“You didn’t give a reason for leaving.”

Nate ran a hand over the taut muscles at the back of his neck. “So why don’t you tell me now, Callie? Why’d you take off like that, never to be heard from again?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly.

For a moment he simply stared at her. After all these years, this was her answer.

“I don’t know,” he mimicked. “Bullshit!”

Callie flinched and he realized he’d never raised his voice to her before. He took in a ragged breath, leaning his forehead against the door frame. Callie was one of the most intelligent women he knew. Intelligent women didn’t abandon someone without a reason.

So what was hers?

Dear Reader,

People often act in ways that they can’t explain. For instance, I have spent my life hopping from task to task, doing a little here, a little there, until the jobs are done. I thought I was a master multitasker—which I am. I also recently learned that ADD runs in our family and I’m a classic case. I adapted to my particular challenge without knowing what it was. Such is the situation with my heroine in Always a Temp.

Callie McCarran has a problem staying in one place long enough to put down roots. Like her father, she’s a traveler. She works as a journalist and takes temporary jobs when she needs additional income, moving from city to city, job to job. She avoids permanence in all aspects of her life and accepts this as part of her makeup. What she doesn’t know is that there may be other reasons she acts the way she does.

Nathan Marcenek, whom Callie had unceremoniously dumped the day after high school graduation, is a stayer—or so he thinks. He’s convinced himself, after suffering a devastating accident, that he’s happy living in his small hometown and editing the local paper. Then Callie comes back into his life and suddenly he finds himself questioning his decisions and the reasons he made them.

I hope you enjoy Nate and Callie’s journeys in Always a Temp. Please stop by my Web site at www.jeanniewatt.com or drop me a line at jeanniewrites@gmail.com. I love hearing from readers.

Jeannie Watt

Always a Temp
Jeannie Watt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Theater usher, gymnastics instructor, grocery store clerk, underground miner, camp cook, geologist, draftsman, executive secretary, groundskeeper, ball-field mower, janitor, teacher, artist, cowboy gear maker, writer. Jeannie Watt has worn many hats, some temporary, some more permanent, during her life. Because of this she knows how to politely ask a parent with a crying baby to step into the lobby without also making the parent cry, how to coax a cranky copy machine into operation, how to jack a loaded mine car back onto the tracks, and how to make breakfast for thirty in a wilderness setting. The skills learned from her many occupations have now become invaluable resources for her favorite job—writing.

Many thanks to Kimberly Van Meter and Victoria Curran for straightening me out on a number of journalistic points.

Any remaining errors are my own.

I also want to thank Victoria for her patience and insights during revisions.

I knew I needed something more in the story.

Victoria knew what it was.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE BOY SCRAMBLED UP and over the fence just as Callie McCarran opened the back door. Sun glinted off his short, silvery-blond hair before he dropped out of sight into the vacant lot next door.

“Hey,” Callie called, but it was too late. The kid couldn’t be more than seven or eight, but he was a quick little guy. It was the second time she’d seen him in the yard in the two days she’d been back in town, which seemed odd, since there was nothing of interest back here…. But then she noticed the baseball-size hole in the porch screen, which was quite possibly related to the baseball lying under the wicker chair.

Callie bent down to get it.

“I found your ball,” she called. Nothing. Shaking her head, she went out into the overgrown grass and set it on the empty birdbath.

“It’s on the birdbath,” she yelled, in case the kid was crouching on the other side of the fence. “I’m going in the house now.” She walked a few steps, then added, “And I’m not mad about the hole.” The entire porch needed to be rescreened before she could sell the house, so no big deal.

Callie went back into the classic 1980s kitchen, complete with country-blue ruffled curtains at the windows and cow-decorated canisters on the cream-colored countertops. She poured a glass of tap water and drank it all without setting the glass down. She’d cried a lot during the past few days and no matter how much water she drank, she felt dehydrated. But she had held up during the memorial service, thank goodness, because if she had broken down, the good townspeople would have added “hypocrite” to her list of epithets. They were already treating her like a leper.

Okay, leper was probably too strong of a word. People had been pleasant enough, offering the obligatory condolences, but she’d been aware of the undercurrents, the why-the-hell-weren’t-you-there-for-your-foster-mother-in-her-time-of-need undercurrents. And no one spent much time talking to her. A few murmured words, then off to join other more legitimate mourners standing in small groups near the buffet. Following the service, Callie had spent most of the time alone beside the podium, waiting for the moment when she could leave. Grace’s accountant had stood with her for a while, but Callie had a feeling that was only because she was paying him, or rather the estate was paying him, to take care of the final bills. Even he eventually drifted away.

Damn it, I would have been there for Grace, if I’d known how sick she was.

She hadn’t known…and she hadn’t exactly tried to find out, either. Instead she had stayed with her once-in-a-lifetime trip through Kazakhstan. Attached to a geologic field tour, she’d been chronicling the economic growth and environmental pitfalls since foreign companies had been allowed to mine there.

She was still quite angry with Grace for not telling her she was terminal. That while treating her for a chronic stomach disorder, the doctor had discovered an inoperable malignant growth. But really, Callie hadn’t wanted to know the truth.

She’d been afraid to know.

The worst part was that she’d ignored the biggest red flag of all: Grace had asked her to come back to Wesley when she returned to the States. She hadn’t been home in twelve years, and in hindsight, Callie could see that Grace wouldn’t have made such a request without one hell of a good reason—such as being in the process of dying.

Callie refilled the glass and walked to the back door, peering through the window. The ball was still perched on the birdbath. She wondered if the kid would come back or if this was the last she’d see of him. If he did come and get the ball, she hoped he’d play with it somewhere else.

Not that she’d be here.

But then again, maybe she would. For the first time in a long time, Callie felt no desire to move on. No need to find the next city to explore, the next story to write…maybe because she hadn’t written anything except her contracted Kazakhstan article since receiving news of Grace’s death.

Callie pressed the cool glass to her cheek. This was the second time she’d suffered such a loss, and it wasn’t any easier than the first. Just different.

Her father had disappeared when she was six, leaving her with Grace, his distant cousin and only relative. A business trip. Except he’d never returned. Now she’d lost the only other parent she’d even known.

She set the glass in the sink and went to her old bedroom, now a guest room, and pulled her dark blue knit dress over her head and tossed it on the bed. None of her clothes wrinkled. She traveled too much to buy anything that couldn’t be crumpled into a ball and shoved into a suitcase. She traveled with only a carry-on bag whenever possible, because she hated dealing with extra baggage. No extra belongings, no extra people. Just the bare minimum.

But Grace hadn’t been extra baggage.

Callie sank down onto the bed and stared at the wall opposite. She should have made more of an effort. Should have, should have, should have…

The room had been pale green when she’d lived here. She’d wanted lavender, a color Grace could not abide. Callie had begged, but the room had remained green, because Grace said there was no way she was having that much lavender in her house.

Now the walls were apricot.

Which meant…?

Nothing. It meant that it had been time to paint and Grace had chosen a different color.

Restless, Callie got up and paced back into the living room in her underwear. It was hot and no one was likely to stop by to visit the ungrateful foster child.

A magazine lay folded back on itself on the maple end table next to Grace’s blue velvet recliner. Her slippers were on the floor next to the chair. Grace was everywhere and nowhere.

And the house was so freaking quiet.

Callie had to get out. Regain her equilibrium so she could deal with stuff that two weeks ago she had no idea she’d be dealing with.

A few minutes later, dressed in cropped khaki pants, flip-flops and a light pink T-shirt, she all but bolted down the walk. There weren’t many places to go in Wesley, Nevada, but she’d find somewhere.

“Callie!” Alice Krenshaw was standing on her porch next door, still wearing the black muumuulike dress she’d worn to the memorial, a copper watering can in her plump hand. “Are you all right?” she asked, probably out of a sense of duty, because she hadn’t been friendly at the funeral.

“Fine,” Callie called back, not slowing her pace. Maybe later she’d talk to Alice, but right now she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She saw her shake her head as Callie got into her borrowed Neon, read the disapproval in the gesture.

She started the engine and pulled out onto the street, having no idea where she was going. For the first time…ever…she wasn’t entirely sure that being accountable to no one but herself was a good thing.

Right now Callie wouldn’t mind leaning on someone, and there was only one person in town who might agree to prop her up, but she had fences to mend there first. A minor repair, she hoped. After all, twelve years had passed, and surely by now Nate would have come to the conclusion that what she’d done had been for the best.

“DID YOU HEAR ME, Mr. Marcenek?”

Nathan Marcenek took off his glasses and rubbed a hand over his eyes, his vision blurry from staring at a computer screen for too long. When he focused on Joy Wong, the receptionist for the Wesley Star newspaper, she blinked at him expectantly.

“Callie’s here?” He hadn’t seen this one coming. In fact, he’d been surprised to hear she’d come back for the service, since she hadn’t set foot in Wesley since abruptly leaving town, and him, the day after high school graduation. Even Grace’s illness hadn’t brought her home.

“Send her in,” Nathan said, wishing he’d had the foresight to hide a flask of whisky in his desk drawer for occasions such as these. He had a feeling he might want a stiff belt after this unexpected meeting was over.

Joy nodded and disappeared into the hall. He heard her say, “First door on the left,” and then a moment later the woman he could have quite happily gone the rest of his life without seeing again walked into his office. And if anything, she was more striking than he remembered.

Her dark blond hair was shorter than it’d been in high school, curving along her shoulders instead of falling down her back, and the freckles over her nose had faded. But her eyes were the same. Closer to aqua than blue; her gaze direct and candid. Or so it seemed. Nathan had learned the hard way that Callie was a master at hiding things.

“Hi, Nate,” she said, her voice husky.

“Callie.” He stood, his leg protesting the movement less than usual. Adrenaline mixed with testosterone was amazing stuff. “It’s been a while,” he said, uttering the understatement of the year. He sat back down without offering his hand or cheek, or whatever one offered to an ex-friend/girlfriend who’d proved to be less than trustworthy, and gestured to the chairs on the other side of the desk.

Callie appeared unfazed by his lack of warmth. She would have been a fool if she had expected him to welcome her with open arms and Callie was anything but a fool.

She took a seat on the only chair that didn’t have papers or books stacked on it, and set her small leather backpack on the tiled floor next to her feet. When she focused on him again, her expression was more businesslike, as if she’d changed tactics, which instantly put him on edge. Tactics meant a mission, and Nathan wasn’t going to be involved with any Callie missions.

“I was surprised to hear you were editing the Star,” she said as she folded her hands in her lap, obviously more comfortable with this reunion than he was. “The last I’d heard you were working as a reporter in Seattle.”

So she knew something about his career. Nathan waited, wondering if she was also aware that he’d been injured on that particular job. Rather spectacularly injured, in fact. The story had gone national, but the incident had been followed almost immediately by a huge government scandal that had stolen the headlines for weeks.

Callie waited for his reply to her small-talk opening, and after a few seconds he began to relax. She didn’t know. There would be no token murmurs of sympathy. No suspicions that he’d tried to live in the fast lane and had gotten the snot knocked out of him. Callie was the last person he wanted to know about that, since honestly, the way she’d dumped him without ever looking back had been part of the reason he’d tried to be less boring.

“I took this job fourteen months ago.”

“Where were you before that?”

“Here and there. How about you?” he asked, trying to figure out what was going on. Surely she wasn’t here cashing in on old-friend status? If so, she was bordering on delusional. Friends were people you could trust. Friends didn’t do what she’d done. “Where’ve you been working?”

The better question would have been where hadn’t she been working? Callie never stayed in one place long. He hadn’t consciously followed her career—pretty much the opposite, in fact—but Grace had been proud of the foster daughter who never came to visit, and made sure everyone knew where Callie was working.

“Same places as you,” she replied. “Here and there. Funny we didn’t meet.” She didn’t exactly smile, but the dimple appeared near the corner of her mouth. Even now it charmed the hell out of him, which in turn ticked him off.

“Yeah.” The polite game was over. He didn’t smile back, but instead held her gaze, waiting for her to explain the reason for her visit as he absently rubbed the muscles of his right thigh.

Callie sat in stubborn silence on the other side of his desk, studying him. He wondered how he was stacking up to the guy she’d dumped after graduation. Finally, he gave in and said, “I’m sorry about Grace.”

“Thank you. It was a shock.”

Nathan didn’t try to hold back the snort. The culmination of a terminal cancer diagnosis had been a shock? That pissed him off. “She’d been sick for a long time,” he pointed out none too gently. “Where were you?”

The color left her cheeks, but her eyes flashed. “I didn’t know about the cancer, all right?”

He guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised, although he found it hard to believe that none of Grace’s friends had tried to contact her. “Did you try to find out?”

“She told me she was doing fine, that they’d just changed her treatments. I thought I had time to finish the project I was working on.” Callie cleared her throat, the first indication that perhaps she wasn’t as cool and collected as she wanted him to believe. “If I’d had any idea how serious it was, I would have been here.”

Nathan wondered. He took off his reading glasses, holding them by the bow. “So,” he said briskly, making the change of topic sound like a brushoff, “once the estate is settled, where are you heading off to?”

“Nowhere.”

His jaw tightened. He didn’t want her in town, didn’t want to be around her. Didn’t like being reminded of those days when he’d gone through hell wondering why she’d left. Why she wouldn’t take his calls. Not the best of times for a kid who was struggling with self-image issues, issues his dad wasn’t exactly helping him with.

“You’re keeping the house?” His voice was amazingly cool considering what his blood pressure was doing.

She drew back at the suggestion. “Of course not. I just want some…” Her voice trailed off as she made a small gesture. A fire opal set in an asymmetrical gold band on her left ring finger caught the light. An engagement ring? Somehow he doubted it. “I want some time to go through Grace’s things. Tidy up the place to sell. I don’t have any pressing commitments.”

“I see.” And he now had an idea of what was coming next. If she wasn’t here as an alleged friend, then…

“I need a temporary job, Nate. I don’t want to live solely on savings.”

Bingo.

She leaned forward in her chair, her expression intent. “I thought I could freelance for you.” When Nathan didn’t answer immediately, she added, “I might even improve circulation.”

Heaven knew she’d improved his circulation more than once. Nathan shoved the thought aside. “Yeah, you would do an excellent job. There’s just one problem.”

“That I’ll be leaving?”

He set his glasses on top of a stack of papers, rubbed his eyes again. “That’s not the problem.”

“Then what, Nate?”

He hesitated for a moment before he said, “I don’t want to work with you, Callie, and I don’t want to publish your articles.”

Her eyebrows, a few shades darker than her hair, rose higher. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head, watching Callie’s expression change as she realized he meant what he said. He was passing up work from a writer of her caliber.

“Because of what happened between us,” she said. He nodded. “But that was twelve years ago.”

“That doesn’t make what you did any less crummy.”

Callie showed no emotion as she said, “I’m not here asking for friendship, Nate.” But he had a strong feeling that had been exactly what she’d been there for. Callie didn’t have any friends left in town. He was all that remained of their small high school group. “I just want to submit some freelance work.”

“Isn’t going to happen.”

“I can’t believe you’re letting personal matters interfere with professional.”

“Believe it, Cal.”

“Would you at least give me a chance to—”

“What would it matter?” he asked sharply, cutting her off. “If you had something to explain, maybe you could have answered one of my calls twelve years ago. You know, back when I cared?”

Callie rose to her feet and slung her leather bag over her shoulder so hard it made a noise when it hit her back.

Nathan also stood, and again his leg cooperated.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around.” Her voice was cold.

And he probably would see her around for a few days, because she’d make certain he did, but he’d bet his next paycheck she’d be gone within a matter of weeks. Or days. She’d find a new assignment, let the real estate agent sell the house, the accountant handle the estate.

“Goodbye, Callie.”

She left without another word, the distinctive sound of her flip-flops echoing on the tile in a weird staccato rhythm as she returned to the main office. Nathan sat back down, stretching out his bad leg, feeling the familiar deep ache as his scarred muscles protested. His nerves were humming.

He’d done a decent job of pushing Callie out of his mind over the years, filing their relationship away under Rugged Learning Experiences. He rarely read her articles and he’d had no intention of ever seeing her again.

Now here she was, back in Wesley, ready to let bygones be bygones. He reached for his glasses.

As he’d said, it wasn’t going to happen.

CHAPTER TWO

THANKFULLY, JOY WONG wasn’t at her desk when Callie left Nathan’s office, because, thick-skinned as she was, Callie didn’t think she could handle any more rejection today—not even a dismissive smile. Joy had been one of Grace’s friends, although Callie had never known her well, and it had been obvious from her politely distant demeanor at the memorial service that Joy was in the Callie-is-a-rotten-person camp.

Callie quickly skirted the receptionist’s desk, crossed the foyer and escaped out of the building into the heat. The big glass door closed behind her with a muffled click.

Safe.

She couldn’t believe how off base she’d been about Nate.

The plan had been simple when she’d entered the Wesley Star office. She would apologize to Nate for running scared, explain that she’d been overwhelmed by things she still didn’t fully understand. And then Nate, realizing that she’d been young and confused, and obviously had a reason for not contacting him, would forgive her. After all, twelve years had passed. Time heals all wounds and all of that. But two seconds into the reunion Callie knew she’d better come up with a different plan. The young Nate she’d jilted was nothing like the older Nate sitting behind the editor’s desk. Oh, they looked almost the same—dark-haired, blue-eyed, with glasses—but they weren’t the same guy. So she’d saved face and pretended she was interested in freelancing, which she was, never dreaming that Nate would reject her there, too.

She felt like crap.

Heat waves danced on the asphalt as Callie crossed the lot to her car. She didn’t even look at the man loading equipment into a minivan two spaces away from where she was parked. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she wasn’t going to submit herself to more rampant disapproval.

Callie opened the car door with a little too much force, making the old hinges squeak, and climbed into the two-hundred-degree interior, cranking the windows down as soon as she shut the door. Since she rarely needed a car, unless she happened to be making a trip across the Nevada desert to a place with no airport, she didn’t own one. The Neon belonged to a friend of a friend in Berkeley, who’d had no qualms about lending it to Callie indefinitely in exchange for two hundred dollars—which was approximately twice the value of the cranky little car, as near as she could tell.

Callie pulled the neck of her shirt away from her damp skin before she reached for the ignition. The no-frills Neon lacked AC, and she was getting a quick refresher course in just how hot Nevada could be in August. Even the high desert, where Wesley was located, had long stretches of days in the hundred-degree-plus range, and wasn’t she lucky that they were having one now?

As she pulled away from the building, she glanced at Nate’s window. He was sitting there staring at his computer. It killed her how much he looked the same, yet how different he was. Of course, there were small changes that came with maturity. His face had become leaner, making his cheekbones more prominent, his chin more angular. And his body was harder, more muscular. Ironically, he’d been dressed almost exactly the same the last time she’d seen him, on graduation night, right down to the sleeves of his oxford shirt rolled up over his forearms and his shirt tucked into jeans rather than pants. He’d once told her that the only thing that stood between him and complete nerddom was that he refused to give up his Levi’s. She’d never thought of him as a nerd, but rather as the quiet brother sandwiched in between two hell-raisers. Safe, dependable, understanding Nate…Scratch understanding.

Yeah, Nate had changed.

A few minutes later she parked her car in front of Grace’s house, which, once the estate was settled, would be hers.

Callie McCarran. Home owner.

What a joke. Houses were for people who liked to put down roots, form relationships. Other people signed mortgages and long-term leases. Callie paid rent on a mouse-proof storage unit to store the few things she treasured and could not bring with her on her travels.

A house would be wasted on her.

CHIP ELROY POKED HIS shaved head into Nathan’s office. “Hey, was that Callie McCarran I saw leaving the building a while ago?” He had two cameras hanging around his neck and a large black lens bag in one hand.

“In the flesh,” Nate muttered, looking back down.

“Wow. I haven’t seen her since high school.” Chip gave a slight cough. “She, uh, filled out nicely, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” Nathan said in a conversation-stopping tone. “Do you have something you need to discuss?”

“Nope,” Chip answered, emphasizing the p and taking the hint. “I’m heading out to take photos of the new bridge.” He pushed off from the door frame, his baggy pants dropping an inch as he did. He hiked them back up with his free hand.

“Are you done with the BLM story?”

“I will be by tomorrow morning.”

“See to it.” Nathan shifted back to the piece he was editing. It would be so great if Chip had a clue when to use an apostrophe. At least he took decent photos.

Two hours and one headache after Callie had left, Joy came into Nathan’s office carrying a cup of green tea. She insisted he drink one cup a day to help combat stress. Nathan actually thrived under pressure and hated green tea, which tasted like boiled lettuce, but he was wise enough not to mess with Joy. The office would implode without her.

“Thanks,” he said absently as she set the cup on the one clear spot on his desk—the spot he kept clear for this purpose—close to the potted plant. He was beginning to think that there might be something to the purported medicinal properties of green tea, since the dieffenbachia had put on an amazing growth spurt.

“You should have hired her to freelance,” Joy said. There was no doubt which “her” she meant, since with the exception of Millie, the advertising salesperson, there had been no other woman in the office that day.

Nathan looked up. “You were listening?”

“Not on purpose. You didn’t close the door and I was in the supply closet taking inventory. You should have given her some work.”

“But I didn’t.”

“It would have reduced the load here.”

“She’s going to be gone in a few weeks, Joy.”

“How do you know?” Joy challenged.

Nathan moved his mouse, bringing his screen back up. “Trust me. I know.”

“We’ll see,” she replied on her way out the door, which she closed behind her, leaving Nathan free to dispose of his tea and to wonder why she was defending Callie. Since Joy and Grace had been friends, he hadn’t expected that. And he hadn’t made a mistake.

Vince Michaels, the owner of the Wesley Star and several other rural papers scattered throughout Nevada and western Utah, would not agree. He’d be totally pissed if he discovered that Nathan had refused to hire Callie, since she’d won a few awards and people knew her name.

Was that why he felt like hell?

“WHAT ARE YOUR SKILLS?” Mrs. Copeland, the woman who managed the only temp agency in Wesley, propped her fingertips together as she asked the question. Tech Temps catered almost solely to the gold mining industry, the number one employer in northern Nevada, but Callie was more than willing to take on a mine job, which ranged from secretarial to truck driving. Two days had passed since her unsettling conversation with Nate, and she still had no idea what she was going to do in the future. But if she was going to stay in Wesley for an undetermined amount of time, then she needed to work, because at the moment, writing wasn’t cutting it.

If she had to, she could write the service articles her magazine contacts were asking her to take on, but Callie’s strength was her voice. She wrote about people and places and her unique style had earned her both a name and a steady income.

Now, not only was her writing off, her voice was MIA and she was getting concerned. She hoped that if she got out into the workforce, met new people, had new experiences, something would spark, as it always had before, and the words would flow once again.

Grief was a bitch.

“I can do just about anything.” And she had, having supported herself with temporary jobs, between travel writing and other freelance gigs, since she’d left college. Indeed, the list of Callie’s skills, noted on the résumé sitting in front of Mrs. Copeland, was long and detailed. Maybe that was why the woman wasn’t looking at it.

Mrs. Copeland puckered her mouth thoughtfully and turned to her computer. She clicked her mouse and made a face. “Diesel mechanic?”

Callie couldn’t help smiling. “No, that’s one area where I’m lacking, but I did work in a tire store once.”

“Accounting?”

“At first, but one of the regular guys got sick for a week, so I mounted tires and fixed flats.”

Mrs. Copeland clicked through several more screens, her expression not exactly reassuring.

“Anything?” Callie had already checked the local paper, which was her only source of employment information. A remote town like Wesley had no short-term job listings on the Internet boards.

“Doesn’t look good. Most temp jobs are seasonal and you’re here at the end of the summer rather than the beginning.”

“I was hoping someone had become conveniently pregnant and needed time off.”

“It happens,” Mrs. Copeland mused. But it didn’t look as if it was happening now. Callie felt a sinking sensation when the lady took her hand off the mouse and turned to her, propping her elbows on her desk and clasping her fingers under her chin. “I see you have a college degree.”

“In journalism.” But she had a sneaking suspicion there wasn’t a big call for journalists in the mining industry.

“I suggest you go to the school district office. They’re crying for subs.”

“Subs?”

Callie’s horror must have shown. Subbing involved kids, and she hadn’t spent much time around kids. Like, none. The woman smiled. “It’s not a bad job. They pay close to a hundred dollars a day. You work from eight to three forty-five.”

“Then why are they crying for subs?” A justifiable question, considering the high pay and the short hours.

“They require two years of college to get the license and not many people here meet that requirement. If they do, they usually have full-time jobs.”

“A hundred dollars a day.”

“Almost a hundred,” Mrs. Copeland corrected her, her chin still resting on her clasped hands.

“I was hoping for something steadier.” Even a serial temp worker needed a little security in the short term.

“Trust me, it’s steady. My brother teaches and I know.” Mrs. Copeland picked up Callie’s résumé and slid it into a manila folder. “If you’re not interested in subbing,” she said, after placing the folder on a high stack on the rolling file cabinet next to her, “you can check back every few days, or check online. Maybe something will open up.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Callie left the office and walked to her hot car. Subbing…did she want to get back in the workforce that badly?

She gave herself a shake. Okay. The idea of trying to control a class of kids was intimidating, especially since she had zero notion how to do that, but…if it didn’t work out, she didn’t have to go back. Heck, if it didn’t work out, she probably wouldn’t be allowed back. She would go with Plan B then—taking the magazine contracts. She didn’t want to do that just yet because a small part of her was afraid that was all she’d ever do from that point on. She might never write anything worthwhile again.

Callie got into the Neon and drove the half mile to the school district office, where they practically hugged her for showing up with a bona fide college diploma and the desire—although Callie wasn’t quite certain that was the correct word—to substitute teach. These people were desperate.

After filling out forms and getting instructions on what to do with transcripts, she went to the sheriff’s office to be fingerprinted—a requirement for the sub license application. She’d looked around cautiously when she arrived, since once upon a time Nate’s father, John Marcenek, a man who’d never particularly cared for Callie, had been sheriff. But surely he’d retired by now. He had to be over sixty.

“Who’s sheriff?” Callie asked the brisk woman wearing too much perfume who took the prints.

“Marvin Lodi.”

Callie wasn’t familiar with the name. “John Marcenek retired then?” She was actually kind of hoping he’d been voted out of office.

“Yes. He’s chief of the volunteer fire department now.”

That sounded like the perfect retirement gig for Nathan’s dad. Something where he could be in command and throw his weight around.

Callie left the sheriff’s office and went back to Grace’s house, where she ordered her college transcript online, requesting that it be sent directly to the State Department. The extreme shortage of subs in the district meant her application would be expedited, according to the district office secretary. As soon as the paperwork was approved, all she had to do was wait for a call.

And in the meantime, she could try to force out some words.

Callie went into the kitchen with its sparkling linoleum floor, waxed in a bout of insomnia the night before, and glanced out the back window at the grass she needed to mow as soon as it cooled off. Then she smiled.

The baseball, which had disappeared from the birdbath a few hours after she’d put it there two days ago, was back, next to her bottom step. She went outside and picked it up, wondering if the owner was anywhere nearby.

The fence separating her property from the alley and the vacant lot next door was solid wood, but on the other side chain-link divided the backyards, so Callie was able to see Alice Krenshaw pruning her bushes near the corner of her house.

“Hey, Alice,” she called, her first voluntary contact since the memorial. She figured if they were going to be neighbors, however temporary, then they needed to develop a working relationship.

Alice looked up from under the brim of her gardening bonnet, her pruning shears still open, prepared for the next snip. “Do you know a little white-haired kid in the neighborhood?”

“He lives in the rental on the other side of the vacant lot. The Hobarts.” Alice pointed to the two-story house, which was a bit ramshackle, with worn paint and missing screens.

“Thanks. I need to return something.” Callie held up the baseball and Alice nodded before returning to her pruning.

Callie went through the back gate into the alley, half expecting to find a kid crouched in the shadow of the fence, waiting for the opportunity to retrieve his ball. She walked along the buckled asphalt to the house Alice had pointed out. The backyard wasn’t fenced and the weeds of the lot that separated the house from Grace’s were encroaching into the dried grass. A few toys were scattered about—a yellow dump truck and bulldozer, a half-deflated plastic swimming pool. Dead bugs and leaves floated on the remaining water.

No kids.

Callie looked up at the second floor windows and clearly saw two children looking down at her—the white-haired boy and a darker blonde girl. Callie held up the ball and they both instantly disappeared from view. But they didn’t come out the back door as she expected. She waited for several minutes, and when it became obvious that she could be cooling her heels for nothing, she walked down the alley and around to the front of the house, where she rang the doorbell. The bell made no sound, so she knocked. And knocked again.

Nothing happened.

Okay… Then it hit her. The kids must be home alone and had been told not to answer the door. It made perfect sense. Callie set the baseball on the weathered porch boards and headed back to her own house.

Maybe she could do a piece on latchkey kids….

NATHAN MOUNTED THE road bike and expertly locked his shoe cleats into the clipless pedals, then started down the road leading out of town. It had not been a good day, with deadlines stacking up like cordwood and a phone call from the big boss, Vince Michaels, insisting that Nathan put Vince’s high-school-aged son, Mitch, to work again. Mitch had worked as an intern the previous semester and had been about as useless as a screen door on a submarine. Then to complicate matters, Nathan found out Mitch had been harassing Katie, the part-time billing clerk, with sexual innuendos. Nathan had put a quick stop to that and had called Vince, who hadn’t taken the matter seriously until Nathan mentioned the potential for a harassment suit. Then he’d taken notice. Mitch had sulked and stayed away from Katie, but he’d continued to be as useless as ever.

Nathan didn’t need Mitch hanging around again, doing nothing and upsetting the people who were actually working, but he had him. Another Vince-related headache. Nathan had a lot of autonomy working at the Star, but there were areas where the boss needed to back off and keep his fingers out of the pie.

Nathan geared down as he approached the first big hill, and the tension on the pedals eased as revolutions per minute increased, allowing him to maintain speed as he climbed. The first time he’d ridden after getting out of the hospital, he’d gone all of a mile. His good leg had had to do the work; his injured leg had been along for the ride, the foot locked onto the pedal by the cleat mechanism in his shoe, the leg doing little more than bobbing up and down as the pedals turned. But as time passed, the remaining muscles in that leg started doing their job, and now he rode fifteen to twenty miles a night, sometimes thirty, depending on how late he left the office and how stressed he was. Despite the deadlines, he’d managed to get out relatively early tonight, before seven o’clock, anyway, because Chip had turned in two decent articles, proofread and well written for once.

It was twilight by the time Nathan had completed the loop around the edge of town, dipping down near the river, then back through the older section of town, where he lived. When he rounded the last corner before his house he saw his younger brother, Seth, backing out of the driveway. Seth caught sight of him and pulled the truck forward again.

“Good ride?” he asked, getting out. He had on his wilderness clothes—a light green microfiber shirt, khaki pants, hiking boots. His hat was jammed in his back pocket instead of on his close-cropped, dark blond hair. Out to commune with nature, no doubt. Or to rescue someone. He was driving the official beaten-to-death truck with the SAR—Search and Rescue—insignia on the door.

“Every ride’s a good ride,” Nathan answered, pulling off his helmet and shaking his sweaty hair. For a while he’d been afraid that he’d never ride again. “What’s up?”

“I’m on my way out of town and needed to borrow your GPS.” He held it up. “Mine’s on the fritz.”

“Help yourself to my stuff anytime,” Nathan said as he pushed the bike into the garage with one hand on the seat. “You know how much I like it.”

“Oh, I will,” Seth said with a laugh. “Has Garrett talked to you at all?”

“About?” Nathan hung the bike on a set of supports attached to the wall, hooked his helmet over the bar extender, then peeled off his gloves.

“He’s all ticked off about some fight he had with Dad. Don’t tell him I told you.” Seth started for his truck.

“Hey, he’s the one who wanted to live next door to Dad.” Nathan was surprised that his dad had fought with Garrett, though. Usually he saved his arguments for Nathan, the kid he didn’t understand.

“No. He’s the one who wanted to live rent free,” Seth corrected, and he had a point, since their father owned the house next door and didn’t charge Garrett rent in return for minor property upkeep. “Want anything from the city? I’m stopping in Elko on my way to Jarbidge.”

Nathan shook his head. “I’m good. What’s going on in Jarbidge?” The isolated mountain community boasted a population of less than a hundred.

“Probably a party, but we’re going up for specialized search and rescue training starting early tomorrow morning.” Seth got into the truck and was about to close the door when he said conversationally, “You aware that Callie’s still in town?”

“I am.” His brothers were the only people who knew the truth about what Callie had done to him. As far as everyone else knew, they’d parted by mutual agreement.

“Just wondering,” Seth said casually.

“No big deal.” Because it wasn’t—except that whenever he thought about her coming into his office, cool as could be, his blood pressure spiked. He was really looking forward to the day she put Wesley behind her. Then the coronary he was working on would result from deadlines alone.

As his brother swung out onto the sealed blacktop, Nathan lifted a hand, then went into the house through the side door, hitting the switch to close the garage as he went in. He’d barely peeled out of his sweaty shirt when the town fire siren blew. He grimaced and put the damp shirt back on again. He hated going to fires, but Chip was leaving town for two days, so he was the only one there to cover the story.

He really had to hire another reporter.

But it wouldn’t be Callie. He didn’t care if she stayed for a decade.

CHAPTER THREE

CALLIE WOKE to the smell of smoke. She pushed her hair back from her forehead as she sat up, disoriented until she realized that, despite the noise of the antique cooling system churning in the window beside her, she’d conked out on the sofa. That would teach her to wax floors at midnight.

She got to her feet, rubbing the crick in her neck as she went out on the front porch. The neighborhood was quiet, but the smell of smoke was strong. She walked out to the middle of the street, where she could see over the tops of the houses, and sure enough, a column of dark smoke rose into the rapidly darkening sky on the north edge of town, where housing developments encroached on the desert and Bureau of Land Management property. It was the season for wildfires, but black smoke meant a structure was burning.

Maybe she’d find something to write about.

Callie went back in the house, ran a comb through her sleep-flattened hair, then grabbed her car keys. By the time she’d followed the smoke to the outskirts of town, about a mile away from Grace’s house, several vehicles bearing volunteer firefighter license plates had sailed by her.

A crowd of onlookers gathered on the last street of the development, which had new tract houses on one side and vacant lots on the other. Maybe seventy yards away, on the undeveloped side of the street, firemen were dousing flames that had engulfed a derelict trailer parked in a weed-choked lot.

Ever conscious of not getting in the way of people who had a job to do, because that tended to get one banished from the scene, she parked her car several yards from the closest vehicle, hugging her wheels to the ditch to keep the roadway clear. She left the car and casually walked up to the knot of bystanders, wanting to blend in as she took in the scene.

“Any idea how it started?” she asked the teenager next to her, a sandy-haired kid with baggy pants. The sky was clear, so if the fire had been caused by lightning, it was a freak strike.

The teen shrugged without looking at her, but the middle-aged man standing slightly in front of her turned, frowning as if he was trying to place her. Probably not too many strangers showed up at neighborhood fires, so Callie couldn’t blame the guy for thinking she might be a firebug there to enjoy the results of her handiwork.

“I’m Callie McCarran,” she said, saving him the trouble of trying to memorize her face or get her license plate number.

“Doug Jones.” He turned back toward the action, but Callie caught him watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Callie gave the teenager another shot. “Have you had many fires this summer?” Fire seasons varied. Some years would be fire-free and during others it would seem as if the entire state was ablaze.

“We’ve had a few,” the boy said without looking at her. His focus was on the firemen—or rather, on one particular fireman who looked as if he might be a she. The only she, as far as Callie could tell.

“Do you know the name of the female firefighter?”

The kid shrugged again and ignored her.

Oh, yeah. She was going to do well substitute teaching. Couldn’t get kids to answer the door. Couldn’t get kids to answer a question. And speaking of kids…Callie saw a distinctive white head at the edge of the crowd. Her across-the-lot neighbor. This little guy got around. Callie craned her neck to see who was with him, but the crowd shifted and she lost sight of him.

The breeze was light and it didn’t take long for the firefighters to get the blaze under control and stop it from spreading to the desert, where it could have taken off in the dry grass, sage and rabbit brush, causing major damage. The crowd started to disperse as the flames died, some people going to cars, others to nearby houses, and Callie once again caught sight of the boy as he tried to resist his sister’s efforts to pull him down the street. No adult was in sight and it was nearly nine o’clock. What would two kids that age be doing so far from home?

Unless they had sneaked out to see the action without their parents knowing. Kids did do things like that, or so she’d heard. She’d been too afraid of the wrath of Grace to have tried.

The girl finally got her brother to cooperate, even though she wasn’t much bigger than he was, and he began trudging down the street beside her. Every now and then he looked over his shoulder at the firefighters.

Callie wasn’t about to offer them a ride, being a stranger and all, and no one else seemed concerned by their presence, so she decided that Wesley was indeed a very small town and the rules were different than in a more urban area. She watched until they pulled their tired-looking bicycles out of the ditch near a streetlight and started riding off along the sidewalk. Okay. They had transportation home. But it still disturbed her to see kids out that late without an adult.

Doug Jones gave Callie one last suspicious look, then headed to a nearby house. Bye, Doug. Callie stayed where she was, hoping to get a chance to talk to the female firefighter, who was still dealing with embers near what was left of the trailer.

As she waited, a big Dodge truck and a panel wagon pulled out of the throng of vehicles belonging to the volunteers, giving Callie a better view of the fire engines. She also had a better view of Nathan and his older brother, Garrett, standing in the headlights of one of the engines, deep in conversation.

She hadn’t realized Nate was there, though it made perfect sense—his staff was probably so small that he had to report as well as edit—and she certainly hadn’t realized that the deputy she’d spotted a few times on the fringes of the crowd was Garrett Marcenek. Go figure.

She’d known Garrett for years, and had no idea he’d ever thought of pursuing a career in law enforcement. How ironic. Now instead of being arrested, he’d get to do the honors. So what might Seth Marcenek be doing? If the rule of opposites applied, he’d pretty much have to be a priest.

“Hey, Garrett,” someone behind her called. “I’m taking off.”

The brothers both looked up, catching Callie midstare.

Damn.

She instantly started walking toward them, as if that had been her objective in the first place. If she was going to stay in this town for a while, then she wasn’t going to try to avoid the Marcenek brothers.

“Garrett, good to see you,” Callie said before either man could speak. She firmly believed that whoever spoke first had a psychological advantage. “Nathan.”

“Callie.” He revealed no emotion. No coldness, no warmth. Nothing.

“Welcome back,” Garrett said, shifting his weight to his heels. Callie wondered if he was resting his hand on his holster on purpose, or if it was just a habit.

“Thank you.”

“I need to check something out,” Nathan said to his brother, his eyes focused behind Callie. He left without another word, brushing past a burly volunteer firefighter carrying a Pulaski ax. Nate favored one leg slightly, making Callie wonder just how many miles he was putting on the bike. Five to ten a day had been the norm when they’d been in high school, but he’d ride as many as twenty when he was stressed. She had gone with him on the short rides, but when he needed to put his head down and pedal, she’d found other things to do.

The man she’d seen unloading equipment from the minivan in the parking lot that morning was there, taking notes as he talked to one of the firefighters. He lowered his pad as Nathan approached, and the two fell into conversation. An old memory jarred loose. Chip Elroy. From her sophomore geometry class.

“So how long have you been a deputy?” Callie asked, turning back to Garrett.

“Since about a year after you dumped Nathan.” He held her gaze, his expression cool and coplike.

“Eleven years then.” She wasn’t surprised by Garrett’s response. The brothers had wildly different temperaments, with Garrett looking for trouble, Nathan trying to keep him out of it, but they were tight.

“Give or take a few months.” He shifted his weight again. “What’re you doing here?”

“You mean at the fire?” Obviously, since he had to know why she was back in Wesley. She glanced over at the trailer’s smoldering metal ribs. “Just seeing if there’s a story.” She cocked her head. “Who’s the female firefighter?”

“Denise Logan.”

Ah, from high school. She would have been in Seth’s graduating class.

“Was this arson?” When Garrett didn’t respond, Callie added, “Pretty clear night. No lightning.”

“How long are you staying in town?”

“Awhile.”

“And then?”

She shrugged.

“Must be nice,” Garrett replied, “having no ties. Going where you want, when you want.”

“It’s great,” she agreed, refusing to rise to the bait. “You should try it.”

“Can’t. I prefer to be there for the people who matter to me.”

“Oh, do you have some of those? People who matter to you? Because I remember you dumping girls right and left, without much regard for hurt feelings.”

“At least I told them it was over, instead of taking the coward’s way out and running away without a word.”

She wasn’t touching that one, and Garrett knew it. He smiled without humor, then muttered, “I have some things I need to take care of.” Nodding in dismissal, he strode past her toward two older men checking gauges on a truck.

Callie turned away and headed for the Neon. She got in without looking back, slamming the stubborn old door shut.

She fought the urge to rest her forehead on the steering wheel in defeat, and instead turned the key in the ignition, carefully pulling back out onto the road and then executing a three-point turn. She followed the route the kids had taken, to make sure they’d gotten home.

A few minutes later she turned down Grace’s street and cruised by the house where the neighbor kids lived. It was dark inside, except for the distinctive glow of a television set, but the old bikes were propped against the porch. They were home. She debated stopping, but it was late, almost ten now. Maybe she’d try to catch the parents at home tomorrow and mention that the children had been at the fire. Parents who cared simply did not let kids ride across town—even a small town—after dark.

“SO WHAT’S THE DEAL HERE?” Nathan asked, indicating the burned-out trailer with a jerk of his head. He’d rejoined his brother after he’d made certain that Chip, who’d thankfully put off his trip when he saw the smoke, would get his photos in before he left the next day. “Two fires in a week, no lightning.”

Nathan hated fires. He hadn’t had a problem until the explosion, when the world around him had erupted into a fireball. That was after the shock wave had thrown him back against a brick wall and driven shrapnel into his leg and torso. His partner, Suzanne Galliano, had also been injured, but her wounds had been superficial, which was why she was still reporting in Seattle, while he was back here in good old Wesley, Nevada.

“What do you think the deal is?” Garrett asked. He was careful what he said around Nathan in an official capacity, having been quoted as an “unnamed source” enough times to get him in trouble with the brass, who had no trouble figuring out the identity of the unnamed source.

Nathan rubbed a hand over his head, loosening his matted hair. “If it turns out this fire was man-made like the last one, then someone could be setting fires.”

“That’s a big leap, junior,” Garrett said, careful not to be quotable. “A field and a structure.”

“Or the fires may not be related and this one came about because old man Anderson wanted to get rid of his rusty trailer without paying to have it torn down and hauled away.”

“Talk to Dad,” Garrett said, jerking his head to where their father was conferring with another man near the front of an engine.

“Oh, I will. Later.” Not that it would do a lot of good. Fifteen years of being sheriff prior to taking over command of the fire department had made John Marcenek a master at avoiding a direct answer.

“My gut reaction is that the two incidents aren’t connected, and you’re probably right about Anderson,” Garrett finally said, before giving Nathan a fierce look. “Do not quote me.”

“Unnamed source,” he agreed with a half smile. The brothers fell into step as they walked back to Nathan’s car.

“Law enforcement officials are uncertain whether the incidents are connected,” Garrett corrected. “You didn’t seem too surprised to see Callie at the fire.”

“Probably looking for a story. She showed up at the office and asked me for freelance work a couple days ago.”

Garrett glanced at him. “No shit?”

“I turned her down, but if Vince Michaels hears about it, he’ll be an unhappy camper.”

“Or rather, you’ll be an unhappy camper.”

Nathan grinned for the first time all evening. “In your words, no shit.”

AS SOON AS CALLIE GOT home, she fired up her laptop and started to write. Words appeared on the screen, but something was lacking: decent writing. Disgusted, she ditched the file and turned off the computer. She’d try again tomorrow.

The next morning was no better, nor was the afternoon. Finally, as the sun was setting and Callie had accomplished nothing except for an industrial cleaning of the bathroom, she faced reality. She couldn’t keep cleaning bathrooms and waxing floors. She had to do the one job she did not want to do, the task that was constantly lurking at the back of her mind, and then maybe she could settle and write a few words.

She needed to go through Grace’s belongings.

Callie opened the bedroom door and stood in the doorway, taking in the neat little room. Grace’s reading glasses were on the nightstand, along with an empty water glass, and a box of tissues set on top of a library book. Callie should probably return that before the library police came after her.

She went to the closet and opened the door, the squeak of the wheels in the tracks instantly bringing back memories. When the closet had squeaked, it meant Grace was awake, getting her robe. It meant Callie would smell breakfast soon and that the house would be warm when she got up.

The closet smelled of spice. Grace had loved cinnamon and had sachets everywhere. Callie had always loved cinnamon herself, but at the moment the scent was too poignant, too much.

Sorry, Grace…

Callie did her best to shut herself off as she pulled armloads of clothes out of the closet and laid them on the bed before going back for more. If she didn’t think about what she was doing, she wouldn’t get sucked down. And once she got this chore done, the worst would be behind her. She’d be able to write.

After the first closet was empty, she shook open a trash bag and shoved the clothing into it, hangers and all. If she stopped to sort and fold, she wouldn’t make it through the process without breaking down. The most practical approach was to make everything disappear into black plastic as quickly as possible.

But Callie wasn’t quick enough. She slowed down for a few seconds and the next thing she knew, she’d pulled an oversize cardigan she’d always associated with Grace out of the pile of clothing on the bed. And, instead of shoving it into the bag, she held it up, then bunched it to her, breathing in the scent of the only mother she’d ever really known.

Her throat closed.

Callie resolutely blanked her mind, folded the sweater and set it inside the swollen bag before tying it shut. She shook open another bag and headed for the dresser, planning to quickly sort through Grace’s unmentionables so she didn’t accidentally throw away or donate something of value. Grace had had a habit of hiding things in her underwear drawer, as if placing something here would keep it safe from prying eyes—those of a young girl trying to peek at her Christmas presents, for example. Sure enough, when Callie opened the drawer, something solid slid across the bottom. She pushed aside the cotton undergarments to find a fancy lingerie box.

She set the box on the bed and for a moment just looked at it, wondering what on earth it could contain that was worthy of hiding in the underwear drawer. The corners of the lid were worn and the cardboard had grown brittle with age. She gently eased the top off.

Photos. Tons of photos. And her schoolwork. Award certificates. Callie’s life in a box.

She lifted out a photo of herself taken on the first day of junior high, wearing low-rider flared pants and a body-hugging, long-sleeved shirt. The shirt had been too hot for August in Nevada, but Callie had wanted to wear it, and Grace had acquiesced. Beneath that were more photos—showing her rabbit at the fair for 4-H. Callie riding her bike. Grace had bought it used, but it had been one of the cool bikes. A Trek 920, like Nathan’s. Not that Callie had been concerned about that kind of stuff…. She smiled slightly. She’d pretended not to be, anyway, but she had loved having a bike that was as nice as everyone else’s. Grace hadn’t made a ton of money working at the grocery store, but she’d taken care of Callie.

Callie had not taken care of Grace.

She put the lid back on the box and set it on top of the dresser, then went back to the clothing, checking all the drawers before quickly dumping the contents into trash bags. No more sorting, because everything was going to charity. People who hadn’t abandoned their foster mother could sift through her stuff.

By the time she finished, despite her best efforts to keep the self-recriminations at bay, Callie was a wreck.

She should have come home and she hadn’t.

She’d shut everyone she’d ever been close to out of her life over the past decade, for reasons she didn’t quite understand.

Well, damn it, she didn’t want to be alone anymore.

CHAPTER FOUR

NATE WAS SLOUCHED on the sofa, his feet propped on the coffee table and his laptop on his thighs, when the dog next door started yapping. Since Poppy’s owner went to bed at approximately sundown every night, Nate put his computer on the coffee table and went to the window to see what had disturbed the little rat.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered as he dropped the curtain and went to the door. Callie was already on the bottom step when he pulled it open. Twice now he’d seen her and twice he’d felt the odd sensation of having a missing part of his life back again—which was ridiculous, since this missing part had blown him off and disappeared for a dozen years without a word.

“Why are you here?” It was late and he was too tired for niceties.

Her eyebrows lifted as she said, “Because I want to make peace.”

He rested a hand against the door frame. “Make peace?” They weren’t at war. He just didn’t want her around.

“Over ten years have gone by, Nate. I’m sorry I took off, but we’re different people now. Surely we can start new.”

Start new. Yeah. So easy. He didn’t feel like making it easy on Callie, so he continued to block the door, even though she obviously wanted to come inside.

“I went through hell after you left. I was afraid something had happened to you, until Grace told me you were all right.” It had taken him a couple of days to get hold of her foster mother, since she’d traveled to Boise immediately after the graduation ceremony to attend a wedding, giving him and Callie the freedom to almost consummate their relationship, emphasis on almost. Her trip had also given Callie the freedom to blow town the next day.

His fingers gripped the door frame. He would never forget how he’d felt when he’d realized she’d gone without a word. He loved her, thought she’d loved him, yet she disappeared after their first awkward and unsuccessful attempt to make love. He’d felt like such a freaking loser.

“I did what I had to do,” Callie said now, an edge of frustration creeping into her voice.

Nate ran a hand over the taut muscles at the back of his neck. “You didn’t give a reason for leaving. So why don’t you tell me now?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly.

For a moment he just stared at her. After all these years, this was her answer.

“‘I don’t know,’” he mimicked. “Bullshit!”

The word echoed through the night. Callie flinched, and he realized he’d never raised his voice to her. He drew in a ragged breath, leaning his forehead against the doorjamb. Callie was one of the most intelligent women he knew. Intelligent women didn’t just abandon someone without a reason. And more than that, deep down he’d wanted her to have a concrete reason for leaving. Maybe something he’d done or said. Maybe his inexperience. Something they could have worked out, given a chance. He’d always believed she’d had a reason.

“We’re not going to be friends and you’re never writing for the Star, Callie. Not while I’m editor.” He looked up at her. “Got it?”

She stared him down for a few seconds, then muttered something under her breath that sounded a whole lot like “We’ll see,” before she abruptly turned and crossed the lawn back to her wreck of a car. It started with a puff of blue smoke. She pulled away from the curb before she snapped the headlights on. Nathan watched her disappear around the corner.

What kind of a jerk treated someone who’d recently lost her only relative that way? Especially when he knew exactly how it felt to lose a parent?

But did Callie ever feel anything? He was really beginning to wonder.

THE NEON GAVE A COUPLE of ominous coughs as Callie drove home. Par for the course. Everything else in her life was going to hell. Why not the borrowed car, too?

Nate was still angry with her. And he wanted answers she didn’t have.

Why had she left?

Why does a horse bolt at a loud noise? Instinct. It was the way she was. She couldn’t put a name to the reason if she tried, since she didn’t fully understand it herself, but she did accept it. She panicked when she felt as if she was being tied down, and according to Grace, her father had been the same way. Hard to fight genetics.

So what had made her think she could explain tonight? Or that after their first encounter in his office, that Nate would listen? What had made her even try?

The need to be with someone who, even if he didn’t understand, might accept her as she was. After all, he was Nate. He’d once loved her. She’d thought.

Callie bit her lip as she considered all the things she should have said and hadn’t, because she needed more time to get them out.

She’d wanted to explain that he’d always been on her mind after she’d left, that ending their relationship had nearly ripped her apart, too, but the panic had been stronger than her feelings for him. How could she get that across to him?

She couldn’t.

Yet.

But with time…With some time, maybe he’d come around. She missed him and she needed a friend.

When she got home, the Hobart house was still dark inside except for the flickering glow of the television. No car was parked in front of the house or in the carport.

Was someone home with those kids?

A television also glowed in Alice Krenshaw’s living room, and there was no car parked in her drive, either, which was because Alice’s husband worked the night shift at the mine and they owned only one vehicle. The Hobart family probably had the same circumstances. One car and shift work.

No matter how she twisted it around, though, it still bugged the heck out of Callie that those kids had been out so late without supervision. Twice.

Uncaring adult? Zero supervision? Or were the kids masters at sneaking out?

Was it any of her business?

And here she was, sitting in her car, spying on the house next door. How creepy was that? Callie got out of the little Neon, trying not to slam the stubborn door too loudly.

She’d left the lights on in Grace’s house, but it looked anything but welcoming. Kind of a theme here in Wesley. Maybe that was the reason she hadn’t come back sooner.

But deep down, she knew it wasn’t.

CALLIE HAD DRIVEN AWAY half an hour ago and Nate was still keyed up, unable to focus for more than a few minutes, which was disturbing to a guy notorious for his ability to hyperfocus. He put the laptop aside and then absently ran his hand over the numb area of his thigh.

So what exactly did Callie want from him? Friendship? Forgiveness? Physical intimacy during a rough spot in her life? Perhaps all three. Who didn’t want comfort when life took a devastating turn?

Him. Physical intimacy had been out of the question after the explosion nearly destroyed his leg. He’d had no desire to share his battered body, and even when he finally had, it had been with the woman who was his nurse during the latter part of his hospital stay, a woman who was accustomed to seeing trauma and injury. The relationship hadn’t lasted long. Nate’s heart hadn’t been in it and he’d had a sneaking suspicion she was laying him just to get his confidence back up. He didn’t need mercy screws.

Again he ran his hand over his leg, felt the twisted tissue and deep dip where the destroyed muscles had once been.

No. Even though he wouldn’t mind showing Callie that he was no longer the inexperienced kid suffering from performance anxiety, there’d be no physical intimacy. He wasn’t the guy to give her comfort, because he wasn’t ready to put himself out there—especially with someone he couldn’t trust.

In fact, it really pissed him off that she was back, acting as if nothing had happened, wanting to pick up where they’d left off before she’d abandoned him.

We’re different people now, Nate.

In more ways than she knew.

Nathan got the laptop, settled it back onto his thighs and resolutely finished the article. He’d just shut the computer down and was ready to call it a night when his cell phone rang.

His leg had stiffened and it took a few minutes for it to cooperate as he crossed the room to the buffet table where the phone was plugged in, charging. He glanced at the number, expecting it to be one of his brothers, since it was so late, then smiled.

“Hey, Scoop.” Suzanne Galliano had been his best friend in Seattle. They’d collaborated on several stories and had been together the night Nathan’s investigation into the illegal import of pharmaceuticals ended in an explosion and warehouse fire. Fortunately for Suzanne, her hospital stay had been only two days, her recovery from the mostly superficial wounds rapid. Nate’s recovery, on the other hand, not so much. Hell, in a lot of ways he’d yet to recover from the blast.

“Are you still stuck in the middle of nowhere?”

“You mean my charming hometown? Yeah. I’m here.”

He could almost see her rolling her eyes. “Well, maybe I’ll be able to do something to save you. The paper just lost a reporter and they’re hiring. You’d have to throw some stuff together fast, get it up here, but honestly, I think you have a good shot.”

“No thanks.”

“Nathan…!” she whined. “Come on. You know you don’t belong where you are. You should be writing and reporting, not editing. I bet you’d make more money in this job than you do now, and it could be a springboard to bigger and better things.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

“No you won’t. I know that tone.”

“I will. Honest.”

She blew a raspberry into the receiver. “Fine. But you’re throwing away an opportunity.”

“I like being near family.”

“The same members of your family who tried to kill you more than once as a child?”

“The very same,” Nathan agreed as he shut off the living room lamp and walked into his bedroom. His brothers might have made a career out of attempting to do him bodily harm as a youngster, but he’d returned the favor. In spades. He might be the quiet brother, but he wasn’t a wimp.

“You need to rethink your priorities, you masochist. If I don’t hear from you by Wednesday, I’ll assume it’s a no and arrange for counseling.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“No problem. I’ll make you see the light one of these days. How’s the physical therapy?”

Nathan smiled. “Over for the most part. I ride my bike. It keeps the leg strong and flexible.” Plus, he’d been able to buy a bitchin’ bike with the money he saved once the therapy stopped.

“There’s some good bike riding here,” Suzanne said in a sincere voice. “And I kind of miss you.”

“I’ll think about it. Hey, how’s Julia?” Her significant other, who had never fully forgiven Nathan for dragging Suzanne down to the warehouse with him that fateful night.

“She’s doing well. Just got a promotion to design manager.”

“Tell her congratulations from me.”

“Maybe you can tell her yourself when you come for the interview….” His ex-partner’s voice trailed off hopefully.

“I’ll think about it. Good night, Suze. Talk to you later.”

Nathan tossed the phone onto the dresser and went into the bathroom, where he stared at himself in the mirror for a few seconds before turning on the water to brush his teeth.

It had been nothing short of a miracle when, after Nathan had returned to Wesley, Vince Michaels had bought the paper and promptly fired the editor. Newspaper jobs in a town the size of Wesley were nonexistent. Nathan lived near his dad and brothers, in the town he’d grown up in, doing the job he’d trained for. If he felt as if he was just going through the motions day to day, it was from the inherent stress of an editor’s life. Survival mode.

He just needed to ride his bike more, take the edge off.

This was where he belonged.

CALLIE WOKE UP SHEATHED in sweat, the light cotton blanket that had covered her in a tangle at the end of the bed. She sat up, swung her feet onto the floor and then sat for a moment, her face in her hands.

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