Harlequin Superromance
July 2010

Once and for All

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“I can’t afford another lawsuit.”

She was so silent that he wondered for a moment if the connection had been broken. Then she cleared her throat. “I guarantee, regardless of the outcome, no lawsuit.”
“What if I have to put the horse down?” That was how he’d gotten into trouble the last time.
“You shouldn’t have to.” Sam said nothing. “But if you do, then there will be no repercussions.”
Katie was staring at him, her lips pressed so tightly together that they were turning white. She slowly shook her head.
“My father isn’t here,” Jodie continued, her voice cool, but not icy like before. “Mike is gone, too. It’s just me and Margarite. I need some help.”
Sam turned his gaze to the ceiling. Not only did he feel for the horse, but three minutes at his desk had driven home the point that he could use the money. The Bartons always paid cash up front. They could afford to, unlike many of his other clients.
“How bad?”
“Bad, or I wouldn’t be calling you.”
No doubt. They’d tried to ruin him once. Ironic that because they’d failed, he was available to help now. “Give me forty minutes.”
“Sam,” Katie said as he hung up the phone. “No.”
He didn’t answer. Last time he’d checked, he was the boss of the outfit. He went back into the mudroom, shrugged into his canvas coat, stuck his feet into his insulated boots.
“Don’t forget your Elmer Fudd hat,” Katie said resignedly, holding out the plaid wool hat with the earflaps and fuzzy red ball on top. A gag Christmas gift to him from his nephews. Stupid-looking but warm when the north wind was blowing, as it was now.
“Thanks.”
“Sam?” Katie said as he headed out the back door. He stopped, his hand on the knob. “Watch yourself.”
He smiled. “You bet.”
Was he ever going to get there?
Jodie De Vanti stood at the horse’s head, smoothing a hand over his nose, trying not to look at the pool of blood forming in the snow after running down the gelding’s shoulder and leg. If Sam Hyatt didn’t arrive soon, the horse was going to bleed to death. She just knew it.
“Are you all right?” Margarite called from the gate. The housekeeper hated snow and she hated blood, even more than Jodie did. For being ranch raised, the woman was surprisingly squeamish, and since someone had to be with the animal, Jodie had sucked it up and volunteered.
“I’m fine,” she called back. Even though her voice shook—more from reaction than from cold—she couldn’t keep the note of bitter irony out of it. Of course she wasn’t all right. She was dealing with a bleeding horse and waiting for an incompetent vet.
But any vet was better than no vet, so she’d take what she could get.
The puddle of blood was getting larger, spreading darkly through the crystalline snow.
“Hold on, big boy,” Jodie murmured, averting her eyes. The horse’s knees started to buckle. He was going down, into the snow. “No…” She desperately hauled on the halter. All that did was to raise the animal’s nose and keep it up as he collapsed. Shit.
“Don’t you dare die,” she muttered as she let the horse have its head. Her father would kill her, since it was quite possibly her fault the horse was all cut to pieces. And besides that…she didn’t know if she could live with herself if she was responsible for this beautiful animal’s death.
“Where are you, Sam Hyatt?” she yelled, scuffing her foot into the snow and kicking a small spray away from the horse.
“Are you all right?” Margarite called again.
“Fine.”
Just then headlights appeared around a bend in the driveway, bobbing up and down as the truck went into the little dip before the last rise up to the ranch house. Thank goodness.
“Okay. It’s going to be okay,” she said to the horse. She’d never spent that much time around animals. Her mother was allergic to dogs and cats, so they’d never had family pets when she was a child. Then what did her father do? He moved her mother to a Nevada ranch after selling the investment firm he’d built from the ground up. Still no dogs and cats—in the house, anyway— but lots of cattle and horses. The crazy thing was, her mother had settled in without complaint. She seemed to enjoy country life.
Not Jodie. She appreciated the occasional holiday or long weekend, but right now—especially right now— she wanted to get back to Vegas. Back to the law firm where she worked, a place where she actually felt competent and could indulge in her need to overachieve.
The truck stopped next to the pump house and Sam got out. He opened one of the exterior panels and removed a kit. Margarite was already at his side, talking and waving. He nodded once and then gestured toward the house. Margarite didn’t need a second invitation. She scuttled inside as Sam began walking toward the gate.
He was a big man. Not so much broad as tall and sturdy. Fair-haired and gray eyed. Striking really, if one favored Vikings. Jodie favored sophistication and dark good looks—a preference that had gotten her into trouble in the past. Her restaurateur ex-husband had been dark and sophisticated. He was also no longer in her life, although his name remained. She’d started building her legal career as Jodie De Vanti and kept the surname to avoid confusion.
Sam grimaced as he shone the flashlight on the horse, took in the cuts on its chest, shoulder and legs. “What happened?”
“He got out of the pasture and one of the dogs spooked him. It was dark and he hit a piece of farm equipment. The disk.”
Sam blew out a breath, then knelt down and started checking the horse’s vital signs. “I’ll need you to hold the light. We’ll stitch him right here. I’m going to have to suture the muscle first on this bigger gash….”
Jodie swallowed and took the light. It shook. He shot her an impatient glance, which made her backbone stiffen.
“You can drop the lead rope. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Right.” She did so and held the light with both hands. Sam went to the truck, then came jogging back with more equipment. A few minutes later the wounded area was numbed and he was stitching a gash. Or Jodie assumed he was. She couldn’t make herself watch.
“Hold the damned light steady.”
“I’m trying.”
“It would help if you watched where you were shining it.”
“I don’t see how my fainting would help anything,” she said, though she ventured a glance.
His hands stilled momentarily before he pulled the thread on through the flesh, did a few fancy passes with the suturing needle, then snipped the thread.
“Blood makes you faint?”
“I’m not a fan.” It was the needle going into the skin that made her queasy at the moment.
“Great,” he muttered.
“You could have brought an assistant.”
“So you could sue the pair of us?”
“That’s uncalled for.”
Sam didn’t reply. He started stitching in a new area. The horse’s chest was in ribbons and this was going to take a long, long time. Jodie bit her lip and fixed her eyes on the rise and fall of the gelding’s ribcage.
By the time Sam had finished sewing up the horse, his fingers were numb and his legs were cramped from being in almost the same position the entire time. But thanks to the cold, the blood had flowed slowly, so the animal hadn’t lost a significant amount, and Sam was able to get the poor horse put back together. He sat back on his heels, surveying his work. What a damned shame. This gelding was a beautiful animal, and now he would be scarred for life. Joe Barton, Jodie’s father, wouldn’t be able to ride him to impress people, and he was gelded so he couldn’t breed him. Sam wondered just what he would do with him. The horse would probably make a decent pleasure ride.
Sam glanced at Jodie, who was staring sightlessly at the rows of neat black sutures crisscrossing the horse’s chest and foreleg. She’d lost her cool, all-business demeanor. In fact, she appeared to be done in. Her dark blond hair, longer in the front than in the back, was jammed behind her ears, her face was pale and there were smudges of mascara under her eyes…

Harlequin Superromance
April 2010

Always a Temp

ROMANTIC TIMES MAGAZINE REVIEW

ALWAYS A TEMP (4) by Jeannie Watt: When writer Callie McCarran goes home for her foster mother’s funeral, she vows to reconnect with her childhood boyfriend, Nathan Marcenek. But she gets a cold reception from Nathan, now the editor of the local paper. He hasn’t forgiven her for leaving abruptly after their high school graduation. Forced to deal with feelings she’s been running from for years, Callie realizes they stem from parental abandonment. And Nathan has his own problems. After being injured when he was an investigative reporter, he’s returned home to hide and heal. In this sweet story about two people getting a second chance at love, Watt nicely depicts Callie’s and Nathan’s insecurities — and their ability to triumph over them.

—Alexandra Kay

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“Hey,” Callie called, but it was too late. The kid couldn’t be more than seven or eight, but he was a quick little guy. It was the second time she’d seen him in the yard in the two days she’d been back in town, which seemed odd, since there was nothing of interest back here.…But then she noticed the baseball-size hole in the porch screen, which was quite possibly related to the baseball lying under the wicker chair.

Callie bent down to get it.

“I found your ball,” she called. Nothing. Shaking her head, she went out into the overgrown grass and set it on the empty birdbath.

“It’s on the birdbath,” she yelled, in case the kid was crouching on the other side of the fence. “I’m going in the house now.” She walked a few steps, then added, “And I’m not mad about the hole.” The entire porch needed to be rescreened before she could sell the house, so no big deal.

Callie went back into the classic 1980s kitchen, complete with country-blue ruffled curtains at the windows and cow-decorated canisters on the cream-colored countertops. She poured a glass of tap water and drank it all without setting the glass down. She’d cried a lot during the past few days and no matter how much water she drank, she felt dehydrated. But she had held up during the memorial service, thank goodness, because if she had broken down, the good townspeople would have added “hypocrite” to her list of epithets. They were already treating her like a leper.

Okay, leper was probably too strong of a word. People had been pleasant enough, offering the obligatory condolences, but she’d been aware of the undercurrents, the why-the-hell-weren’t-you-there-for-your-foster-mother-in-her-time-of-need undercurrents. And no one spent much time talking to her. A few murmured words, then off to join other more legitimate mourners standing in small groups near the buffet. Following the service, Callie had spent most of the time alone beside the podium, waiting for the moment when she could leave. Grace’s accountant had stood with her for a while, but Callie had a feeling that was only because she was paying him, or rather the estate was paying him, to take care of the final bills. Even he eventually drifted away.

Damn it, I would have been there for Grace, if I’d known how sick she was.

She hadn’t known…and she hadn’t exactly tried to find out, either. Instead she had stayed with her once-in-a-lifetime trip through Kazakhstan. Attached to a geologic field tour, she’d been chronicling the economic growth and environmental pitfalls since foreign companies had been allowed to mine there.

She was still quite angry with Grace for not telling her she was terminal. That while treating her for a chronic stomach disorder, the doctor had discovered an inoperable malignant growth. But really, Callie hadn’t wanted to know the truth.

She’d been afraid to know.

The worst part was that she’d ignored the biggest red flag of all: Grace had asked her to come back to Wesley when she returned to the States. She hadn’t been home in twelve years, and in hindsight, Callie could see that Grace wouldn’t have made such a request without one hell of a good reason—such as being in the process of dying.

Callie refilled the glass and walked to the back door, peering through the window. The ball was still perched on the birdbath. She wondered if the kid would come back or if this was the last she’d see of him. If he did come and get the ball, she hoped he’d play with it somewhere else.

Not that she’d be here.

But then again, maybe she would. For the first time in a long time, Callie felt no desire to move on. No need to find the next city to explore, the next story to write…maybe because she hadn’t written anything except her contracted Kazakhstan article since receiving news of Grace’s death.

Callie pressed the cool glass to her cheek. This was the second time she’d suffered such a loss, and it wasn’t any easier than the first. Just different.

Her father had disappeared when she was six, leaving her with Grace, his distant cousin and only relative. A business trip. Except he’d never returned. Now she’d lost the only other parent she’d even known.

She set the glass in the sink and went to her old bedroom, now a guest room, and pulled her dark blue knit dress over her head and tossed it on the bed. None of her clothes wrinkled. She traveled too much to buy anything that couldn’t be crumpled into a ball and shoved into a suitcase. She traveled with only a carry-on bag whenever possible, because she hated dealing with extra baggage. No extra belongings, no extra people. Just the bare minimum.

But Grace hadn’t been extra baggage.

Callie sank down onto the bed and stared at the wall opposite. She should have made more of an effort. Should have, should have, should have…

The room had been pale green when she’d lived here. She’d wanted lavender, a color Grace could not abide.

Callie had begged, but the room had remained green, because Grace said there was no way she was having that much lavender in her house.

Now the walls were apricot.

Which meant…?

Nothing. It meant that it had been time to paint and Grace had chosen a different color.

Restless, Callie got up and paced back into the living room in her underwear. It was hot and no one was likely to stop by to visit the ungrateful foster child.

A magazine lay folded back on itself on the maple end table next to Grace’s blue velvet recliner. Her slippers were on the floor next to the chair. Grace was everywhere and nowhere.

And the house was so freaking quiet.

Callie had to get out. Regain her equilibrium so she could deal with stuff that two weeks ago she had no idea she’d be dealing with.

A few minutes later, dressed in cropped khaki pants, flip-flops and a light pink T-shirt, she all but bolted down the walk. There weren’t many places to go in Wesley, Nevada, but she’d find somewhere.

“Callie!” Alice Krenshaw was standing on her porch next door, still wearing the black muumuulike dress she’d worn to the memorial, a copper watering can in her plump hand. “Are you all right?” she asked, probably out of a sense of duty, because she hadn’t been friendly at the funeral.

“Fine,” Callie called back, not slowing her pace. Maybe later she’d talk to Alice, but right now she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She saw her shake her head as Callie got into her borrowed Neon, read the disapproval in the gesture.

She started the engine and pulled out onto the street, having no idea where she was going. For the first time…ever…she wasn’t entirely sure that being accountable to no one but herself was a good thing.

Right now Callie wouldn’t mind leaning on someone, and there was only one person in town who might agree to prop her up, but she had fences to mend there first. A minor repair, she hoped. After all, twelve years had passed, and surely by now Nate would have come to the conclusion that what she’d done had been for the best.

“Did you hear me, Mr. Marcenek?”

Nathan Marcenek took off his glasses and rubbed a hand over his eyes, his vision blurry from staring at a computer screen for too long. When he focused on Joy Wong, the receptionist for the Wesley Star newspaper, she blinked at him expectantly.

“Callie’s here?” He hadn’t seen this one coming. In fact, he’d been surprised to hear she’d come back for the service, since she hadn’t set foot in Wesley since abruptly leaving town, and him, the day after high school graduation. Even Grace’s illness hadn’t brought her home.

“Send her in,” Nathan said, wishing he’d had the foresight to hide a flask of whisky in his desk drawer for occasions such as these. He had a feeling he might want a stiff belt after this unexpected meeting was over.

Joy nodded and disappeared into the hall. He heard her say, “First door on the left,” and then a moment later the woman he could have quite happily gone the rest of his life without seeing again walked into his office. And if anything, she was more striking than he remembered.

Her dark blond hair was shorter than it’d been in high school, curving along her shoulders instead of falling down her back, and the freckles over her nose had faded. But her eyes were the same. Closer to aqua than blue; her gaze direct and candid. Or so it seemed. Nathan had learned the hard way that Callie was a master at hiding things.

“Hi, Nate,” she said, her voice husky.

“Callie.” He stood, his leg protesting the movement less than usual. Adrenaline mixed with testosterone was amazing stuff. “It’s been a while,” he said, uttering the understatement of the year. He sat back down without offering his hand or cheek, or whatever one offered to an ex-friend/girlfriend who’d proved to be less than trustworthy, and gestured to the chairs on the other side of the desk.

Callie appeared unfazed by his lack of warmth. She would have been a fool if she had expected him to welcome her with open arms and Callie was anything but a fool.

She took a seat on the only chair that didn’t have papers or books stacked on it, and set her small leather backpack on the tiled floor next to her feet. When she focused on him again, her expression was more businesslike, as if she’d changed tactics, which instantly put him on edge. Tactics meant a mission, and Nathan wasn’t going to be involved with any Callie missions.

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