Kahlua walked right up to her and took the carrot, and Callie slipped the halter over her head. Here she’d been dumb enough to think fate had directed Mase and Joey to the ranch, but it was all bunk, another one of her fantasies. She loved her fantasy world, but sometimes it would be nice to have something real happen.
She grabbed the black pony, Cinderella, and led all four back toward the barn, still muttering.
“Who are you talking to?” Jarod asked when she led the horses up.
“No one.”
“You are really losing it,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s the first sign, you know, talking to yourself.”
Callie shot him a warning look, then went on about her business, grooming the horses.
Would Mase leave work early because it was Friday? Or would he arrive late, because he didn’t want to spend any more time here than he had to?
She could sense he didn’t really want her company, and he sure didn’t want Joey to ride. Heck, she could tell he didn’t even like horses, and she’d let him off the hook about the date thing.
So why was he coming?
When she finally had the horses all ready to be saddled, she was still mumbling.
“So,” she murmured to Cinderella, “do you think he’s coming back out of a sense of honor?”
Then, to Milky Way, she said, “Maybe he just likes my dad.”
Slipping the halter off Einstein, the big gray gelding, she wondered, “Or does he need some R and R?”
And finally, to Kahlua, she said, “What do I care, anyway? Just why the heck do I care, girl?”
All day as she worked, as she went through the exercises with her patients, as she laughed with them, encouraged them, taught them new skills, a part of her mind waited with a kind of tense expectation. She found her eyes straying often to the long ranch road, anticipating his car arriving, a plume of dust behind it.
After lunch she worked with Peter. His problem was somewhat different from the others; he had no neurological injury, but his brain fired too rapidly. It affected his concentration and his coordination, and the exercises helped him focus. The horse and its movement calmed him.
He was a kick, though, smart and quick, totally hyper all the time. If he became irritating, which could happen, everyone had learned to distract him or gently remind him to slow down. Callie was convinced that he really did “see” things, and that it was a result of the unique way his brain was wired.
In most therapy sessions there were three walkers, one person to lead the horse and one on each side, supporting the rider’s legs. It was labor-intensive therapy, and Callie, who was usually a side-walker so she could direct the exercises, was always short of help. On weekends she got volunteers from Lightning Creek, but weekdays were hard.
Luckily, some of her patients didn’t need as much physical support. Like Peter.
“Can I trot, can I trot?” he asked. “I feel good today, I want to trot.”
“Maybe later. Let’s work on raising your arms. That’s it. Keep ’em up. Feel the horse walking. Roll with it. Now we’ll stop and you swing your legs over. Sit sideways, Peter. You know the routine. We’re walking again. Now backward. Okay, good. See if you can hold your hands up again. We’re walking, we’re walking. Good job.”
She did let Peter trot Cinderella around the ring. All alone. He was thrilled, his face aglow. When he got off the pony, Callie hugged him, and truly, for a moment, she forgot all about Mase LeBow.
Then she noticed Rebecca, nearly hidden behind the fence surrounding the ring. That beautiful, solemn face.
“Hi, Rebecca,” Callie said. “Is it your turn now?”
Of course, the little girl didn’t answer. Silently, she entered the ring, holding the required hard hat. She knew the routine by now, but she merely went through the motions. The only thing that reached her was the horses; she loved them.
It was a hot afternoon, and by three o’clock, Callie was dry and dusty and tired. Off to the west behind the hills, thunderclouds were building, an afternoon rainstorm on its way. It was a common-enough occurrence in Wyoming. Callie figured she’d get the last therapy session in before the deluge. It was James, a man of sixty who’d suffered a stroke. He’d been at the ranch for almost two months now and was coming along really well, with only a slight limp now. Jarod would help her with him as a safety precaution.
The session went well, but by the time it was over, the wind had picked up, swirling dust devils across the riding ring. By five the sun was hidden and distant thunder growled. Then came the first big drops, splashing on the dry ground, and everyone still outside grabbed the horses and scampered inside the barn to wait out the storm.
It was over in twenty minutes. Everyone emerged from the barn to find the sun out, the air washed clean, the trees looking refreshed.
And Mase LeBow’s blue Jeep Cherokee driving up the ranch road.
“Well, well,” Jarod said, “here’s your date, Callie.”
“Be quiet, Jarod,” she growled.
She stood there, holding Kahlua and Cinderella by the reins, her oldest jeans on. She felt dusty and sweaty, and her hair hung limply, damp tendrils escaping the rubber band that held it back. She glanced down at her cowboy boots. They were so old the toes curled up like Persian slippers. Oh, yes, she was ready for a date, all right.
Mase got out of the car, stretched his back and looked around. Joey popped out of the passenger side, stood there for a minute then spied Callie. More important, he saw Kahlua and ran over to smile up at her.
“Hello,” he said to the horse.
Kahlua twitched her ears meaningfully. Joey dug in his jeans pocket and came up with a dirty, crumbling lump of sugar. He held it out to her, and she lipped it up.
“Hey, Joey,” Callie said, “that was a really nice thing you did. She’s been working all day, you know.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mase strode up then, slowly taking off his sunglasses as he got to Callie.
“Hi there, Mr. LeBow,” Jarod said.
“It’s Mase, please.”
“Sure thing. Good to see you back.”
“Thanks, Jarod.” He turned his gaze on Callie. “Well, we’re here,” he said.
“So I see. Did you get hit by the rain?”
“Sure did. Slowed me down some.”
Small talk. Absurd, foolish.
But Mase didn’t look small or foolish or any such thing. He looked downright handsome. He was wearing khakis and a salmon-colored polo shirt, which made him seem more tanned than she recalled. His blue eyes were clear and alert, his hair full, dark, that lock falling softly on his brow. He was taller than she remembered, too, taller and perhaps trimmer, fit-looking. No doughnut breaks for Detective LeBow.
Callie cleared her throat, acutely aware of how bad she looked in comparison—the sweat, grime, stringy hair. “So, you’re here,” she said, dragging her eyes up to his. “I’ll get someone to show you where you’re staying. One of the guest rooms in the house. Do you think Joey would rather stay with the kids in one of the bunkhouses or with you?”
No hesitation. “Better put him with me.”
“Sure, okay. Mom’s got the room ready.” She shuffled her old boots in the rain-damp earth. “Let me just put the horses in the paddock there, okay?”
Walking ahead of him to the house, Callie wondered if the seat of her threadbare jeans was intact. She hoped so.
The house was cool and filled with the aromas of
food cooking. And something baking. Francine was hard at work.
“Welcome, Mase—where’s Joey?” Liz asked as she emerged from the kitchen.
“Out with the horses,” Callie answered. “Can you get Mase settled while I finish up outside?”
“Sure. Come on, I’ll show you your room,” her mother said, and Callie gratefully escaped.
Once the horses were taken care of, Callie found time to take a long, hot shower, put a quart of body-building conditioner in her hair, and dress in a new pair of jeans, a round-necked pink T-shirt and sandals. Formal dinnerwear.
Mascara, pale-pink lipstick. No blush. Heaven forbid. Callie had enough natural blush. And why in blazes was she putting on makeup, anyway?
Dinner was the usual noisy, cheerful occasion. Mase seemed to turn into a different guy with the other men around. He regaled them with cop stories, had them guffawing or listening closely, pretty darn impressed.
Then Jarod asked him about his years at the Lost Springs Ranch, and he told them, quite matter-of-factly, about his terrible teens and how he put his folks through hell.
“Think Joey will put you through the same kind of hell?” Tom asked.
“Boy, I sure hope not.” Mase looked down the table at his son, who was sitting between Sylvia and little Rebecca. Then he shook his head. “It gives me gray hairs, I’ll tell you.”
Liz studied him. “I don’t see any gray hairs.”
“Figurative gray hairs,” Mase said, and he smiled at Liz. Actually smiled, for goodness’ sake.
Callie was much too aware of Mase sitting next to her. His tanned muscular forearm lay on the table next to hers, and she couldn’t help noticing the contrast between the silver of the watch he was wearing and the golden tan of that arm. She saw, too, that the short, crisp hairs on his forearm were practically the color of honey.
“More potatoes?” someone said, and Callie took the bowl and passed it along, tearing her gaze away from the arm that lay so close to hers.
Mase seemed perfectly at ease with the rowdy group, but he kept his attention on others, never on her. Frankly, she was getting sick of being ignored.
“Mase,” she said, realizing she was deliberately throwing down the gauntlet to get his attention, “how about we give Joey a ride on Kahlua tomorrow?”
He turned to her, surprised for a moment, then his jaw tightened, and his voice turned cool. “I don’t trust horses. They can be dangerous, and I don’t think Joey needs to be put at risk.”
“Our horses aren’t dangerous,” she said mildly. “And I think it would be a wonderful experience. We take all the safety precautions there are.”
“I don’t know what you expect to accomplish,” Mase replied. “Joey doesn’t need your therapy or your pity.”
She was taken aback by his defensiveness. “Sorry, it was just an idea,” she said in a huff. So much for good intentions.
Her dad, not hearing the exchange, took the opportunity to invite Mase along on a horseback ride the next day. He and Peter and Jarod were going on a trail ride.
“Thanks,” Mase said tightly, “but I’m really more the touch-football type.”
Callie was glad to help wash dishes after dinner; it absolved her of having to be around Mase. She was sure he was just as relieved. She pulled on yellow rubber gloves and scrubbed away at the pots. As she worked, she couldn’t help wondering again why Mase had come back to Wyoming. And then she thought about his marriage and his wife and how sad it all was, and how much Joey must miss his mother, and when her eyes filled with tears, she pretended she’d gotten soap in them.
The dishes were done eventually, and there was no escape. In the living room, with its deep comfortable chairs, worn Oriental rugs and white wainscoting, Callie thought about excusing herself, saying she was tired and had to get to bed, but her mother foiled her plans.
“So,” Liz said, “aren’t you two supposed to be on a date? What kind of date is this?”
“Mom, I don’t think…”
“Mrs. Thorne, I really don’t…”
They spoke at the same time, then stopped and started over. “I’m okay right here,” Mase began, and Callie chimed in, “I’m really sleepy.” She yawned for good measure.
“Listen to that, will you?” Tom said. “You’d think they were old fuddy-duddies like us.”
“What’s there to do, anyway?” Jarod asked. The only place he ever frequented was the Roadkill Grill, which opened its saloon bar at 8:00 p.m.
“How about a movie?” Francine suggested.
“A movie,” Callie repeated.
“Sure, at the Isis Theater. You know what’s playing?” the red-haired cook asked.
“Now, wait a minute,” Callie said. “Maybe Mase doesn’t like movies.”
Tom was rattling the local paper, looking for the movie schedule.
“I don’t mind movies, but isn’t it kind of late?” Mase suggested.
Francine shook her head. “There’s a nine o’clock show.” Then she grinned wickedly.
“Here it is,” Tom said, “The English Patient. Seen it?”
“No,” Callie said.
“No,” Mase said.
“Well then, there you are.”
“That’s an old movie, isn’t it?” James remarked. “It came out a couple of years ago.”
“Well, the Isis gets things late,” Sylvia explained. “About the time they come out in video. The owner’s too cheap to pay for first-run films.”
“Dom isn’t cheap,” Liz protested. “There’s just not enough of a market here, Sylvia.”
“Mase, be honest, do you want to see The English Patient?” Callie asked.
He looked around the room as if trapped, then his gaze fell on Joey.
“Don’t worry about Joey,” Sylvia said. “We’ll take real good care of him. And look, he’s playing with Rebecca. Isn’t that cute? They’re coloring.”
They were indeed. The two youngest on the ranch were squatting over coloring books, choosing colors with great deliberation, each checking out whether the other was staying in the lines.
“Oh, go on, you two. Live a little,” Francine urged them.
“Thorne out on a date.” Jarod chortled. “What a kick.”
“Well, I guess,” Mase said reluctantly. “I mean, if you don’t mind…”
“I’d sure go,” Marianne piped up.
“No more excuses,” Hal added.
Callie looked at Mase; he gave a slight shrug, his expression neutral. How embarrassing, how awful. “Are you sure?” she asked weakly.
“Oh, be quiet and go,” Sylvia said.
So that was how Callie found herself sitting next to Mase in his car as he drove into Lightning Creek.
“My speed too slow for you?” he asked pointedly.
“No, it’s perfect. Honestly.” She squirmed in her seat, feeling prickly all over. Luckily, the dark hid her heated cheeks.
“You probably hate movies,” she eventually said, to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Not at all.”
“Bet you don’t like The English Patient.”
“Never saw it, so I don’t know.”
“It’s a love story. A chick flick. It’s probably corny.”
“Would you rather not go?”
“Oh, no, no, it’s fine with me.”
Sitting next to him in the funky little theater crammed with every young person in town was even worse than she’d i
magined. Their arms touched. When he crossed his leg, it brushed her thigh, so he quickly uncrossed it.
What was wrong with her? Callie liked men, she loved dates, loved going out. She even loved movies, especially romantic ones. So what was making her heart pound and her mouth dry?
When the love scene came between Ralph Fiennes and Kristin Scott Thomas, it was not as explicit as in so many modern movies, but much more moving.
“You want my handkerchief?” Mase whispered into her ear.
She must have been sniffing too loudly. “No,” she whispered back. “I’m okay.”
But she wasn’t. As the movie grew even more tragic, tears ran down her cheeks. Finally, Mase put his handkerchief in her hand, closing her fingers around it. “Take it,” he said, and she did.
The hankie was soaked by the time the movie was over, and Mase was apparently at a loss. He patted Callie’s hand tentatively, then the lights in the theater came on. Callie felt stunned for a moment. Then she blew her nose hard into Mase’s hankie and took a deep breath.
“You okay?” he asked. “I thought there for a minute…”
“Oh, yes, I’m great. I loved that movie. Did you?”
“It was a very good movie.”
“Yes, it was.” Then she realized she was holding his sodden handkerchief balled up in her hand. She looked at it, looked up at him. “Oh, my gosh, I’m sorry. I’ll…I’ll put it in the laundry at home. I’ll…”
“Don’t worry about it, Callie. I have others.”
They stood and filed out of the theater, following dozens of red-eyed high school girls. The night was dark and cool, and Callie was grateful that her own tear-swollen eyes were hidden.
“I must look a sight,” she said, surreptitiously wiping a finger below her eyes in case she’d wept black mascara smudges.
“You look fine.”
“You can’t see me in this light.”
“Well then, we could check you out in better light.”
“No, that’s okay,” she said quickly.
Mase stood looking down at her, his face shadowed. He had his hands in the pockets of his khakis. “Well,” he finally said, “since this is a date, we should go somewhere. Maybe have a beer or something.”
Courting Callie Page 6
