by Heidi Betts
"Help that will take him away from me. I don't think you realize how much he means to me."
"I do. Because he means just as much to me."
He smiled wryly and let his hands fall to the tops of his denim-clad thighs, pushing to his feet. “We're right back where we started, Callie, with neither of us wanting to give up our claim to Matthew."
"And just what do you suggest?” she asked suspiciously.
"You won't love it. It's not a proposal that's going to give either of us exactly what we want. But we both stand to gain, so I'll ask you to at least hear me out before you refuse. Can you do that, Callie?"
She remained silent for a moment, considering. She didn't miss the way he kept using her name in that soft, cajoling voice of his. It was meant to soften her, to win her over to his way of thinking. It wouldn't work, of course, but he didn't need to know that.
And he was right about the fact that they weren't likely to settle on an agreement that would fully satisfy them both. So she would listen. She would mull over his offer. Then, if necessary, she would bundle up Matthew in the middle of the night and hie off to wherever she thought they could seek sanctuary until the authorities took Wade back to Huntsville.
"All right,” she said carefully. “I'm listening."
He gave a subtle nod of his head. “What if I promised not to take Matthew away any time soon? What if, in exchange for your help finding a way to prove my innocence, I concede that you're the best guardian for my son and leave him with you until I've cleared my name and once again established a safe, stable home for him at my ranch?"
"You still intend to take him."
"He's my son, Callie. I want him with me. If I told you differently, you'd know I was lying. And I won't lie to you, Callie."
His strong, long fingers flexed into his hips where his hands rested. “I can't tell you I won't take him with me eventually, but I'm promising not to sneak off with him, not to take him from you in any way without your full and clear knowledge. I'm promising to let you care for him, raise him, until such a time as my life is in order enough to give him a good home. And even when that does finally happen, you can see him whenever you like, I swear to you. You can come by every day, help him with his schoolwork, cut his hair, see he's eating properly. I won't ever turn you away."
His dark eyes were earnest, pleading. “I mean it, Callie. No matter what happens, I'll always see to it that you're in his life. As much as you want. I don't want to tear him from you. I just want to bring up my son the way a father is meant to."
Callie was listening, digesting his every word. And rejecting each one. She refused to contemplate ever being separated from Matthew, and no amount of arguing from Wade would change her mind.
But he didn't need to know that. She'd agreed to hear him out, and that was exactly what she was doing.
And maybe she'd actually go along with his plan. In the back of her mind, a niggling voice told her that agreeing to Wade's deal would put him at ease, make him think she was on his side. Which might give her time to get to the Purgatory Home for Adoptive Children and have Father Ignacio work up the papers for Matthew's official and legal adoption by her. Then, father or no father, Wade Mason would have an even harder time taking Matthew away from her. She would have the law on her side.
Callie was almost giddy at the prospect. She could tell Wade she would assist him, even do what she could to help him prove his innocence. But in the end, if she could get legal adoption papers from Father Ignacio, she would have just as much claim to Matthew as Wade.
"What, exactly, would you expect of me in exchange for these assurances?” she inquired, so calmly she surprised even herself.
"Lily was there the night Neville Young died. She saw everything. But with her being gone, she can't go to the authorities and tell them what she knows. And I doubt her letter will do me any good, since they could say I forged it myself . . . or had someone else do it."
He looked at her meaningfully, as though the law might suspect she'd written the note for him.
"What I need is another witness to come forward."
"Was there another witness?” she asked.
"Well, Brady Young, for one. He shot his own father in the back, but something tells me he wouldn't be willing to say so. After all, my being in prison is the only thing keeping him from paying for his own sick crimes."
Wade paused. “There was one other person there that night. Someone who knows exactly what happened."
"So why didn't he come forward? Why didn't he testify on your behalf?"
"Because he's just as crooked as the rest of them,” he said with a sneer. “But now, more than a year after the fact, we may be able to convince him to help me."
Callie swallowed. She doubted they would have much luck convincing another less-than-honorable man to help Wade clear his name, but given his situation, she wasn't sure they had any other choice.
"All right. Who is this man?"
Wade met her gaze and held it with those intensely dark eyes. “Sheriff Graves. He and Neville were old friends. They were working together to attempt to steal my land. Graves was there that night, was part of the beating they gave me to try to make me tell them. . .” Shaking his head, he left off with that train of thought and said, “He was in on Neville's plans to steal my land, and he was there to see Brady shoot his father in the back. If we can just get to him, sweeten the pot enough to have him turn against Brady, then there's a good chance he'll come forward to tell what he saw."
Callie's heart crumbled, her eyes growing damp as Wade's gestures became more animated, his hope obvious as he plotted how to regain his freedom.
"Oh, Wade,” she breathed almost to herself, and for the first time realized what a truly terrible mess he was in.
Hearing her soft plea, Wade's mouth began to thin and a measure of tension moved into his tall frame. “What? What's wrong? Don't you think it will work?” he hurried on. “Don't worry, Cal-lie, I've got something Graves is really going to want. No matter what Brady is paying him to keep his mouth shut, this is better; this will convince him to tell a judge what really happened."
"Oh, Wade,” she whispered again, her heart twisting even more in her breast. “I can't believe you don't know. Of course, you've been away for so long, it's no wonder.” She took a step forward and reached out to touch his arm with one hand. His muscles flexed angrily beneath her fingertips.
"Wade,” she said as gently as she could, “Sheriff Graves is dead."
Chapter Seven
All of the strength seemed to go out of Wade's legs, and he began to crumble. If it hadn't been for Callie's swift move to slip a chair behind him, he'd have fallen flat on the floor. He blinked several times, swallowed even harder, trying to absorb the news she'd just delivered.
Sheriff Graves was dead. Jensen Graves, Purgatory's fat, lazy, dirty-as-a-coal-miner sheriff. The man who hadn't seen a thing wrong with Neville's harassment and abuse of Wade, as long as there was something in it for him.
He had stood by and watched Wade being beaten to within an inch of his life—punched, kicked, pistol-whipped into near unconsciousness. Then with cool detachment he'd witnessed Brady Young shoot his supposed best friend in the back. And the bastard had still had the nerve to testify against Wade. He had spun a tale about Wade being furious over a bar fight with Brady earlier in the week, describing how Wade had sneaked up on Neville and murdered the man in cold blood.
Never mind that—even though Wade had been the one to set foot on Young's ranch—he'd immediately been accosted from behind, his six-shooters taken away. Never mind that Wade's wounds had been so fresh when Graves dragged him off to jail that they'd still been oozing blood.
Brady had paid off Jensen—with money or promises, he didn't even know—and Wade doubted if the sheriff had lost so much as one night's sleep over putting an innocent man away for life.
The rotten bastard. He hoped Graves was even now roasting over a nice, hot spit in the deepest bowels of
hell.
Pulling himself away from the slick precipice of despair, Wade lifted his head to where Callie was crouched beside his leg. She'd settled Matthew in a high wooden chair on the other side of the table with a piece of bread that he was mouthing to mush.
He looked down and found Callie's fingers twined with his own, stroking the top of his hand with her thumb. He must have given her quite a scare there for a minute, for her to be touching him like this voluntarily.
But he didn't pull away, didn't make any sudden movements that would cause her to pull away. He merely sat there, letting her stroke his hand and stare up at him in concern.
"How? W-when did he die?” he asked shakily, finally finding his voice.
"It was . . . a little over a year ago. He was killed at the Updike house. Did you know them?"
He nodded.
"They don't live in Purgatory anymore. Nolan fell down the stairs and broke his neck. After his death, Veronica took the children to live with her mother.” She shook her head in sympathy. “But it turns out Nolan didn't just fall. They say he was pushed."
Callie took a deep breath before going on. “You mentioned that Sheriff Graves was crooked, and I guess you would be right. No one ever suspected a thing, but it turns out Nolan Updike and Sheriff Graves were in on some kind of deal together to steal money from the bank. I don't know what went on or how it happened, but rumor has it that Graves ended up pushing Thomas down those stairs and killing him. And then when Purgatory's new sheriff—Sheriff Walker, who was a Texas Ranger at the time—figured out what was going on and confronted
Graves, Graves ended up shot. It was in the paper and all over town for the longest time. Not that you'd have been getting news from Purgatory all the way up in Huntsville."
Wade shook his head. He hadn't heard a thing. In fact, all the time he'd been locked up in that dank, dark cell, he'd done little more than think of different ways to get Graves over on his side; he'd imagined all sorts of enticements he could use to bribe the old tub of lard.
And now all those possibilities, all his dreams of being free, had disappeared with four simple words: Sheriff Graves is dead.
He'd been shot, and Wade could only pray it had been in the back . . . with numerous bullets . . . and hadn't killed him right away. It made him happier to imagine Graves writhing on the ground, howling in pain. For hours, maybe even days.
"He got what he deserved, no doubt about that,” he told her. “I just wish he'd lingered long enough to tell the truth about the night Neville Young was killed."
Callie straightened but didn't let go of his hand. She merely leaned back against the edge of the table, her skirts brushing his knees and making him wish he had the right to pull her forward, onto his lap, and kiss her the way he wanted to. Maybe then he could forget that all his plans for the future, for regaining his freedom, had just gone up in smoke.
With a slight squeeze to his fingers, she asked, “What will you do now?"
He laughed, actually laughed, but the sound was loud and hollow and furious. “I have no idea. Graves was my one chance of bringing forth a witness to tell the truth and clear my name."
"There has to be something else we can do,” she offered softly.
"Like what?"
"I don't know, but we'll think of something.” She sounded ruthless, suddenly, like a she-wolf protecting her pup.
Not for the first time, Wade thought of what a good choice she was to care for Matthew. Lily might have made mistakes in her life, but turning her child over to Callie to raise hadn't been one of them.
"Maybe I can go into town and talk to the new sheriff,” she went on. “He seems really nice, and he had no patience for Sheriff Graves or the backhanded things he was up to. Maybe he'd be willing to hear me out, and help if he can."
Wade was already shaking his head. “No."
"Why not?"
"For one thing, he'd wonder why you were so interested in clearing my name. He's got to know by now that I escaped from prison and would probably put two and two together to figure out where I'm hiding. For another, I don't want you risking your reputation. We'll think of something, like you said, but going to the sheriff isn't it."
"But I could show him Lily's letter, tell him I believe her, and that he should look into your conviction."
"No, Callie. At least not yet.” His fingers flexed on hers. “That letter isn't enough to convince anyone of my innocence, not without Lily to back it up. We may be able to use it later, but for now, I need more evidence to plead my case. To convince the law—or this new sheriff, if you really think we can trust him—not to take me straight back to the penitentiary. Can you understand that?"
She nodded, though not very convincingly. “I suppose so. But if we don't get Sheriff Walker to help, what else are we going to do?"
He didn't miss the way she said “we,” as though his fight had suddenly become her fight, too. It warmed his heart, and brought to life feelings he hadn't experienced in far too long. And if he thought it had been hard not to draw her close and kiss her before, it was damned near impossible not to do that now.
Not damned near, it was impossible. He tugged gently on her hand, urging her forward. One step, then two. He parted his knees and let her settle into the V of his legs. She came willingly enough, her eyes still locked on his. She looked . . . mesmerized, and it was the one clear sign that she felt even a fraction of the stirrings he did at that moment.
"Callie,” he whispered, drawing her near, drawing her down, even as he stretched upward to reach her. His mouth brushed across her own, light as butterfly wings. Her lips were warm and soft, and she smelled of lilac water.
He brushed her mouth again, lingering longer this time, sighing in pure pleasure.
"Callie,” he breathed again. “You are so beautiful.” Their hands fell apart, and his moved to her waist, around her back, down to her buttocks beneath the thick layers of her skirt.
Too far, too fast. He knew it the minute her body tensed beneath his touch. She stepped away, lifting her shoulders primly. He expected her to slap his face, scream at him for making inappropriate advances toward her.
Instead, she calmly smoothed the folds of her clothes and leaned back against the tabletop. “That was rather improper of me,” she said, a bit breathless. “I do hope you'll accept my apology."
Her apology? He was lucky she didn't race to the door and start hollering for the posse right then and there. He almost told her as much but didn't want to put ideas in her head.
Pushing back his chair, he stood, careful to keep a good distance between them. “I should be the one to apologize, Callie. It's been so long since anyone showed me any tenderness, I got a little carried away there for a second."
It had been a long time for a lot of things, one of which was kissing and bedding a beautiful woman. But he didn't dare tell her that or she'd definitely get scared off.
And he didn't want that. In fact, he wanted to kiss her again. That and more.
He didn't have the faintest notion of how to go about romancing Callie but he wasn't going to do anything to spook her before he figured it out.
Yep, he decided, coaxing more kisses from Callie would go on his to-do list, right below proving his innocence. It was a good addition. Number one: Clear my name. Number two: Seduce Callie Quinn.
Chapter Eight
He kissed her. Wade Mason kissed her.
That had been two days ago, and her lips were still numb and tingling. She couldn't feel her heart at all . . . that organ had pumped so hard, she was afraid it had jumped clean out of her body and was somewhere down Mexico way by now.
After the kiss, she'd pulled herself together enough to change Matthew, give him another bottle, and then put him down for a nap. They'd mostly been avoiding each other ever since.
Wade was doing his best to be kind and solicitous, and to basically stay out of her way. Likely because he feared she'd club him if he got too close again.
He needn't have worried
. Chances were better that Callie would grab him by the collar and wrap his body around hers rather than flattening him with a rolling pin.
My, was it getting hot in here?
She glanced at the stove, only to see that the embers had been left to burn themselves out. And it wasn't any hotter outside than usual. She shouldn't be all flushed like this without barn work to make her sweat.
Which left only one possible explanation for the way her blood was bubbling in her veins and her stomach was fluttering like she'd eaten a pound of uncooked jumping beans.
Wade.
Wade, and that amazing, momentous kiss, were sending her all into a tizzy. Two whole days later.
She'd known the man less than a week.
He was a prisoner on the run.
He meant to take Matthew away from her.
All of these things—or any one of them alone—should have been cause enough to throw him out of her house.
So why, instead, did she want to call him into the room and ask him to kiss her again? Longer this time. And firmer. Until their bodies pressed tight together and her feet didn't brush the floor.
Because she was a harlot, that's why. A shameless, brazen hussy who deserved to be dragged into the street and stoned. My lord, she was actually standing here, sending silent messages into the air in hopes of Wade hearing them and bursting into the room to ravish her.
Callie groaned and let her head fall to her chest. She was hopeless. And so wicked, it was lucky God hadn't sent a lightning bolt from heaven to strike her dead.
She rolled her eyes skyward.
It was early yet. He might have been busy at the moment. She should be careful, just in case.
Drawing in a deep breath, she slapped the towel in her hand down on the countertop. This was getting her nowhere. She'd remained in the kitchen most of the afternoon, avoiding Wade, avoiding the tingle of awareness that rocked through her body every time they were in the same room together.