Leftover Love

by Janet Dailey

  Praise for the storytelling talents of

  bestselling author

  JANET DAILEY

  “[Dailey] moves her story ahead so purposefully and dramatically … readers will be glad they’ve gone along for the ride.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “A page-turner.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Bittersweet. … Passion, vengeance, and an unexpected danger from the past add to the mix.”

  —Library Journal

  “Janet Dailey’s name is synonymous with romance.”

  —Tulsa World (OK)

  “Careful writing and brilliant characterizations create an engrossing read.”

  —Booklist

  “A master storyteller of romantic tales, Dailey weaves all the ‘musts’ together to create the perfect love story.”

  —Leisure magazine

  “Dailey is a smooth, experienced romance writer.”

  —Arizona Daily Star

  Books by Janet Dailey

  Calder Born, Calder Bred

  Stands a Calder Man

  This Calder Range

  This Calder Sky

  The Best Way to Lose

  Touch the Wind

  The Glory Game

  The Pride of Hannah Wade

  Silver Wings, Santiago Blue

  For the Love of God

  Foxfire Light

  The Hostage Bride

  The Lancaster Men

  Leftover Love

  Mistletoe & Holly

  The Second Time

  Separate Cabins

  Terms of Surrender

  Western Man

  Nightway

  Ride the Thunder

  The Rogue

  Published by Pocket Books

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Pocket Star Book published by

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Leftover Love copyright © 1984 by Janbill, Ltd.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-6988-7

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4516-3983-4

  First Pocket Books printing March 2004

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Illustration by Mark Gerber

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  These titles were previously published individually by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  LEFTOVER

  LOVE

  Chapter 1

  A leave of absence? Are you serious?” Clyde Walters leaned back in his squeaking office chair and stared at the woman standing in front of his desk. “Beth’s on maternity leave. Ed’s home, sick with the flu, and Frank is hobbling around here on a broken leg after that damned skiing trip to Vail. You can’t honestly believe I’d consider such a request!”

  “You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” Layne MacDonald insisted firmly.

  In the background there was a hum of activity—telephones ringing, voices talking, and the light tapping of fingers feeding stories into the computer terminals of the newspaper office. With the deadline approaching for the afternoon edition, there was always a wire-taut tension about the staff. But Clyde Walters had been a keen observer of people for too long. Layne MacDonald was tense—as edgy as a feline surrounded by icy water. And it had nothing to do with any newspaper deadline.

  As an editor, it was part of Clyde Walters’ job to know the idiosyncrasies of his staff. A man in his position shouldn’t have favorites, but Layne had occupied a special place ever since she joined the staff fresh out of college. In many ways she was a contradiction. She could be as tenacious and ruthless as a pit bull in interview situations, not caring how much her questions made someone squirm. And he’d seen her in tears over some simple human interest story. Some accused her of being heartless and cold-blooded, while others declared she was a sucker for a sob story.

  Even her appearance contained contradictions. Her chestnut hair, a gleaming rust-brown color, was femininely long, but it was smoothed into a businesslike plait. Her olive-brown eyes could be piercing in their scrutiny, yet her lips were full and soft. The white blouse she was wearing had a high ruffled collar and ruffled cuffs, long sleeves puffed at the shoulders, and a wide jabot at the neck—a softly feminine creation. Yet her gray skirt was divided, full trouser pleats down the front, and the fabric was a menswear herringbone.

  “What is it? A family emergency?” he challenged.

  “You could call it that.” She glossed over her answer and rushed to enlarge on her request. “I’ll only need a few days—a week at the most.”

  “A week! It’s out of the question.” He sat forward and switched his attention to the pile of papers on his desk. “That ‘crime in schools’ piece still has to be finished for the Sunday edition, not to mention the interview with—”

  “I have all the legwork done on the school feature,” Layne cut in. “Beth can write it while she’s home. And you can pull Janna Phelps off the Woman’s Page to cover the rest of my assignments this week.”

  “You’ve got it all thought out, don’t you?” His glance was marked with impatience. “Maybe you’d better tell me what it is that’s so important,” he suggested roughly and observed the barely contained stir of agitation.

  Her gaze faltered briefly under his direct look, then met it. “I uncovered a lead on Martha Turner this weekend.”

  Clyde Walters took a deep breath at her answer and struggled to keep from sighing in irritation. In his opinion, Layne was dredging up a past that was better left undisturbed.

  “What kind of a lead?” he asked.

  “I found an obituary notice on August Turner, her father, dated twenty years ago. It made mention that he was survived by his daughter, Martha Turner, of Valentine, Nebraska.”

  “That’s a real hot lead,” Clyde scoffed. “Now you’re following a trail that’s only twenty years old. After all this time, I doubt if it would make any difference whether you waited a week or six months before following up on it. I wouldn’t call it urgent.”

  “Maybe to you it isn’t. But I finally know where she went—and that twenty years ago she was still single. She might still be living there now.”

  “And maybe she moved,” he argued.

  “I’m going to find out,” Layne stated with a determined lift of her chin. “I haven’t looked this long and this hard for her to wait now.”

  “Well, I can’t spare you, so your personal business will have to wait.” He was deliberately gruff with her.

  “If you won’t grant me a leave of absence, Clyde, I’ll have to quit.”

  His head reared back at the blatant challenge in her voice. “I don’t like being threatened, Layne.”

  “It isn’t a threat, Clyde. I’ll do it,” she informed him without hesitation.

  “You’d throw away your job to go off on some wild-goose chase after a woman who’s a total stranger to you?” His gaze narrowed sharply on her. “I gave you credit for having more sense than that.”

  Appealing to her logic was not the way to handle an issue that was purely emotional. Her actions were not dictated by reason. Finding Martha Turner was an obsession that bordered on compulsion. In her mind everything was clear-cut. If Clyde Walters didn’t support her
in this quest, then he opposed her. In which case, she had no qualms about defying him. It didn’t have to make sense.

  “I’ve followed so many dead ends that I’m not going to sit on the one good lead I’ve found,” Layne declared. “If that means giving up this job, I’ll do it. I’ll go to work for some other newspaper. I am a damned good writer.”

  “But you’re not indispensable.” He bridled at her selfish attitude. “You could have some consideration for the mess you’re leaving me in.”

  “You’ll manage,” she retorted. “As you said, I’m not indispensable.” She swung sharply around and headed for the opening in the partition that gave some semblance of privacy to the office. The heels of her tall, black boots made decisive little thumps on the floor, but Layne stopped short of leaving. As she paused to look hesitantly over her shoulder at the balding man behind the desk, regret became mixed with her single-minded determination. “I’m sorry, Clyde. I don’t blame you for not understanding. It’s just that I’ve got to do this.”

  “What happens when you find her?” Clyde looked at her sadly. “What do you think you’ll gain?”

  “I don’t know,” Layne admitted with a small shrug. A quick smile came and went on her lips. “But it’ll make a good story. You can have an exclusive on it.”

  “I damned well better have,” he retorted. “You may be a good writer, but I’m not sure you’re a good reporter. A reporter observes what happens. You’re going out to make a story. I guess maybe I envy you a little.” Then he sobered. “’Course, I also think you’re opening a can of worms.”

  “Maybe so,” she conceded.

  Mutual respect flowed silently between them. The harshness of their previous exchange was forgotten as Layne left his office. For all intents and purposes, she was out of a job even though she hadn’t formally quit and Clyde hadn’t accepted her abrupt resignation. But someone else would have to be hired temporarily in her stead. Still, Layne was confident that Clyde would make room for her on the staff when she came back.

  It was almost better this way—with no time limit set, dictating when she had to return. She could pursue this lead as far as it took her, exhaust every possibility. She had some savings set aside, enough to carry her for a little while. For eight years she had been actively searching for a woman named Martha Turner—ever since she was eighteen. Perhaps it was time to make one all-out effort to locate her. It would depend on what she found in Valentine whether the road led to another dead end or put her onto a new trail.

  Hardly any attention was paid to her as Layne stuffed the few personal items from her desk into her purse. In anticipation of the bitter Nebraska-cold February outside, she pulled a knitted cap over her head and buttoned her winter coat high around her neck.

  “Where are you off to?” her co-worker, Sally McGraw, inquired with idle curiosity.

  “I’m taking some time off to handle some personal matters,” Layne explained as she pulled on a pair of heavy woolen mittens.

  “Oh. Who’s covering your desk for you?”

  “You’ll have to ask Clyde,” she returned and waved as she headed for the elevators.

  It was a blustery day with threatening gray skies. The wind whipped around the tall buildings of downtown Omaha, driving the wind-chill index to a subzero level. Her boots crunched on the salt-covered sidewalks as she hurried to the lot where she’d left her car parked. She kept her head down and her chin tucked into the thick wool of her collar to protect her face from the biting chill.

  She made a mental note to check the weather forecast and the road conditions between Omaha and Valentine. She wasn’t crazy about the idea of venturing into the Nebraska Sand Hills if a winter storm advisory had been issued.

  On the way to her apartment Layne stopped to have her car serviced for the trip, and again at the branch post office to arrange to have her mail held until she returned. It was the middle of the afternoon before she finally arrived at her apartment. Packing for the trip wasn’t an easy process, since she wasn’t sure how long she’d be gone. It was difficult to find the happy medium between taking too much and taking too little.

  There was one item Layne did not hesitate to pack, although it was the last thing to go in the large suitcase. She carefully folded the hand-made baby quilt, pink on one side and blue on the other, and laid it on top. Her fingers absently caressed its much-washed softness as she drew her hand away to close the case and lock it.

  In the morning she’d put her cosmetics and toiletries in their small case, and she’d be all set. Not quite, Layne mentally qualified as she carried the suitcase into the small living room to set it by the door. There was still a phone call she wasn’t looking forward to making.

  The buzzer sounded in her apartment just as Layne passed the front door. She swung back to open it and admit her visitor. A twinge of guilt flashed across her expression when she saw her mother, but Layne was quick to smile.

  “Hi, Mom. I was just going to call to see if you and Dad had any plans for dinner this evening.” She injected a cheerful note into her voice.

  “We thought you’d stop by the house yesterday evening when you came back from North Platte.” The slim, blond-haired woman paused in the center of the room, her glance spying the suitcase by the door. “Haven’t you unpacked yet? Honestly, Layne, I don’t know how you manage on your own,” she declared with a chiding laugh.

  “I meant to stop but I got sidetracked,” Layne fibbed and headed for the kitchen bar that jutted into the living room. “Shall I put on some coffee?”

  “Not for me, dear.” Her mother shrugged out of her fur-trimmed coat of emerald wool and draped it over the sofa back. “This suitcase … you surely didn’t take it for just a weekend trip? Or are you going someplace again?”

  Her mother was much too astute. Layne went through the motions of filling the coffeepot with water and ladling fresh grounds into the basket, even though she wasn’t interested in drinking any coffee either. It gave her a reason to avoid direct eye contact with her mother. She didn’t want to lie to her but she didn’t want to hurt her either.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m off to Valentine, Nebraska, in the morning. You know how Clyde is. With Valentine’s Day coming up, he got this corny idea about doing a piece on the town of Valentine, then expected someone else to come up with an original slant.” It was a flurry of words that came out, followed by a long silence from her mother.

  “When you were a little girl,” her mother said finally as she approached the counter bar where Layne stood, “I always knew when you were lying because you talked too fast. Your tongue just seemed to run away with itself. You’re twenty-six years old and you still do it.” There was some thing poignant about the look in those blue eyes when Layne briefly met them. “Am I supposed to believe that story? Or does your trip have something to do with what you found out in North Platte this weekend?”

  “Don’t ask, Mom.” Layne’s throat was tight as she fiddled with the cord to the coffeepot before finally plugging it into the wall socket. “I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted any of this to hurt you and Dad. I love you both. I’ll always think of you as my parents.”

  “But still, you want to find her.” The weariness of defeat was in her mother’s reply.

  “Yes.” Layne’s eyes were bright with unshed tears when she turned to the woman. There was no resemblance between the two, not in coloring or features. “You’ll always be my mother even if some other woman gave birth to me. Finding Martha Turner won’t change that. I wish you could understand why it’s so important to me to find out who and what I am.”

  “I think I do.” There was a faint stress on the personal pronoun.

  “I know.” Layne sighed dispiritedly. “It’s Dad who doesn’t understand.”

  “He’s afraid of losing you. When you were a little baby, he used to have nightmares that she’d come back to take you from us even after we had legally adopted you. It’s a fear that has always haunted him. He loves you.”
<
br />   “You don’t have to explain it to me,” Layne insisted with a wan smile. “Maybe it’s better that you don’t tell him I quit my job, though.”

  “You didn’t,” her mother protested.

  “I think Clyde will take me back on when all this is through.” The coffee was perking noisily beside her as Layne climbed onto a tall, wicker-backed stool at the counter. “I’ve decided to follow this lead wherever it takes me—concentrate all my attention on it instead of making haphazard forays to find some trace of her.”

  “What if you don’t find her?”

  There was a small shrug of one shoulder. “Then I’ll know I made every attempt.” She began to pull out the pins that held her chestnut hair in its smooth plait. It fell loose, cascading about her shoulders like russet-brown silk.

  “Have you ever considered what you’ll do if you find her?” Colleen MacDonald questioned with a worried look.

  “A thousand times.” Layne laughed without humor. “I’ve practiced what I’d say to her so many different times—and so many different ways—that it all sounds silly now. I just want to get to know her … find out what she likes and how she feels.”

  “Layne …” Her mother paused. “Have you ever considered the possibility that she might not want to see you? That you might represent a bad memory in her life that she won’t want to recall?”

  “Yes. It has occurred to me.” Layne nodded and a sweep of hair fell across her cheek. She tucked it behind an ear and gave her mother a shrugging smile. “I’ll just have to take that chance.”

  “But are you being fair to her?” her mother reasoned. “After all these years, for you to walk up to her and announce that you’re her daughter—it’s bound to be a shock, perhaps an unpleasant one.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” Layne assured her.

  “Have you? Have you really considered what her feelings might be? What about the home and family she probably has now? What if she hasn’t told them about you? Don’t you think that would make things awkward and uncomfortable?”

  “Please. I’ve made up my mind and you aren’t going to talk me out of it.” The questions seemed to hammer at her conviction until Layne felt she had to protest.