less menacing, that was for sure.

  And regardless of the fact that he was an escaped convict, she was about to invite him to sit. Put on a pot of coffee for him, if he liked.

  She hoped to heaven her brother was right, because otherwise, she had to be crazy to even think it. Maybe she'd been underwater too long. Maybe she'd added too much lilac essence to her bath and it had begun to addle her brain.

  Or maybe she simply felt sorry for him, a man who had never seen his son, a man who had been behind bars both when that child was conceived and born.

  Callie didn't want to think too long on how the conception had come about in an institution such as Huntsville Penitentiary, but then, she was quite familiar with Lily's wild ideas and her penchant for carrying them out.

  Looking at the man standing before her, though, she wondered what had fascinated Lily so much that she'd risked getting with child to be with him. Lily had been a prostitute too many years not to know how to avoid such things, Callie was well aware.

  "I'd like to see my son,” he said, in a much less demanding tone than his earlier requests. “And then, if you don't mind, I think I'll make use of that bathwater you've got handy."

  Callie thought a good scrubbing was just what he needed. She wasn't sure it would make a dent in the filth that covered him, but it might be a start.

  Her main concern, however, was still for Matthew. Drawing the material of her wrap more tightly around her, she looped her arms across her stomach and hugged herself to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the evening temperature. “You won't try to take him away?” she asked.

  The man stared at her for a moment, his gaze so intense, she almost looked away. But if she showed even a modicum of fear now, it might be just the opportunity he needed to run roughshod over her, and she couldn't risk the ground she'd gained so far.

  "I won't try to take him away,” he answered finally. “But I won't leave him, either, which means you're stuck with the both of us. At least for a while.” His gaze lowered to the heavy iron shackles, binding his wrists. In a low voice, he added, “I hope you know what you're getting into."

  She didn't, but she was beginning to suspect it would be nothing good. An escaped convict in her house, likely a posse of lawmen not far behind him, and a child she would protect with her very life.

  Callie supposed she should be grateful the stranger didn't appear to have anything more menacing than a bath on his mind. His main concern seemed to be for his son, not for the scantily dressed woman standing in front of him. For that, she was infinitely grateful.

  "He's upstairs,” she said, and began to lead the way. She heard the man move to follow, chains clanking and scraping along the floor with every step.

  Pausing outside the room where Matthew napped, she opened the door a crack to peek inside, then turned to face his father. “He's sleeping,” she whispered, “and I would much appreciate it if you wouldn't wake him. He'll be up on his own soon enough."

  The man nodded and took hold of the iron links between his arms to keep them from jangling. As they moved forward, he was careful to slide his feet along the floor instead of lift them, thereby keeping the chain between his manacled legs from rattling, as well.

  Callie led him to the hand-carved cradle in one corner, then stepped back to allow him a full view of his son. A part of her wanted to throw herself in front of Matthew. Protect him, keep him to herself. Which was entirely selfish, she knew, but she couldn't seem to help it.

  From the moment Lily had entrusted this tiny child into her care, just days after his birth, Callie had taken the responsibility very seriously. She had never been married, never carried a child of her own. But none of that mattered when it came to Matthew; she couldn't love him more if he had come from her own womb.

  And the truth of the matter was, she had never expected Matthew's father to come for him. Lily hadn't told her much about the man who had gotten her in the family way, merely that he was imprisoned in the Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville and would not be released anytime soon. Callie hadn't expected him to care that he'd fathered a child, let alone show up at her house demanding to see the boy.

  Yet here she stood, allowing this stranger to hover over her child and look his fill. She couldn't explain her actions; she merely knew that it would break her heart to know she had a child and not be permitted to see him or her. And it said something about the man that he'd broken out of prison only to come straight to the place where he knew Matthew was being kept.

  Callie chose not to focus overlong on the broken-out-of-prison part. She much preferred to think that coming directly to Purgatory—no short distance from Huntsville, either, especially in chains—was a sign of the man's finer parental qualities.

  And if I squeeze my eyes closed tightly enough, when I open them, he might be wearing a halo and wings, she thought facetiously.

  He lifted his head then, and Callie could have sworn she saw tears glistening in his eyes. He turned away too soon for her to be sure, and moved out of the room just as silently as he'd entered.

  Callie straightened the thin plaid blanket over Matthew's tiny body and gave his back a gentle pat before following the stranger into the hall.

  They returned downstairs, neither of them making a sound until they'd reached the pantry.

  Callie stopped in the doorway, watching the man move farther into the room and stop just before the tub. With legs spread slightly apart, he put his hands on his hips as far as the chain of the shackles would allow.

  "He's beautiful,” he said quietly, sounding almost reverent.

  Callie wholeheartedly agreed. “He is.” And then, thinking to lighten the mood, added, “But he can be a dickens when he wants to be, too. Wait until he wakes up from his nap, and you'll see what I mean. He screams the roof off whenever he's hungry or needs a changing."

  The man chuckled as he turned to face her. “I'll look forward to that. But I think maybe I should clean up first.” He hitched his head in the direction of the bath. “Do you mind?"

  Since she had no intention of finishing her own bath with a stranger in the house, she shook her head. “The water might need to be heated again,” she told him.

  He'd already begun to unbutton his blue, prison-issue shirt. “It'll be fine. Believe me, a
fter where I've been the past eighteen months, even an ice bath would be heaven."

  She didn't doubt that. Given the condition of his hair and clothes, it didn't look like he'd been allowed to bathe even once in the last year and a half.

  "Dammit,” he said with a growl.

  Callie lowered her gaze and noticed that the shirt was caught around the back of his waist and at his wrists, impossible to remove with his arms still in shackles. “I'll be right back,” she muttered, and headed for the living room.

  In her sewing basket, right beside her shears, was her brother's revolver. Callie considered the weapon, considered using it against Wade. She could make him leave at gunpoint, even shoot him if necessary. Callie shook her head in silent dismissal. She could never shoot a man. And she felt certain Wade would have no problem overpowering her—even with his shackles—and taking the gun. Then he would be armed . . . and doubly as dangerous. It would make it that much easier for him to steal away with Matthew. No, Callie would humor Wade for the moment, do whatever it took to protect her child. For now that meant keeping Wade happy in her home, because having Wade and Matthew under the same roof was a lot better than having neither. Her decision made, Callie ignored the pistol and returned to the pantry armed only with the scissors.

  "You don't have any particular fondness for this shirt, do you?” she inquired, positioning the shears in the V of one open cuff.

  "Cut the damn thing off,” he ordered in that low, gravelly voice. “And then burn it, for all I care."

  Thinking that was likely the only thing one could do with a shirt in its condition, Callie cut a line in the fabric all the way up the arm, then moved to do the same on the other side. The material fell to the floor, leaving the man in front of her naked from the waist up.

  Dirt or no dirt, it was an impressive sight. All smooth lines and hard bulges, with just a sprinkling of hair covering his upper torso and leading down to his abdomen. He smelled none too fresh, but her lilac water would fix that, she thought with silent amusement.

  His hands moved to the buttons at the front of his trousers, and Callie quickly turned away. “You'll have to deal with the pants on your own,” she told him, and held the scissors out behind her, waiting for him to take them.

  "Are you hungry?” she asked, already moving toward the doorway that led to the kitchen.

  "Starving,” he answered, and she heard the shears rending the thick material of his trousers in two. “But don't feel like you have to fix anything on my account. I've intruded enough for one night."

  She had a feeling he'd intrude a lot more than he already had by the time this was over. “Are you planning to stay here long?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

  When next he spoke, his tone held a determined edge. “Until I can clear my name and make a proper home for my son,” he clipped out bitterly. “Provided the posse doesn't track me down first."

  Callie didn't respond, merely put a loaf of bread, freshly baked this morning—and with only a few blackened edges—into the warmer and began to unwrap a few handy hunks of cheese and salted pork. By the time she'd fixed a plate for him and carried it into the pantry, he was already immersed in the tub, his head back, his elbows propped on the sides, and his hands clasped at his chest because that was about the only position the shackles would allow.

  As curious as she was, as hard as it was to keep her gaze averted, she managed not to glance beneath the water that came to just below his nipples. She hadn't had a chance to soap up enough to create suds before his untimely intrusion, and the lilac scent she added to her baths did nothing to cloud the crystal-clear water surrounding his naked body.

  Still refusing to make eye contact with his nude form, she set the plate on the seat of the nearby chair. “I'm afraid I tend to add fragrance to my bathwater. You may come out of there smelling like a flower garden."

  He snorted. “I'm thinking flowers would be a hell of a lot better than what I smell like now.” Reaching to the bottom of the tub, he found the block of soap she'd dropped and forgotten, and began lathering it between his two large, work-roughened hands. Hands that thankfully covered a rather critical portion of his anatomy.

  "Since you won't be able to wear your own clothes again, I'll go upstairs and see if my brother left anything you'll fit into,” she offered, unused to being in the same room with a man while he bathed and anxious to get away for a few minutes.

  He started scrubbing, giving her no more than a faint nod, and she hurried out of the room before her curiosity got the better of her. Although she did peek at the area his cupped hands were no longer hiding.

  It occurred to Wade that Callie Quinn was technically his hostage. He shouldn't be letting her just wander around on her own without him keeping an eye on her. Then again, she hadn't tried to run when he'd first broken into her house, and she seemed pretty determined to stay with Matthew. He hadn't expected her to feed him, or find an extra set of clothes for him to wear, or—Lord have mercy—help him get free of his grimy garments so he could bathe.

  That last action had surprised him most of all, and he'd been damn glad she'd turned around before he'd gone to work at removing his pants. No sense scaring her any more than he already had, but it had been a hell of a long time since he'd been with a woman, and if the sight of her initial nakedness hadn't stirred something in him, the way she'd looked at his bare-but-dirt-covered chest sure as blue blazes would have.

  Even the now tepid water swirling around his lower body didn't help to extinguish the heat pooling in his groin. He hoped whatever trousers she managed to round up were a couple of sizes too big, or he'd send her screaming by dawn.

  Wade dragged the bar of soap over his skin until his flesh felt almost raw and turned what he considered a healthy shade of pink. Incarceration offered little opportunity to practice proper hygiene, and he'd damn well missed it. He dunked his head and took to scouring his scalp just as roughly.

  By the time he finished . . . and he wasn't sure he'd ever be truly finished . . . Callie's previously clear and fragrant bathwater was a disgusting shade of brown and smelled like a pig trough. But at least he no longer looked or smelled that bad. He hoped.

  Grabbing the single towel from the floor where he'd spread it earlier for Callie, he stood and began drying his body as best he could. Then he threw the towel back to the floor and stepped out, careful not to let the damn shackles clasped painfully to his ankles trip him up. Of course, now that he'd made sure to protect Callie's nice, clean hardwood floor, he had no idea how he was supposed to cover himself.

  From around the corner, Callie's bright, singsong voice reached his ears before the sound of her footsteps did. “I brought you an extra towel, and I don't think you'll have a problem fitting into Nathan's things. He's fairly big, and you're. . ."

  Her words trailed off as she stepped into the pantry, raised her head, and saw him standing bare-ass naked in the middle of the room.

  But at least he wasn't dripping on her hardwood floor.

  Mouth falling open, her wide-eyed stare went directly to that part of him that hadn't been subdued by the coolness of the bathwater or any other remedy Wade had tried.

  "You're . . . you're. . ."

  "Freezing my balls off,” he said brusquely, in hopes of breaking the tension and keeping his mind off the fact that she was looking at him there. Or worse yet, that he liked it. He'd been in prison too damn long, and his choice of language in front of a lady wasn't the only proof of that fact.

  "Mind handing me that towel so I can finish drying off?” he prompted.

  She staggered the two steps forward that brought her close enough for him to grab the towel himself. He shook it out and wrapped it around his waist, then happened to notice the object on top of the neatly folded shirt and jeans lying across her upturned palms. It made him just the teeniest bit nervous.

  He glanced at her face, noticing that her gaze was still slanted downward at the most sensitive—and prized—part of his anato
my. His eyes returned to the menacing tool she held. Then again to the direction of her stare. Clearing his throat, he tried not to sound worried.

  "Just what were you planning to do with that hacksaw, sweetheart?"

  Chapter Three

  Callie dragged her eyes from the towel slung low on Wade's hips to the saw she'd retrieved from the barn. She almost laughed at the wary look on his face.

  Chopping him into pieces—or even just threatening to do damage to his private male parts—might not have been a bad idea when he'd first broken into her house and scared ten years off her life. That moment seemed to have passed, however, and now she lacked the blood-thirstiness or fear to do damage to anything more than the lining of his stomach with her cooking.

  She inclined her head toward the metal cuffs and links binding his arms together. “I thought we might be able to use this to get those shackles off. They can't be very comfortable.” She also had a chisel and hammer tucked under her arm.

  Brows the same color as his now-clean hair and beard knit. “You left the house? Why didn't I hear you leave the house?"

  Since he seemed so concerned about keeping abreast of her whereabouts, she considered telling him about the pistol in her sewing basket that she hadn't shot him with earlier. But then, a woman should be allowed some secrets. And she didn't actually know that the gun wouldn't come in handy down the road, so she kept her mouth shut.

  "I went out the front,” she told him instead. “It didn't take me long, and I didn't think you'd want to leave the house to get it yourself."

  Tension radiated from every well-defined muscle of his still uncovered body. “Did you see anyone while you were out there?"

  "You mean a dozen or so lawmen, armed to the teeth?” she teased, and then thought better of it when a muscle ticked in his jaw and his fists clenched around the towel at his waist. “No, no one. I didn't see anyone."