Callie's Cowboy (18 page)

“After a hard day like today,” Sam said, “this is what we rub 'em down with.” He showed her a can, the same type of stuff Dalton was using, and a soft cotton rag. “But first we look for any cuts or saddle sores, and we treat it with this other stuff. Clyde, here, got a scratch on his foreleg when we were chasing down a real ornery cow and her calf today.” Sam sprayed the small cut with
something that turned it purple. “Keeps the flies off and helps prevent an infection.”

Sam proceeded with the rubdown while Callie watched, fascinated—not because she had suddenly grown enamored of Clyde, but because the sight of Sam's strong hands moving with such sensitivity over the quivering horseflesh made her own flesh tremble. He did have magic in his hands. Even the horse could tell. With his eyes half-closed, and only the tip of his tail twitching, he was obviously enjoying his massage. He'd lost interest in the oats in his feeding trough.

Callie felt her own eyelids drooping as the sensual trance took hold. Then Dalton's strident voice broke the spell.

“You gonna fondle that horse all night or put him to bed?” the foreman asked, nudging his hat up with one forefinger. A corner of his mouth quirked up.

“He deserves a good rubdown.” Sam's serious tone did not match Dalton's good-natured ribbing.

Dalton was quiet for a moment. “Well, unless you can think of something that needs doing, I'm heading up to the house for some supper. Seems to me I heard Rena say something about chicken and dumplings.”

“Chicken?” Callie said with mock astonishment. “On a beef cattle ranch?”

“Hey, we have to watch our cholesterol like everyone else,” Dalton said.

“I think we're done for the day.” Sam capped the bottle of liniment. “I just want to put some more straw down, and we'll join you.”

Dalton left with a tip of his hat, and suddenly the barn seemed a very quiet place. Callie became intensely
aware of the isolation, made even more obvious by the cocoon of falling snow outside. “I'll help you with the straw,” she piped up. The sooner they got the chores done, the sooner they could join the others at the house.

“Okay,” Sam said. “In the fourth stall down you'll find a bunch of bails of straw and a pitchfork. Break off a chunk of straw with the pitchfork and bring it here.”

“Um, okay.” Callie had her doubts about her pitchfork-wielding abilities, but she was game to give it a try. She found the straw and the pitchfork. She even managed to skewer a chunk about the size of a spare tire and carry it precariously to Clyde's stall.

Sam looked up from fastening a blanket over the gelding's back. “That's it. Only I need about five times that much.”

Callie sighed. “It'll take me five more trips, then.”

“Hold on, I'll help. Just need to wash this stuff off my hands.” He swung the stall door open and strode to a big utility sink at one end of the barn. He'd already removed his jacket. Now he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to the elbow.

Callie watched greedily. Why was it that, no matter how hopeless their relationship was, she never stopped wanting him?

When he was done, she followed him back to the straw supply. Callie simply stood out of the way as Sam used wire cutters to unfasten the bailing on the chunk she'd tried to dismember. He took the pitchfork from her when, just as he was about to show her how it was done, he paused, eyed the pile of straw, then turned and eyed Callie critically.

“What? Did I do something wrong?”

He flashed his best devilish smile, which went well with the pitchfork. “No, not at all.” Suddenly his smile faded, replaced by a much more dangerous look. Hungry. Predatory.

She instinctively backed up, but found she had no-where to go in the small confines of the stall.

He threw the pitchfork aside and took a step toward her as the implement hit the dirt with a thud.

“But—” She fell silent as she realized she wanted Sam, his body, his mind, his soul. She wanted to forget everything except the physical bond between them.

Sam reached behind him, snagging a horse blanket that was draped over the stall door. He tossed it onto the pile of hay, creating a makeshift bed in nothing flat.

She'd known there was something dangerous about this barn. But it had turned out not to be the horses.

Sam didn't touch her or close the distance between them. He was waiting for some sign of welcome, some sense that she wanted what he wanted. The call was hers.

Hell, there really was no choice to make. A little straw in her hair sure beat the pall that had fallen over them since their argument the night before. She didn't know whether Sam would ever understand her or approve of who she was. But she did know that their physical closeness meant something. It indicated understanding on some level. And maybe even forgiveness.

She reached for him.

The sudden heat between them took her breath away, literally. She'd known there was some pent-up desires waiting for an outlet, but she'd had no idea she and Sam would risk burning down the whole barn with
their passion. But honest to God, it felt like flames surrounded them as they kissed, not only with lips and teeth and tongue, but putting their whole bodies into it. The cold temperature ceased to have any meaning.

Callie's body tingled in places she'd never imagined before. She grabbed Sam's wrists and guided his hands inside her jacket. They felt surprisingly warm, even through the thick cotton sweater she wore. Her breasts ached with longing as he teased the nipples to hardness with his thumbs.

His hat fell to the ground. Her jacket came off. He let go of her long enough to tug his boots off and pull at the laces of her tennis shoes. But then he was kissing her again.

“All those years,” he murmured against her mouth. Then he seemed to deliberately halt whatever he'd been about to say.

She didn't press him. If he got all mushy on her, her choices would get a whole lot more complicated. She'd walked away from his love once; she wasn't sure she could do it again.

Perhaps he sensed that, because he said nothing more. He just kissed her and kissed her, never breaking contact even when he guided her toward the blanket-covered straw.

There was no playfulness this time as they tore their clothes off, the romance of disrobing each other giving way to the expediency of stripping down as quickly as possible. Callie hardly noticed the cold, especially when Sam pushed her down on the blanket and covered her with his big, hard body.

Still, despite his urgency, he didn't rush her. He
kissed her breasts until she was writhing with pleasure, sucking one nipple while he rolled the other between his thumb and forefinger with just the right amount of pressure. She tried to find some way of pleasuring him—stroking his chest, kneading his shoulders. But whether her caresses distracted him, or he simply didn't want her distracted, he put a stop to them by imprisoning both of her wrists in one strong hand, giving her a helpless feeling that was distinctly thrilling.

Maybe she enjoyed pretending she was his captive, she mused in a sensual haze, putting all the responsibility for their encounter on his shoulders.

“Please, Sam …”

“Please, what?” He'd shifted positions, so that now he was kissing her stomach, using his tongue to paint random patterns against her skin. She thought she was going to pass out from the novel sensations. And she'd thought that back when they were kids, they'd tried almost everything short of actual intercourse. Apparently they'd missed a few things.

“Please make love to me.” Every word was an effort now. She was breathing hard, her breath kicking up steam in the cold barn. But she certainly wasn't cold.

He released her hands and moved up to lie beside her, slipping his arm behind her shoulders and pulling her against him. Their bodies touched from shoulders to toes in an incredibly intimate way. He simply held her, silent, the only sound their breathing and the occasional, distant snuffle of one of the horses. They were caught in a time warp on a sensual plane of their own making. Callie's urgency took a backseat to the sudden
peace, the oneness she felt with Sam that was something close to sacred.

At last Sam nudged Callie onto her back again and found a place for himself in the cradle between her out-stretched legs.

“Now, Sam,” she urged him, feeling restless again, almost crazy with longing. She wondered how they'd waited this long, how she'd kept from cornering him and releasing their pent-up, long-denied passions.

He entered her with one quick, gliding thrust, filling her so completely, so perfectly, that she thought she might skip dying altogether and ascend straight to heaven.

But it only got better as Sam began to move, slowly at first, then faster, grasping her hips so that each penetration was as deep as possible.

Their coupling was necessarily short but oh so sweet. Once again Callie found herself in that place discovered only by lovers in perfect communion. She cried out her joy as tears filled her eyes. With a final series of quick thrusts Sam reached his peak, issuing the most primal, guttural sound she'd ever heard him make—so unlike her normally reserved Sam.

There might have been moisture in his eyes, too, though he surely would never admit to it. After one last cry, his body went from rigid to totally relaxed. He covered her like a blanket, blocking her from the cool autumn air.

Suddenly Callie had an attack of giggles. “Sam Sanger, I can't believe we just made love in a horse barn!”

He raised up on one elbow and smiled at her, but it
was a wistful smile. “This isn't really how I want it to be for us, Callie.”

Though he was dog-tired after a day of repairing a windmill that would provide water for his cattle over the winter, Sam stayed awake, listening for the sound of his car. He'd let Callie borrow his Audi and drive herself to Salt Lake City to catch her plane to D.C. It had saved him a lot of driving, he reasoned, and he had other vehicles he could use. Besides, if she had his car, she would have to come back to Roundrock, if only to return the vehicle.

Ever since they'd made love in the barn she'd said nothing more about going home early, and he certainly hadn't brought the subject back up. He hoped she'd changed her mind. If they were ever to have a chance together … ah, hell, who was he kidding? They didn't have a chance, and never had. If she didn't get this job in Washington, she'd get another someplace else. He had nothing to offer her, nothing that could hold her for long, except his love.

That hadn't been enough eight years ago. It wouldn't be enough now.

So why was he sitting here, nervous as a calf about to be branded, waiting for Callie to get home? It was after eleven. What if something had happened to her? She had her cellular phone and his motor-club number, but he couldn't help worrying.

At eleven-twenty he finally heard the engine whine and the crunch of gravel under tires. With more energy than seemed possible, given the day he'd had, he leaped
from the sofa and strode purposefully toward the kitchen door leading out to the garage.

Callie beat him to the door. She opened it just as he reached it. Her face was etched with the weariness of travel, and something else, some emotion he couldn't quite identify.

She skidded to a halt when she saw him. “You're still up. Worried about your car?”

“Worried about you. Those are some icy, lonely roads you were driving late at night.”

“The roads were fine. I'm fine. But thanks for worrying.” She didn't volunteer anything else.

Sam knew better than to grill Callie the moment she got in the door. He helped her off with her coat and poured her a cup of the decaf coffee he'd brewed.

“I have a message for you from Sloan Bennett.”

That caught her attention. “What is it?”

“They found a suicide note on Dad's computer, just like you thought they would.”

“Oh.” She sank into one of the kitchen chairs. “I guess that settles things, then.”

“Appears that way.”

“You aren't going to say ‘I told you so'?”

“Wasn't planning on it.” He poured himself some coffee and sat down beside her. “I'm grateful to you, actually. If not for your digging around, that note never would have been found. And the note
does
finalize things. Now Mom won't have to worry about it anymore.”

“Yes, that's good,” Callie said absently. But she was staring off into space, stirring but not drinking her coffee.

“How was your flight?” Sam asked, easing his way into asking about the trip in general. Now that the matter of his father's death was settled, he and Callie had nothing left to fight about.

“Oh, fine. No problems. Both flights were right on time.”

They were silent for a few moments. An old pendulum clock on the wall ticked with an exaggerated volume, causing Sam to wonder why he'd never noticed it before.

“So?” he finally said. “I'm dying here. How'd it go?”

The relaxed expression on her face vanished at once, replaced by wariness. “It went fine. The editor who interviewed me is very nice, and I think I made a favorable impression, although I told her about going to the city council meeting in stocking feet.”

Sam smiled at that. Callie might be a little scattered sometimes, but that didn't undermine her competence. She was good at her job. Too damn good. He almost wished she wasn't. If she were only mediocre, it would be much easier for him to ask her to give it up.

“And how did she impress you?” Sam asked. “Is it a job you'd like to have?”

Callie took a deep breath. “It's the job I've dreamed about my whole life,” she answered. “To be part of the Washington crowd, hobnobbing with politicians and lobbyists … A journalist in Washington can influence public policy. Even though I'd be a features writer at first, I'd be there. I'd be on my way.”

Well, that pretty much answered that, Sam thought glumly. All that was left now was whether the
Post
offered
the job to Callie. Maybe there were a lot of candidates, but he thought that any paper would be nuts to turn down Callie's experience, her judgment, her enthusiasm, which shone through every story she wrote.