Leftover Love

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.

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.

L
EFTOVER
L
OVE

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.