He had a reputation as a lady’s man, and he couldn’t deny the tag. The guys in the band and in his road crew used to have an ongoing bet to see how long it took Judd to get laid once he hit a new town. To him it wasn’t a competition, only the simple pleasure of a pretty woman and—if she was willing—good sex. He knew no other kind.
Yep, in the past a woman out on the prowl, looking for a good time, would’ve found it with Judd Barker.
But not anymore. He’d learned to curb his appetite for the taste and feel of a pretty woman.
“Liar,” he muttered under his breath. He slapped a hand against his leg and headed for the rear door that led to his bar with Baby padding along at his heels.
* * *
Callie burst through the door of the hotel, her arms wrapped tight around her. Frank turned and looked up at her over the top of his glasses. “Cold out?”
“Freezing!”
He chuckled and gave his chair a push, spinning around to face her. “It’s the wind. Cuts right through a person.”
“That’s for sure.” She shivered and dropped her arms to shake them in an attempt to get her blood flowing warm again.
“Did you find Judd?”
She stopped flapping long enough to frown. “Yeah, I found him, all right.” She crossed to the front desk and propped her elbows on its top, puckering her lips into a pout. “What is it with that man? Does he eat nails for breakfast, or what?”
“Judd?” Frank chuckled and reared back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. “Nah, he just doesn’t take to strangers.” He leaned forward to scrape some papers from his desk. “Had a call or two while you were out.” He stretched to pass the messages to Callie.
“Thanks, Frank.” Frowning, she stuffed the papers into her pocket without looking at them. The burden of them made her shoulders sag, but she forced a smile. “Well, I guess I’ll call it a night. See you in the morning.”
“Sure thing. We start serving breakfast at eight.”
Once in the privacy of her room, Callie shrugged out of her jacket, then held it by its sleeve while she dug in the pocket for the messages Frank had given her. She tossed the jacket to the bed as she opened the first.
Call Stephen—214-555-5622.
She sank down on the bed and unfolded the second message.
Call Stephen. Urgent—214-555-5622.
She fell back, groaning, her hand moving to shove her hair from her eyes. In the note she’d left him, she had asked for space, time. Obviously, Stephen wasn’t going to honor either request.
A knock at the door had her jackknifing to a sitting position. Frowning, she scooted off the bed and crossed to the door. Standing on tiptoe, she peered through the peephole. All she could see was unrelieved black, which in itself was enough to identify her visitor. The outline of a Stetson pulled low on the man’s forehead only served to confirm who stood outside.
Grimacing, she flung open the door. “A little late for a social call, don’t you think?”
He planted a hand on either side of the frame and leaned toward her, his gaze boring deep into hers. “Who are you?”
A frown puckered between her brows at his threatening look, and she took a cautious step back. “Callie Benson.”
“So you said.” He stepped inside, blocking any chance of her slamming the door in his face. “But what I want to know is what you are. Why you’re here.”
Unconsciously, she lifted a hand to her throat, wondering if Frank would hear if she screamed loud enough. “I told you, to find information on my great-grandfather’s mother.”
His hand arced out, fanning the air narrow inches from her nose. “Cut the bull. Mary Elizabeth Sawyer never had any children.”
Callie fell back a step. “I beg your pardon?”
“She never had children. None that lived, anyway.”
“She most certainly did!” She whirled to grab her purse. “I have the papers right here to prove it.” She dug in the depths of her feed-bag style purse, pulled out yellowed documents and thrust them under his nose. “See for yourself. William Leighton Sawyer, born June 14, 1890, Oklahoma Territory. Son of Mary Elizabeth Sawyer.”
Judd looked at the paper, then shoved her hand aside. “There’s a tombstone out in Summit View Cemetery that carries the same information.”
Callie’s mouth dropped open, then clamped shut with an indignant click of teeth. “I’ll have you know my great-grandfather is William Leighton Sawyer, and he might be old, but he’s very much alive.”
“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
“A reporter!” she repeated, her voice rising in anger and frustration. “No, I’m not a reporter. I’m a—” She threw up her hands, unable to believe she was even having this conversation. “I don’t owe you any explanations. Now get out of my room, or I’ll call Frank and have you thrown out.”
When he didn’t move, she reached for the phone. He caught her arm at the wrist and pulled it to his thigh, dragging her to stand nose-to-nose with him. “You came to find me, didn’t you?”
Callie’s chest swelled in anger. “What are you? Some kind of egomaniac? I don’t know you, and furthermore, don’t care to know you. Now, if you don’t mind,” she said through clenched teeth as she tried to wrench free of him. “Get your hands off me.”
Instead of releasing her, he tightened his fingers on her wrist, making her wince. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never heard of Judd Barker.”
She lifted her gaze to his and glared right back at the cold, hate-filled eyes pinned on her. “No, I’ve never heard of—” She stiffened as the name clicked a hidden memory, one of headlines with the name in bold, dark type. Judd Barker—Country Western’s Favorite Son Gone Bad.
She wasn’t a fan of country music, but like every other person who’d ever stood in a grocery checkout line, she’d read the headlines on the tabloids racked there. She would have dismissed them for the sensationalistic trash they were, except she’d also seen the cover of “People Weekly” magazine and read the story within. Judd Barker Charged With Rape Of Fan.
He watched her eyes darken in fear and felt the kick of it in her pulse through his fingertips. Her reaction both sickened and angered him. “So you have heard of me.”
“Ye-yes,” she stammered.
“And you came to see for yourself what kind of man would rape a defenseless woman and maybe get a front-page story for your trouble? Well, take a good look, sweetheart. This may be the only chance you get.”
Her head wagged back and forth in mute denial before she found her voice. “No. No, I told you. I didn’t come here to find you. I came to trace my great-grandfather’s mother.”
He twisted her hand behind his waist, dragging her body flush against his. He fisted his other hand in her hair, yanking her head back, forcing her face up to his. “Liar.”
Unwanted tears budded in her eyes. Her neck ached with the strain of looking up at him, but she was no match for his strength. Refusing to show her fear, she met his gaze squarely. “I’m not lying. And if you do not remove your hands from me by the time I count to three, I’m going to scream bloody hell and have everyone in the hotel in this room.” She narrowed her eyes, levering a note of threat into her voice as she added, “With one charge of rape of against you, you might have a hard time explaining your presence in my room. One. Two. Thr—”
His face came down, his lips crushing against hers, absorbing the scream that built in her throat. Her heart slammed against her chest at the first shocking contact. He’s going to rape me, she thought incredulously as she instinctively strained against the hand that held her face to his. Or kill me, she thought on a shudder. And she didn’t know which would be worse.
With every ounce of strength within her, she fought him, twisting her wrist within fingers cinched like a steel band, shoving against a chest, iron-hard with padded muscle. Her attempts to escape were futile for his mouth continued to punish her for a wrong she couldn’t name.
Her wrist
throbbed from the effort, her neck ached from the strain, yet she continued to struggle as his lips persisted in their bruising assault.
Then it changed. Everything. In the span of a heartbeat, his fingers loosened in her hair to cup her nape, his grip on her hand disappeared only to reappear, softer, gentler, at her waist. The lips on hers no longer punished, but teased; his tongue hot and wet, tracing the seam of her lips, skimming down her throat to savor the smooth skin there.
She found the sudden change from abductor to seducer as debilitating as his strength had been only moments ago. She knew that nothing held her to this man any longer, but she couldn’t—didn’t—pull away.
Instead, she curled her fingers into his shirt and clung. Against the flat of her palm, his heart beat. The back of her hand monitored her own heart’s thundered response. Passion, the kind she’d dreamed of but wasn’t sure existed, heated the blood coursing through her veins, turning her skin to fire, her sanity to a pile of ash.
He lifted a hand to nudge off his hat. It hit the floor, bounced against her leg then rocked slowly to a stop at her feet. Her fingers climbed up his chest to anchor on his shoulders. Her chest heaved with each intake of breath, her nipples hardening with each scrape of silk against cotton.
Her reaction to him both shocked and repulsed her. This man was a total stranger...a suspected rapist...and yet there was nothing strange about the way she felt in his arms. There was a familiarity in the way they responded to each other, an instantaneous spark of recognition that defied reason.
She dropped her head back on a low moan. “Don’t,” she whispered.
“Don’t, what?” he murmured, his breath heating the soft skin of her throat before he returned his lips to hers. He leveled his hands on her waist, then skimmed slowly upward over her ribs.
“Don’t—” She sucked in a ragged breath when his thumbs pushed against the swell of her breasts, sending rivers of sensation flooding through her. “You’ve got to stop,” she cried on a broken sob. “Or else I’ll— I’ll—”
His body went rigid against hers. “Or else you’ll what?” He took a step back, branding her with eyes dark with loathing. “Scream rape?” With his gaze still locked on hers, he bent and scooped his hat from the floor and fitted it over his head. He ran a finger along the brim to pull it low over his eyes.
“It’s not rape when a woman’s willing,” he said, then spun and walked to the door, his black duster swishing against the legs of his starched jeans. He stopped, one hand braced high on the door, then turned to look at her over his shoulder. “And you, sweetheart, were more than willing.”
* * *
Hours later Callie lay on her back, the sheet and blanket clutched to her chin, her eyes wide, staring at the ceiling overhead. Though the thermostat in the room registered a comfortable seventy-two degrees, shivers shook her body.
He’d been wrong. She hadn’t been willing. She’d been desperate, almost crazy with her need for him. If he hadn’t stopped when he did, she wasn’t at all sure she could have found the strength to end what he had started.
Even now, with regret stinging her eyes and throat, an ache still throbbed between her legs, crying out for a satisfaction she knew she shouldn’t want.
A sob rose in her throat, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth, holding it back. She’d always known there was more between a man and a woman than what she’d experienced. More than just a physical joining. There had to be a higher level, an almost spiritual experience that transformed a man and a woman when they touched. She’d never experienced that with Stephen, which explained her hesitancy in agreeing to set a date for their marriage.
But she had felt “that something different” with Judd Barker. God help her, but she’d felt it.
* * *
“Prudy, I want you to fax me everything you can find on Judd Barker.”
“The country-western singer?”
Callie juggled the phone between her ear and shoulder while she laced up her hiking boots. “Yes.”
“For heaven’s sake, why?”
She caught the phone in her hand, tightening her fingers on the receiver as she lurched to her feet. “Look, I don’t have time to explain right now. I’m on my way to the cemetery to see Papa’s grave.”
“Papa’s! He’s not dead! You’re supposed to be looking for his mother’s grave. Callie, what is going on? Are you all right?”
Callie closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her forehead, not sure that she’d ever be all right again. Not after last night. But she wouldn’t trouble Prudy with that now. “Yes,” she replied. “I’m fine. I’m just in a hurry. I’ll call later and explain.”
She hung up before Prudy could demand an immediate explanation. Gathering up her jacket and purse, she headed out the door. She avoided the elevator and took the stairs, shrugging on her jacket as she went, hoping to escape the hotel without seeing anyone. She slipped out the side door and shoved sunglasses onto her nose. Thankfully, the wind was gone, the air crisp and clear, the sun almost blinding it was so bright.
She crossed quickly to her car, unlocked the door and tossed in her purse. Leaning over, she pushed the button to lower the top, then moved to the back of the car to snap the boot in place. A streak of black flashed past her, nearly making her jump out of her skin. She turned to find Baby perched in the back seat.
Glowering at the dog, she marched to the open door. “Out!” she ordered, her index finger pointing in the direction she expected him to take. The black Lab simply looked at her, his tongue lolling, his tail swishing across the leather seat. She planted a knee in the bucket seat, stretched to close a hand around the dog’s collar and tugged. Baby braced himself and tugged just as effectively in the opposite direction. After a good two minutes of tug-of-war with the stubborn beast, Callie gave up.
“Fine,” she muttered under her breath. “You can ride along, but you better watch your manners,” she warned. “And no drooling on the seats,” she added as she twisted around and dropped down behind the steering wheel.
Gunning the engine, she peeled away from the curb, sending leaves spinning in whirlwinds behind her rear tires. After giving her sunglasses an impatient shove back on her nose, she dug into her purse for the directions Frank had given her earlier that morning for Summit View Cemetery.
Once she reached the cemetery, she’d prove Judd Barker to be the lying snake that he was, she promised herself as she braked for a red light. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel in impatience. She’d walk the entire cemetery if necessary, look at every headstone and marker, and when she didn’t locate one with William Leighton Sawyer’s name on it, then she’d find Judd Barker and—
She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. And what? she asked herself. Have him tarred and feathered and run out of town? The image drew a smug smile.
It isn’t rape when a woman’s willing. And you, sweetheart, were more than willing. A shiver chased down her spine at the memory and her frown disappeared.
She despised him for his cockiness. She despised him more because he’d been right.
A horn blared behind her and a man’s voice yelled, “Hey! What shade of green do you want?”
Scowling at the man in the rearview mirror, she shifted into first gear, pressed the accelerator to the floorboard, then tossed back her head and laughed when she saw the look of surprise on his face when she left him in a cloud of dust.
Frank’s directions proved easy to follow, and within minutes she drove between the limestone pillars and black wrought-iron gates marking the cemetery’s entrance. The cemetery was laid out just as Frank had described. A tree-lined drive led to a center island where the United States flag and that of Oklahoma waved and snapped in the wind. The island served as the hub while narrow paved lanes fed off of it like spokes, dividing the cemetery into neat sections.
Callie parked beneath an elm tree and sagged back in her seat as she looked around, overwhelmed by the number of markers scattered across t
he hill. “Come on, Baby,” she muttered in resignation as she climbed from her car. “We might as well get started.”
Baby bounded out of the back seat and trotted along beside her. They walked for over an hour, with Baby occasionally darting away to chase a squirrel up a tree or a rabbit into his burrow. With each passing marker, Callie’s original purpose for the trip was forgotten as emotion built, tightening her throat. Infants, young children, young wives. Each marker she read reflected the hard life of the early settlers of Guthrie and the tolls it took. One in particular caught her attention, and she stopped, studying the grave of a mother and infant buried together.
Sighing, she walked on to the next marker. The surname BODEAN topped the double-wide marker and below it the names Jedidiah to the left and Mary Elizabeth to the right.
Mary Elizabeth? She knelt in front of the marker and, using her thumbnail, scraped away the gold-brown moss which had attached itself to the etchings in the granite and noted the dates. The age according to the year of birth would be approximately right for her great-great-grandmother’s, but the stone read that the woman had died in 1938. That would have made her sixty-seven years of age when she’d passed away, and Papa’s mother had died in childbirth.
Certain that she was wasting her time, she took a pen and paper from her purse and jotted down the dates of the couple’s births and deaths in order to check them with the court records later.
With a little less than half the cemetery covered, she pushed to her feet. “Come on, Baby. Let’s go.” She strode off, but stopped and looked back when she heard Baby whimpering. The dog stood at the edge of the plot, clawing at the ground. Dead grass and dirt flew beneath his front paws.
“Baby! No!” Callie ran to clamp a hand around the dog’s collar and haul him back. “You mustn’t dig here.” Feeling responsible for the dog’s desecration of the grave site, Callie dropped to her knees to scrape the dirt back in place. She bit back an oath when her finger rammed something hard. Curious, she smoothed the dirt away and saw the edge of a flat granite stone. Using the palm of her hand she whisked away the dirt and dead grass covering it, then shoved her sunglasses to the top of her head.
Miss Lizzy's Legacy Page 3
