Courting Callie

by Lynn Erickson

  Sleazebag looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Circumstantial. Merely circumstantial evidence. And, I might remind you, you don’t have this so-called Hitman in custody. He’s pure fantasy as far as my client is concerned.”

  “Harvey,” the D.A. said, “we not only have Mase’s sworn statement, but we have a voice match on both the Hitman and Metcalf discussing the murder on our wiretap.”

  “An illegal wiretap,” Sleazebag put in. “There’s a motion in front of the judge about that even as we sit here. You ever hear of entrapment?”

  The D.A. smiled again. “It was perfectly legal. You know it. We all know it.”

  And so it went all morning.

  Mase sat listening to the banter, growing angrier by the second. He couldn’t help wondering if Sleazebag knew about the threat to Joey. Maybe he had come up with the idea in the first place.

  By the time the meeting was over, Mase was so hot under the collar he was ready to throttle Metcalf’s attorney. It had been a total waste of time, nothing accomplished, just lawyers posturing. The attorney had called the meeting with one intent in mind: to rattle Mase.

  Well, Mase was rattled.

  All afternoon he played catch-up at his desk. Paperwork and more paperwork. And Luke was behind, too, because of Mase’s absence. What a way to start out a week. The one good thing, the only thing keeping Mase going, was the knowledge that Joey was safe. Safe and happy.

  Callie, he thought when he looked up from a file, Callie was caring for his son, keeping him out of harm’s way, healing him at last from the hurt of losing his mother.

  Callie…

  He didn’t get home till after eight that night. He was hot and tired, the starched white collar of his shirt limp and grimy, his mood foul, the house dark. And very empty.

  He didn’t see the note stuck under his front door until almost nine, when he thought to switch on the porch light.

  Mase picked it up by the corner, carefully, a cop habit. And then he read it.

  We know where your kid is.

  Keep it in mind when you go to court.

  That was it. Two short lines that were like a vise, tightly squeezing his heart.

  He never thought out his actions. He hardly realized where he was or what he was doing until he was standing on the pillared front terrace of Metcalf’s Denver Country Club home, pounding on the double oak doors.

  It took some doing to get Metcalf there, and the butler was shaking when he finally fetched his master. But Metcalf appeared. He was clad in a summer white dinner jacket and black bow tie, his razor-cut gray hair gleaming in the lamplight on the terrace.

  “LeBow?” Metcalf said mildly. “To what do I owe this honor? I’m afraid I’m entertaining…”

  Before the handsome entrepreneur could finish, Mase had him jacked up against the oak doors, a forearm crushing his neck against the hardwood.

  “You son of a bitch,” Mase rasped. “If one hair on my son’s head is harmed, one single hair, you’re dead. Do you hear me, Metcalf?”

  The man was gasping, barely struggling against Mase’s superior strength.

  “Do you hear me?”

  Metcalf managed to blink as if to say yes, and suddenly Mase caught himself, realizing the man was actually choking. He let up on the pressure.

  “Tell me you’re listening,” Mase spat out. “Tell me.”

  “I…I can hear you,” Metcalf whispered hoarsely, and Mase let him go.

  “I’m not joking,” Mase said as he started to back away. “I will kill you. I’m not threatening you, either, you lowlife—I’m promising.” And then Mase left.

  He remembered driving home—only a few blocks. But the downscale neighborhood Mase lived in might as well have been on a different planet. He tried showering to calm down. He tried working out with his gym equipment in the cool basement. Nothing helped. He kept thinking he should call Callie and her folks and warn them, but part of him believed the note had been a bluff. How could the Hitman know where Joey was? Hell, Mase would have spotted a tail on Callie’s pickup truck. There hadn’t been one. No one except his boss knew about the Someday Ranch. Not even Luke knew the whole story.

  It had to be a bluff.

  The doorbell rang at eleven that night. Mase answered it in his pajama bottoms with his service revolver in hand. He was surprised to find his boss on the front steps. Then he realized what must have happened. Metcalf. The bastard had called a political friend.

  “The mayor called me,” his boss said. “The mayor just called my home and told me what you pulled, LeBow.”

  Mase let out a ragged breath and lowered his gun. “You want to come in? I can explain…”

  But Al Coleman interrupted him. “No explanation necessary. I want your gun and badge, Mase. You’re suspended from duty as of right now. I can’t even say I’m sorry after the stupid stunt you just pulled.”

  Mase stared at the captain for a long moment, deciding whether or not to try to explain. At least show him the threatening note. In the end, though, he thought, Screw it.

  “I quit,” Mase said tightly.

  The captain frowned. “Look, Mase,” he said, “you don’t have to quit. I’m sure a week’s suspension, with pay, I might add, will satisfy the mayor and…”

  “You aren’t listening,” Mase said. “I quit.” And then slowly, trying to control the shaking in his hand, he closed the door. He stood there in the entranceway for a long time. He thought about his gun, still dangling from his fingers, and his badge, on the dresser, and he realized he should have turned them over to his boss. Made it real…final.

  Finally he shrugged and squared his shoulders. To hell with it, he thought. He didn’t owe them a damn thing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BY THURSDAY MORNING at the Someday Ranch, tents and sleeping bags, coolers and big cooking pots were piling up in the entrance to the barn.

  It was gymkhana weekend, an annual event held in July at the ranch—the Thorne family’s way of saying thank-you to the people of Lightning Creek for their support during the year.

  The first gymkhana had taken place fifteen years ago. Callie, still a teenager in high school, had just read National Velvet, and been fascinated by the gymkhana described in it. She had begged her parents to sponsor one and they had agreed. People camped out in tents and there were cookouts. Simple games on horseback were organized for the children, and rodeo-type events for the better riders. The first gymkhana had been such a success that the following year everyone decided it should be an annual event.

  It was a bit of a logistical nightmare to set up. Dozens of tents were needed for sleeping out, folding chairs and picnic tables had to be hauled to the campsite by the trout stream that ran through the lower forty on the Someday Ranch. Horses had to be trailered in, campfire stoves and barbecue pits set up. Everyone pitched in. The Roadkill Grill provided some of the food, the grocery store, too. The local Moose Lodge hauled in the tables and chairs, the rent-all shop provided the big tent, and the liquor store donated a keg of beer.

  Callie was so busy contacting everyone with the reminder list of what they were to bring—and still doing her therapy sessions—that she almost forgot Mase hadn’t called since the previous Sunday night.

  Her mother, however, hadn’t forgotten.

  They were in the kitchen helping Francine bake for the gymkhana when Liz brought up the subject. “My, Mase hasn’t called, has he.”

  Callie ignored her
and took a sheet of cookies out of the big Vulcan oven. She burned the side of her hand. “Ouch.”

  “Run it under cold water, dear,” Liz said mildly. “I wonder why he hasn’t called.”

  “You’d think he’d want to talk to Joey,” Francine added.

  And on it went. Sylvia even showed up and joined the conversation.

  “What do you think, Callie?” Liz finally asked.

  Everyone paused, expectant.

  Callie sighed. She might as well put an end to their wondering right now. “If you all really must know,” she said, “there is nothing between us.”

  “Nothing happened in Denver?” Francine blurted out.

  Callie narrowed her eyes. “No. Nothing happened. Mase and I don’t think of each other in that way. We’re just acquaintances with a mutual goal—to see Joey get better.”

  Even Liz was surprised. “Callie, honey, are you telling us that you stayed, well, at Mase’s house and nothing…”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Now, can we get back to work here? The whole town’s going to show up Saturday morning and I’d like to be ready. Okay?”

  But later, when Callie dropped into bed that night, the same questions beat at her. Why hadn’t anything happened at his house? In the kitchen, in her black nightie, she’d thought maybe… Well, his expression had certainly seemed…

  It came rushing back. His bare chest and strong, muscled arms. The way his eyes had darkened with an emotion she’d thought…

  Callie sat up in bed and bit her lip. Stop it, Thorne. This was getting her nowhere. Mase thought of her in only one way, as a skinny country bumpkin, a weirdo who believed in horses and magic. She was dumber than dumb to dwell on it. And all that business about him having some deep dark secret was her imagination running wild. She wanted him to have a secret, and that way she could tell herself he was preoccupied. The pathetic truth was that he had no interest in her at all.

  But worse, much, much worse, was the realization she was falling in love. All this time, all these years, and she was finally tumbling head over heels for a guy.

  Trouble was, Mase was the wrong guy.

  * * *

  SHERIFF REESE HATCHER was in his office when Mase found him. Mase hadn’t planned to stop, but several miles south of Lightning Creek he decided he would be foolhardy not to at least let the local authorities know what was going on. And Reese was the local authority.

  He stopped at the dispatcher’s desk and spoke to the lady on duty, who was reading Family Circle magazine. “Uh, sorry to interrupt,” Mase said, “but is Sheriff Hatcher in?” He nodded toward the half-closed door with the stenciled sign, Sheriff, on it.

  “Sheriff’s in, mister. Who should I say…?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

  “LeBow, Mase LeBow from Denver.”

  Hatcher must have overheard because the door swung open and he appeared. “Come in, Mase, didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  Mase offered him his hand and then strode into the office. He hadn’t expected to be back himself—not for a couple of weeks, anyway. But the pressure was on in Denver. His boss had been calling him twice a day since Monday night, asking him to reconsider and come back to work. Even the mayor had called. Mase was going nuts, finding himself suddenly unemployed and looking over his shoulder every two seconds, steeped in paranoia. There was Joey, too, though Mase was still pretty darn positive his son was safe. He couldn’t help worrying, though. What if he’d misjudged the situation? So he’d packed his bags, called his folks to let them know what was going on, locked his house and driven off.

  It had been so easy. He would have thought leaving Denver under a cloud would have been difficult at best. But, hell, he’d felt nothing but blissful relief.

  “Sit—sit on down there, son,” Reese Hatcher was saying, “and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Mase sat in the hard-backed wooden chair across from Hatcher’s oak desk and began the tale from the very beginning, starting with the 911 call from the city councilman to last Monday night, when he’d threatened Richard Metcalf and gotten himself a big fat suspension. “But I quit instead,” Mase said.

  “Just like that?”

  Mase nodded. “Right there in my pj’s with my gun in my hand.”

  Reese pursed his lips. “So now you’re here. And I’m bettin you’d like me to keep my eye out here in town for that Hitman character.”

  “Hank Berry. Yes,” Mase said. “I’ve got a picture of him from the FBI’s Most Wanted list.” He pulled the faxed copy from his pocket. “He’s armed and dangerous. No fooling around with this guy.”

  Hatcher took the picture, looked at it, grunted.

  “If you could keep your eye out and tell your deputies, too.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem, son,” Reese said. Then he raised a brow and lowered his voice. “Say, you told the Thornes about this?”

  Slowly, Mase shook his head. “They only know about the upcoming trial. Nothing else.” He, too, spoke quietly, as if they were in some kind of conspiracy together.

  “Not even Miss Callie?”

  “Not even her. Especially not her. She, uh, well, Callie’s kind of fanciful, if you get my meaning.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Hatcher said.

  “And I just thought it would be best if she were kept in the dark. God only knows the things she might start to imagine.”

  “Hmm,” Hatcher said, considering. “Can’t say as I blame you. Sometimes there are things the public just don’t need to know. Better for ’em if they don’t.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  “Still…” Hatcher rubbed his whiskered chin. “I can see where if someone like Miss Callie were to learn you’d kept this from her… Well, she might get a real burr under her saddle. Oh, yeah, I can see that.”

  Mase expelled a breath. “What would you have done, Sheriff?”

  “Oh, same thing as you, boy, same thing.”

  They talked for some time that Friday, about law enforcement, about small towns and their unique problems—not the least of which was being on a first-name basis with everyone. Mase recalled their conversation the night he and Callie had gone to the movie, and he had a gut feeling Hatcher was circling a point he was trying to make. Mase let it go. If there was something on Reese’s mind, he’d get around to it eventually.

  “So when is this murder trial?” Hatcher finally asked.

  “Opening arguments are scheduled to start next week,” Mase said. “If I can lie low till then and keep Joey out of sight, I’m home free.”

  “Well,” Hatcher said, rising and shaking Mase’s hand again, “I’ll do everything in my power to help.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” As Mase left the office, he nodded at the lady dispatcher, who was reading again. He was feeling much, much better. Now all he had to do was get out to the Someday Ranch and face Callie. He still wasn’t sure just how much he should tell her, though. He climbed into his car, started the engine and recalled something Hatcher had said. He’d suggested that if “Miss Callie” ever found out the truth, he could see her getting a real burr under her saddle.

  As Mase drove around the bucking bronco in the center of town, he said aloud, “Now, there’s an understatement if I ever heard one.”

  * * *

  NO ONE, NOT EVEN REESE, had told Mase about the gymkhana.

  When he turned into the long drive at Callie’s ranch, the road looked like a sepia photograph of the Great Dust Bowl of t
he 1930s. Clouds of dust hung in the still, hot air, obscuring his vision. He darn near had a head-on collision with a truck. What the heck was going on here? Why all the traffic?

  He found out shortly after arriving at the main house. Joey, after giving him a big hug, told Mase all about the camping-out party and how everyone in the world was coming. Not once did Joey question why his dad was there, but Callie, emerging from the kitchen with flour smudges on her face and her T-shirt, sure asked. Oh, you bet she did.

  Surprise spread across her features. “Mase? What on earth are you doing here? I thought…”

  He wanted to unload, tell her everything—that he’d used her ranch to keep Joey safe, that he’d quit the police force, how bad he felt for lying all along to her and everyone here, when they’d all been nothing but warm and welcoming since the very first. He looked at Callie, the expectant innocence in those big eyes, the soft curve of her lips, the tilt of her head, and he ached to come clean, to draw her to his chest and whisper into that perfect shell-pink ear the whole truth.

  Instead he chickened out.

  He’d figured she was going to ask—not just why he’d suddenly appeared, but how he’d gotten the time off work. What he was afraid of was that if he told her he’d quit his job, she’d want to know every detail. And if he told her exactly why, then he’d be telling her all about the Hitman and the threats to Joey.

  He couldn’t do it. He especially couldn’t right now, with everyone hurrying this way and that. Joey and Rebecca and Peter were running around, playing practically under his feet. Everyone was getting ready for this big weekend, happily getting ready. No. Now was not the moment.

  “Mase?” she was saying.

  “I…got some time off,” he muttered, gazing down at her, at those endearing flour smudges.