Callie's Cowboy (22 page)

“I don't believe you,” Nicole said flatly. “How could a little thing like you possibly overpower Johnny?”

“A big ol' shotgun is a powerful equalizer,” Tamra bragged. “I waited until he was drinking, then I went into his office and threatened to tell Beverly about his affair with you if he didn't pay me off. Then he told me about the insurance. He tore that office apart until he
found the policy to show me. Said if I'd be patient, I'd have a lot of money in a year or so. Said he had cancer. But I was tired of waiting. Like I said, I know when to seize an opportunity. Good thing, too, since he was lying about being sick.”

“Why, you despicable little tramp! Go ahead, shoot me if you want to. The police will catch you, and easy too. Someone will see you leaving the house. Someone will see your car. Someone might have seen us talking at the mall.”

“If I make it look like another suicide, all that won't matter. Tell me, Nicole, are you right- or left-handed? I don't want to make the same mistake twice.”

Callie had to do something. She had to stall Tamra with a diversion of some sort. A rake was leaning up against the side of the house near the back porch. Impulsively, Callie seized it, ran back to the living-room window, and bashed the handle through the glass. Then she ran for the back of the house.

Breathing hard, she stood by the back door, giving Tamra a few seconds to investigate the broken window. Then Callie used the rake to break the glass in the back door. She took off running again, around to the far side of the house, keeping close to the outside wall, ducking when she crossed in front of windows.

She counted to thirty, broke another window, and set off again in a low, crouched run. She didn't count on coming around the corner and running directly into Sam.

They both nearly fell to the ground from the force of the impact. “Sam? Down, get down,” she hissed, dragging him into a crouch with her.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“I know this looks bad, Sam, but Tamra's in there with Nicole Johnson, and she has a gun. I think she was about to kill her, and I was creating a diversion by breaking windows. The police are on their way.” Supposedly. If that neighbor had called 911 like she promised.

“Tamra? My sister-in-law? With a gun? Are you sure?”

“Shh! Lower your voice. I'll explain it all later.” She looked around, assessing their situation. “I think maybe we should stay put now. This overgrown bush hides us pretty well.”

She heard the front door open. “Hey, who's out there?” Tamra called. “You better show yourself. I have a gun and I know how to use it.”

Sam's face registered blatant shock.

“I told you,” Callie whispered. “She killed your father.”

Sam said nothing.

Suddenly a voice, low and deadly, spoke to them through the screen of greenery that shielded them. “Come out of there right now.”

Callie held her breath.

“Oh, for God's sake,” Sam said. He parted the bushes, walked straight up to Tamra, and grabbed the gun out of her hand before she had time to even react.

She stared, uncomprehending, at her empty hand.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Sam demanded.

“She was going to kill you, that's what,” Nicole said from the front porch. “I think the little hussy would
have killed anyone who got between her and her get-rich scheme. Callie? Is that you?”

Callie came out from behind the bush. Nicole stared at her. “Did you break my windows?”

“I'm afraid so. I'll pay for them.” Now she felt a little silly.

“Pay for them? Honey, you saved my life. That girl had blood lust in her eyes, she was so sure she had everything figured. But then the glass broke, and you shoulda seen her face. It was almost comical.”

Tamra's gaze darted from one of her adversaries to another and back again. Suddenly she turned and bolted toward the street.

“Stop her!” Nicole cried. “She's a murderer. She killed your father, Sam.”

Sam tensed, as if he might give chase.

“Let her go,” Callie said. She could hear sirens. “She's running for her car parked at the end of the street, but she won't get far. Oh, dear. I think I need to sit down.” Her knees had turned suddenly wobbly. She managed to teeter to the porch steps and sink down, hugging her knees. Of all things to think about at this moment, she was wondering if Sam would call off the wedding now that he knew that she'd continued to meddle behind his back.

Sam was looking at her in a way that worried her. His expression went beyond shock over learning about his father being murdered, or curiosity over her actions. He looked downright condemning.

Sam felt shaky himself. He hadn't really believed Tamra could pull the trigger when he'd taken the gun away from her. He hadn't believed she was a murderer. But with Callie and Nicole both claiming that was the case …

Damn. He'd known all along that something wasn't right about the suicide, but he'd swept his suspicions under the carpet rather than face them. Losing his father was hard enough without facing more controversy. He'd even silently condemned Callie for merely seeking the truth. What a fool he'd been, harboring a murderer in the family while turning a blind eye to the anomalies.

He sank onto Nicole's porch swing, feeling a little woozy. Though he was shocked at the idea that his father had been murdered by a member of his own family, it would also be a relief to know he hadn't killed himself.

His glance slid to Callie. She was safe, at least. That was a relief too. But beyond that, he couldn't name what he was feeling. Maybe he was in shock.

He watched with detachment as two police cars pulled up. Nicole seemed to be the only one of the three on the front porch who was up to taking any action. She ran up to the first car. “That woman running down the street,” she screamed to the officer. “She tried to kill me!”

A third patrol car pulled up at the end of the street, blocking Tamra's escape. She fell onto her knees before anyone even attempted to capture her. A woman patrol officer got out of the car and went to Tamra, gently taking hold of her arm.

The officer wouldn't be that gentle, Sam thought, if
she'd seen the way Tamra had been flailing her pistol around.

The pistol was still in his hand, he realized. He laid it down beside him.

The uniformed officers asked a lot of questions. Nicole didn't exactly do herself credit with her screeching, hysterical recounting of Tamra's assault. They listened to Callie, though. They all knew her from the newspaper. She gave no more than a bare-bones account of following Tamra, witnessing the assault, and breaking the windows as a diversion. Sam couldn't add much more to the story except that he'd gotten a garbled, frightened message from Callie and had come looking for her.

When things started to calm down, he still said nothing to Callie about the job offers pouring in to her answering machine. Even if she wanted to turn her back on those opportunities, Sam knew he couldn't allow it. He couldn't let her …

Hell, since when had he ever been able to tell Callie what to do? She followed her own conscience, her own heart. No matter how much she loved him, she did what she thought was right, even if it went against his wishes.

Bennett showed up a few minutes later on a motorcycle, in street clothes. Sam didn't have the energy to feel even a little jealous. Besides, it was obvious that Callie had no romantic feelings for Sloan. Her gaze remained on Sam, her brown doe's eyes pleading with him to understand.

And, dammit, maybe he was just beginning to.

The aftermath took hours. Witnesses and suspects made statements at the scene, then were hustled down to police headquarters, where they made more statements. A reporter and photographer from the
Daily Record
showed up. Callie politely refused to make statements to her former coworkers. She wouldn't give Tom Winers a thing.

Not so Sam. Callie peered through a doorway at the police station, her jaw slack, watching as Sam cooperated fully with the reporter, discussing his and Tamra's roles in the recent drama, admitting that his father's death was still open to interpretation.

Callie would never have believed Sam would give any newspaper, especially the
Daily Record
, the time of day. He had to know that his family's name would be dragged through the mud again, even with the most tasteful coverage of this story—which she doubted he would get, knowing that Tom was still acting as editor.

And then he mentioned her name. She expected him to let her have it—at least to make some kind of snide comment about her rushing in where the police feared to tread, and all that. Instead, his comments were purely flattering. He painted her as an astute, concerned citizen, not a meddling ex-reporter sticking her nose where it didn't belong.

But what thoughts were brewing behind those steady blue eyes? He and Callie hadn't had a private moment between them since he'd arrived in town.

That moment came when, abruptly, all of the attention ceased. The press left. The police, having extracted every nuance from them, lost interest. Tamra was behind bars, for the moment. Focus turned to Johnny
Sanger's murder, and since Sam and Callie had already told as much as they knew on that subject, they were free to go.

Sloan Bennett borrowed a police cruiser and took them back to their cars. None of them could muster the energy for even pleasantries.

And then Sam and Callie were alone, standing by her Nissan. She opened the door and stood behind it, as if it could shield her from Sam's anger.

Only she wasn't sure if he was angry or just bewildered by her behavior. “I guess nothing I said to the police really explains what I was up to this afternoon, following Tamra around.”

“Oh, I think I understand. You have a hard time leaving questions unanswered. You just couldn't let it go.”

“I wanted to—”

“I wouldn't have expected you to. Your reporter's instinct is part of you, just like my ranching is a part of me. You're the one who explained that to me not so long ago. Only I didn't get it then. I do now.”

“I wasn't acting as a reporter,” Callie said, her chin jutting out defensively, though a tiny seed of hope blossomed inside her chest. Did Sam really understand? “I was helping the police. I had no intention of writing a story.”

“No? Not even if it would get you a job with
The Washington Post?
Ah, hell, what am I saying? You don't need some sensational story to get a job. Seems every damn newspaper in the country wants you.”

“Um … you found out about the
Post.
”

“Yeah, and the
Miami Herald
and the
Dallas Morning
News
and the
Timbuktu Tribune
, probably. When were you going to tell me?”

“The
Timbuk
—Sam, what are you talking about?”

“The job offers. Coming in like cats from the rain. I … I listened to your answering-machine tape.”

“You did what?” Her Sam had eavesdropped on her private telephone calls?

“I was there when that lady from the
Post
called. To talk about your job. And your ranch story. I let the answering machine get it, but then when she said the job was yours, I rewound the tape to listen again. Callie, I couldn't help it. I felt like I was seeing a secret life or something.”

Callie didn't know how to respond to that accusation. It was true, to a degree, she supposed. “The
Miami Herald
really called?” she asked, focusing on the most minor of her concerns because it was easier.

“And the
Dallas Morning News
and some other big paper too. You're hot, Callie.” Something flashed in his eyes, but it wasn't anger. Pain?

“I would have told you about the
Post
after the wedding,” she answered.

“After … you were going to marry me and then move to D.C.?”