Callie's Convict

by Heidi Betts

  "Would you like me to see you home?” he asked, coming around his desk and hurrying ahead of her to the door.

  "Thank you, but that won't be necessary."

  "All right, but be careful. This town can get a little rowdy on a Friday night."

  He swung the door open for her, then accompanied her out onto the boardwalk. Raucous voices and tinny piano music drifted out of the brightly lit Painted Lady, while tall, flickering lamps lit the rest of the street.

  "I will. Good night, Sheriff,” she said, starting for the mission. “And thank you again."

  "My pleasure, Miss Quinn. You take care, now."

  As she headed toward the church to gather up Matthew and his things for the walk home, Callie couldn't decide whether she was relieved at having talked to Sheriff Walker or even more apprehensive over the possibility of the lawman redoubling his efforts to track down Wade.

  The only thing she did know was that Wade would be furious when he found out. And Callie must be a few blades shy of a hay bale, because she actually intended to tell him.

  By the time he'd been home an hour, with no sign of Callie's and Matthew's return, Wade was ready to climb the walls.

  He'd expected her to take longer to get back because she'd had to go the long way through town to retrieve Matthew. But she shouldn't have taken this long.

  As he paced back and forth along the length of the parlor, he couldn't figure out why he was this agitated. He should be concerned, maybe, sure. But his boots were pounding on the hardwood floor like Custer marching on Little Big Horn, and his gut was twisted tighter than a miser with a silver dollar.

  These were not normal physical reactions for an escaped convict to have about his hostages. But then, they'd established pretty early on that Callie and Matthew weren't just hostages, and he wasn't just an escaped convict holding a gun on them until he got what he wanted.

  He was a father . . . and had become a lover. He was a man awaiting the return of his son and the woman he was beginning to have very strong feelings for.

  He didn't reflect any further than that, afraid to examine how he felt about Callie too closely. He just wanted her home now.

  And if she didn't arrive soon, then WANTED poster or no WANTED poster . . . posse or no posse, he was heading out after her and Matthew.

  Ten minutes later, just as he was seriously considering storming out of the house and searching every inch of ground between the farm and town, he heard footsteps on the porch and raced for the door.

  Before Callie even had a chance to twist the knob, Wade wrenched the door open and dragged her into his arms.

  "Where the hell have you been?” he charged, squeezing her as hard as he dared without crushing Matthew between them.

  "I was in town,” she wheezed, and Wade let up when he realized his vicelike hold was impeding her breathing.

  Pulling them inside, he shut the door behind them and propelled her toward the settee. Callie sat without any urging and arranged a sleepy-looking Matthew on her lap.

  "What took so long?” Wade asked, attempting to tamp down on his uneasiness as he perched on the edge of the armchair adjacent to the sofa. “It didn't take you that long to reach Brady's place after you dropped Matthew at the church."

  "Well, it's darker now than it was then,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I had to be more careful of stumbling or taking a wrong step."

  He studied her quizzically. Why wouldn't she look at him?

  "Is there something you're not telling me, Callie?” he asked softly. Reaching past Matthew's dangling leg, he cupped her knee through the layers of gingham skirt.

  She lifted her head then. “There is something,” she ventured slowly. “But you won't like it."

  Wade sat back in the chair, bracing himself. “All right. What is it? Did you run into Brady

  Young in town and invite him to Sunday dinner?"

  Her eyes flashed at his attempt at humor. When Matthew began to fuss, she bounced her legs in an effort to settle him.

  "Worse."

  Worse? What could be worse than sitting through a meal with Brady Young?

  "Spit it out, Callie. I'm not getting any happier waiting to hear what's going on."

  She inclined her head. “Just remember not to yell; you'll hurt Matthew's ears."

  It must be really bad for her to warn him ahead of time not to get loud. His fingers dug into the arms of the chair as he waited.

  "Before I picked up Matthew, I stopped to talk to Sheriff Walker."

  Chapter Twenty-two

  To Wade's credit, he didn't yell. He also didn't breathe for a good minute.

  Callie pulled Matthew closer to her breast, as though shielding herself from whatever onslaught Wade might throw at her. After all, he wouldn't throttle her senseless while she was holding a baby, now would he?

  But he wasn't going to beat her. He wasn't even going to shout at her. At least not yet.

  He felt too numb to do more than stare. She'd betrayed him. He'd confided in her, trusted her, let her “help” him try to prove his innocence, and she'd stabbed him in the back.

  But it wasn't the first time, was it? Wade thought vilely. Oh, no, he'd been betrayed before. By Neville Young, who was supposed to be his friend and neighbor. By Lily, who had known all along he was innocent of murder but had said nothing; who had borne his child but never bothered to tell him he was a father until she was on her deathbed.

  And now by Callie Quinn, who took such good care of his son. Who had shared his bed, writhing so beautifully beneath him, and possessed every single admirable quality he'd always wanted in a woman. In a wife.

  There it was, the fact he'd been avoiding all night. Hell, ever since he'd kissed her. Callie Quinn wasn't just the guardian of his child but the woman he'd been waiting for all his life. The woman he wanted to marry and make a family with.

  He hadn't let himself dwell on the idea often or for long because of his situation. Because he was even now being hunted and at some point would likely be thrown back into prison. But somewhere deep inside, he'd not only been thinking about it, he'd been mapping out their next fifty years together.

  And it had all been a waste of time, a waste of energy and emotions, because she, too, had ended up betraying his trust.

  "How long do I have before the sheriff gets here?” he asked in a shallow voice. “Or is he already outside, waiting for the right moment to take me into custody?"

  Her eyes widened, and she sat forward abruptly. “Oh, no. Oh, Wade, I didn't mean that at all."

  She shifted Matthew on her lap again so she could lean toward him and take his hand. “I didn't tell Sheriff Walker about you at all, I swear. I only thought that he might be able to help us."

  She hadn't turned him in? Wade shook his head, struggling to absorb what she was telling him.

  He narrowed his gaze. “I don't understand. You went to the sheriff. You talked to him about me. How can he not want to take me into custody?"

  "I talked to him about the deed to your ranch,” she clarified, but her eyes darted away before she went on. “I'm afraid I had to stretch the truth a little to protect you, but I couldn't think of any other way to convince Sheriff Walker to help us without putting you in danger."

  Her gaze swung back to his, meeting what he knew was an intensely dark stare without flinching. “I told him that before Lily died, she confided in me about you. That you were Matthew's father, and that she somehow knew you hadn't killed Neville Young."

  "What did he say about that?” he asked doubtfully.

  "Nothing, really. He just listened. And then I showed him your deed to the Circle M. I led him to believe I'd found it in with the things Lily left me when she died. He looked over the papers and agreed with me when I suggested it was odd for Brady Young to be using your land when you apparently still own it."

  Wade raised a brow. “You told him that?"

  With a nod, she said, “He promised to do a bit of checking around. I don't know if he'll find anyt
hing. We may end up in the exact same situation we're in now. But, Wade, we need help. We need someone who has the weight of the law behind him and can investigate in ways that we can't."

  He remained silent, considering everything she'd said.

  "Sheriff Walker is a good man, Wade. He would never make you pay for a crime you didn't commit if he could avoid it. I think if he finds anything to your benefit, he'll let us know, and he'll be one more person who can assist us in clearing your name."

  Endless seconds ticked by in silence, and Matthew's eyelids began to droop as Callie watched Wade expectantly.

  "I'm sorry, Wade, but I thought it was the best thing to do. Are you angry with me?"

  "I'm not sure,” he answered honestly. “I don't think so, but I can't say the idea of Purgatory's sheriff sniffing around in my past makes me terribly comfortable."

  Meeting her soft brown eyes, he added, “You have to understand that I haven't had the best of luck with the law these past few years. It never would have occurred to me to ask Walker for help. But maybe it was the right thing to do. Maybe he'll come up with something."

  "I hope so. I really do, Wade.” Her hand tightened around his own. “I was only thinking of you."

  Raising his head, he gave her a vague smile. “I know you were. Thank you, Callie."

  Getting to his feet, he reached out to take Matthew from her, snuggling the drowsy child against his chest. “This little guy looks like he's about to drop.” He held out his hand for her. “Care to help me put him down for the night?"

  She gave an almost imperceptible nod, put her fingers inside his, and rose. “I'd also like to take a bath tonight. I thought you might help me heat the water and fill the brass tub."

  He caught a glimpse of rose coloring her cheeks before she turned for the stairs, and Wade almost stumbled as he took a step to follow.

  Why was she blushing over something as simple as asking for his assistance with heating water for a bath? Could it be that she had more in mind than just getting clean?

  His pulse kicked up and every lick of sense in his head slid straight down to pool in his groin.

  He shouldn't get his hopes up in case he was reading her signals wrong. He shouldn't expect more than Callie might be willing to give.

  But he'd damn sure be ready if those two pink spots on her cheeks meant what he thought they did.

  Callie stood beside the large brass tub, letting steam waft all around her face. She was still wearing her green gingham gown from earlier in the day but had brought down a thin lawn nightdress and wrap to change into.

  Wade had helped her carry bucket after bucket of water, including the last two kettles that had been set to boil on the cookstove. He'd been nothing but solicitous, questioning how he might assist her, doing anything she asked of him. And never once had he made an untoward move or suggested they do anything the least bit unseemly.

  Which was good, Callie reminded herself. Even though she had certainly thought about it when she'd mentioned the desire to bathe just as they were putting Matthew to bed.

  She felt her face flame again now, as it had then. She hadn't meant for her request to come out the way it sounded, as though she were inviting Wade to join her for a bath. But the second the words passed her lips, her brain had filled with all kinds of images.

  The night Wade had first appeared, catching her completely nude in this very tub. . .

  Wade stripping and scrubbing himself free of eighteen months of filth that same night, in the very water she'd been submerged in only moments before. . .

  The two of them twined together on the cool sheets of her bed as Wade did wonderful, wicked things to her body. . .

  How close the two of them would be pressed together in her brass tub if she did invite him to join her, how the warm water would lap around them. . .

  Bathing together hadn't been her initial purpose, and she hadn't intended to imply anything of the sort to Wade, but once the thought took root in her mind, she couldn't seem to banish it.

  With towels laid out, a fresh cake of soap on the decorative metal rack hooked over the rim of the tub, and a healthy dollop of lilac fragrance swirling around in the water, she began to loosen the buttons of her dress, first at her wrists and then down the front of the bodice. She slipped the material off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Next she untied the laces of her black leather walking boots, rolled down the sturdy material of her everyday stockings, and kicked both aside.

  As she stood there in only her drawers and camisole, a shiver of modesty washed through her. Wade was in the next room and could walk in on her at any moment.

  That thought should have had her grabbing for something to cover her state of undress. Instead, she found herself almost wishing for him to appear in the entrance of the pantry, march across the room, and sweep her into his arms, thus taking any decisions on the matter out of her hands.

  But she knew the choice rested with her. She was a grown woman who had already made love with Wade once. Well, more than once, but all in the same night. If she wanted the same thing to happen again—and she strongly suspected she did—then she need only raise her voice and call for him. Or saunter to the doorway that separated kitchen and pantry and invite him to remove the rest of her undergarments.

  But despite her boldness the night before, Cal-lie couldn't find the courage now to do either.

  With a sigh of regret, she slipped the lace-edged camisole over her head and undid the string of her drawers, dropping both garments to the floor. Now completely naked, she stepped into the still-steaming water and submerged her body below the surface.

  Ahhh. The water felt wonderful. Warm and soothing and almost as good as being in Wade's arms.

  If only he'd come into the room now and join her, she thought, letting her eyes drift closed. It was a terribly wanton notion, but one she mulled over all the same.

  A few minutes later, as though in answer to her silent summons, she heard his masculine footsteps growing closer and his deep voice from just outside the pantry entranceway.

  "Everything all right in there?” he asked politely. “Do you need anything else?"

  When she opened her eyes, she saw only one worn workboot and the elbow of his plaid shirt peeking out from behind the wall. Out of respect for her privacy, he stood to the side of the doorway, facing in the other direction.

  Her heart pitched and a bevy of butterflies took to batting their wings inside her belly. This was her chance. Now, before he moved away.

  Lowering her voice to what she hoped was a smoky, sensual tone, she ventured, “Actually, there is something you could do for me."

  Wade cocked his head around the corner, one brow lifted inquisitively. Catching sight of her arrangement in the tub, with no soap bubbles or wash rag to cover even a portion of her nudity, his gaze skimmed her from head to toe. Leisurely, his other brow rose in blatant male appreciation.

  "What's the matter, sweetheart?” he asked in a tone even deeper and more gravelly than her own. “Forget the soap?"

  She reached for the homemade bar, holding it up for him to see. “No, I've got that. But there are some . . . places I can't quite reach."

  She couldn't believe her ears, or that such words were coming out of her own mourn. But she wanted to be with Wade, and this seemed the only way to make him aware of that fact.

  Eyes widening even more, Wade took a step into the room. “Are you asking me to . . . wash your back, Callie girl?"

  "If you don't mind.” Her response sounded weak, and she noticed the soap trembling in her hand.

  Was she making a terrible mistake? Possibly, according to many people's standards, but Callie searched her soul and couldn't find a single hint of regret.

  Slowly, a full minute seeming to tick by as he took each step, he moved around the tub until he stood at her back. She knew he had a clear, unobstructed view of her nakedness as he towered above her.

  The floorboards creaked as he hunkered behind her and rolled up
his sleeves. The warm flesh and rough hairs of his arm brushed her overly sensitized skin as he reached around her for the soap. She opened her palm and let him take it, their fingers brushing.

  He lingered a moment, then dipped into the water up to his wrists. She heard the soft sounds of his hands working to build up a lather and sucked in a sharp breath when he touched the nape of her neck.

  His slick fingers rubbed slowly, deeply. When the suds ran out, he dipped the soap again, then continued to stroke and circle. He washed her neck, her shoulders, the line of her spine. His ministrations took him lower and lower, until water covered his forearms.

  "You may want to take your shirt off,” she suggested, “so it doesn't get wet."

  "Good idea."

  He leaned into her to return the cake of soap to its metal stand and his entire chest—shirt and all—pressed against her back, indicating to them both that the condition of his clothes was of little importance. Their words and actions were merely a game, the building of tension.

  Turning her head a fraction to the side, she watched out of the corner of her eye as he popped button after button free of its hole, dragged the tucked-in ends from the waist of his trousers, and shucked the shirt down the length of his sinewy arms.

  "How's that?"

  "Better. But what about your pants?"

  One brow went up, making him look devilish and daring. “Afraid they'll get wet, too?"

  She nodded and turned back around, retrieving the soap to begin a slow, luxurious once-over of her body.

  "Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he murmured, and started unfastening the front of his jeans.

  She listened to the rasp of fabric, the thud of one boot after another falling to the floor. And then he was close behind her again, his warm breath stirring the hair at her temple.

  One work-roughened palm curled about her shoulder, then slid over her arm to her wrist, covering her hand where it rested with the soap high on her chest.

  "I thought this was my job,” he said, twisting the slippery square out of her grasp.

  She let it go and leaned forward slightly when he returned to massaging her back. His touch moved lower, in tiny intervals, to the small of her spine.