Silent Warrior: A Loveswept Classic Romance (23 page)

Callie elbowed her way through the appreciative, hormone-driven males who were crowding around the table where Lana was selling tickets.

Lana looked up and smiled. “Oh, hi, Callie. Ticket sales are booming.”

Exactly why Callie had put Lana in charge of tickets. She’d known that all the boys, at least, would buy handfuls from her.

“Mrs. Dingmeir can handle sales for a while,” Callie said. “We have some official business to take care of.”

One of the boys watching the exchange, a big, strapping football player named Bart Gaston, put his hand on top of Callie’s head and exerted just enough backward pressure that she was forced to look up at him. “What kind of official business?”

Supremely annoyed, she ducked out of his grasp. “Nothing that concerns you, lunkhead.” She turned her attention back to Lana. “Coming?”

“Sure.” Lana smiled apologetically, then deftly maneuvered the crowd of boys to Mrs. Dingmeir’s table.

“You shouldn’t be so rude to Bart,” Lana whispered as she and Callie left the group. “I think he’s going to ask me to the prom. Has Sam asked you yet?”

The question made Callie’s heart clench painfully. “Sam and I won’t be going to the prom.” Before Lana could interrogate her, she changed the subject. “Where’s Millicent?” Millicent Whitney was the third on their student carnival committee.

“She’s helping out with the face painting, remember? Honestly, speaking of not having a date for the prom … I mean, Millicent’s not as plain as she thinks she is. If she would only try to meet some boys …”

“I know. But she’s so darn shy.”

“She’s going to end up alone and lonely,” Lana said sadly. “And that’s really a shame. She’s smart and nice, and she loves kids.”

That much was evident. As the two girls approached the face-painting booth they found Millicent busily painting a unicorn onto a little girl’s cheek. The child, about four, sat still as a stone, enthralled by the artist’s
soft voice as Millicent told her a story. She finished up just as she saw Callie and Lana approaching.

“Hi, how’s it going?” Millicent lifted the child off the table where she’d been sitting and put her on the ground, sending her off to her father with a pat on the head.

“Fine with me,” Lana said, “but Callie says we have official business to take care of.”

Millicent looked to Callie for more of an explanation.

Callie turned and pointed to the silk-swathed booth. “Did y’all notice that?”

“The fortune-teller?” Millicent said. “What about her?”

“She’s not on the list. Where’d she come from?”

The two other girls shrugged. “Does it matter?” Millicent asked.

“Of course it matters. She might have sneaked in here under false pretenses. She might be taking cash under the table.”

“Callie, you’re so suspicious,” Lana admonished gently. “Probably Mr. Stipley simply forgot to tell us about her.” Mr. Stipley was the principal of Destiny High School, and the carnival was his baby.

“I want to find out for sure,” Callie said. “And I want you both to come with me.”

Lana laughed. “All right. But if we find out she’s legit, we all have to have our fortunes told. Agreed?”

The other two girls nodded reluctantly.

As they approached Theodora’s booth Callie thought it odd that the fortune-teller had no takers. The carnival was crowded, and almost every attraction
had a line in front of it. But Theodora, a darkly exotic woman dressed in a gypsy costume, sat behind a silk-draped table with a crystal ball in front of her, as if she’d been waiting just for these three customers.

Her wide, red-painted mouth spread into a smile. “Well, now, what do we have here? Did you come to find out which boy will ask you to the prom?”

Callie got a wiggly sensation down her spine. How odd that she and Lana had recently been discussing that very thing. “Actually, Miss, uh, Ms. Theodora, this is an official visit. I’m head of the Carnival Committee/Student Division, and these are my committee members.” She consulted her clipboard, trying to look serious and severe. “You aren’t on my list.”

“My, aren’t you the official one,” Theodora said, still smiling. In an aside to the other two girls, she added, “I’ll bet nothing gets by her, eh? She probably dots all her
i
’s and crosses the
t
’s.”

Millicent covered her mouth to disguise her smile, and Lana laughed out loud, earning a scowl from Callie.

“You’re the skeptical type,” Theodora continued, looking at Callie. “You love to ask questions and you can’t stand an unsolved mystery. You would make a very good newspaper reporter.”

“H-how did you know that?” Callie asked. She’d already been accepted into the journalism program at Stockton University, the college around which the town of Destiny, Texas, had grown.

“I know all kinds of things,” Theodora said mysteriously. “Would you like to hear more?”

“I’d like to hear who gave you permission to set up here,” Callie persisted. “You’re not on my—”

“Chill out, Callie,” Lana said. “I’d like to hear more. Can you tell me who I’ll go to the prom with?”

Theodora consulted her crystal ball, and Callie observed, fascinated despite herself. Out of habit, she pulled a small pad and pen from the back pocket of her jeans and began taking notes. She was always on the lookout for a good story for the school paper.

“I see you going to the prom with a football player,” Theodora said.

Big stretch, Callie thought uncharitably. Someone with Lana’s looks would naturally snag a football player.

Theodora looked up. “You have many talents, you know,” she said. “I see you surrounded by flowers.”

Lana giggled. “I hope that means Bart will bring me a big ol’ corsage for the dance. Now, what about Millicent?” She dragged her friend forward. “Who’s she gonna go with?”

Millicent sighed. “I don’t need a fortune-teller to give me that answer. I won’t be going.”

Theodora peered into the ball. “I see you painting. You have such talent!”

Another big stretch, Callie thought. Millicent had paint smears all over her hands.

“I’ll probably be painting the prom decorations,” Millicent said glumly.

“Oh, who cares about this silly prom business,” Lana interrupted. “We want to know who we’re going to marry. Right?” She looked to the other two girls for confirmation.

“Gee, I’m not sure I want to know.…” Millicent said, but Theodora was already staring into her crystal ball.

The gypsy was silent a long time while the girls collectively held their breath. Then, unexpectedly, she looked up and began to recite a poem:

Callie shivered, even though she knew this was all a bunch of silliness. She’d always harbored a secret worry that she and Sam would marry and that he would die, leaving her a widow. If the brutal ranch work didn’t kill him, his rodeo bull riding would.

“The poem’s nice, but it’s not very helpful,” Lana pointed out. “I want a name. How will I know my future husband when I meet him?”

Theodora smiled indulgently. “Everyone who has her fortune told by Theodora gets a souvenir. These mementos will help you recognize the man who will make you happy.” She reached under the table and pulled out a cardboard box that appeared to be filled with gum-machine toys and other worthless stuff. She rummaged around in it for a moment, then held out her hand toward Callie.

Callie couldn’t contain her curiosity. She accepted Theodora’s gift. It was a plastic key chain in the shape of a cowboy boot.

Her skin broke out in goose bumps. How could the fortune-teller know about Sam? “I’m not marrying anyone
who wears cowboy boots,” she said firmly. Theodora merely gave her a knowing smile.

Lana frowned, obviously puzzled, at her gift from. Theodora. It was a toy policeman’s badge made of tin.

Theodora had to search a bit longer for something to give Millicent. She finally came up with a tiny brown glass bottle, the kind used for medicine a hundred years ago.

As the three girls stood contemplating their gifts Theodora quietly stood and walked to the back of her booth. Callie was the first to notice that she was gone. “Hey, where’d she go?”

Lana pointed to the wavering curtain in the rear of the booth. “Back there.”

Callie barged forward, her skepticism returning with full force. If this pseudo-gypsy thought she was going to distract her with her mumbo jumbo and a worthless trinket …

She pulled back the curtain. No one was there. The girls stepped outside the booth, looked around corners, under tables. There was no sign of Theodora. Then Callie saw a flash of brightly colored silk vanishing through the back door of the gym. “This way!” she said to her friends, and they all three ran off in hot pursuit of the fortune-teller. But when they got outside, they couldn’t find her.

“I knew it.” Callie tried to catch her breath. “I knew she was some kind of charlatan.”

“I didn’t think she was so bad,” Lana said. “She told our fortunes for free.”

“We’ll have to go to Mr. Stipley,” Callie said. “Something’s definitely fishy.”

They went back into the gymnasium, but almost before the door slammed behind them, Callie came to a screeching halt and the other two girls ran into her. “Look.” She pointed toward Theodora’s booth—or rather, the place where Theodora’s booth had stood a minute or two earlier. There was no sign of red silk or glitter. A dart game occupied the space.

The three girls looked at each other, their eyes wide with apprehension. Callie knew her friends were thinking what she was thinking—there was no way anyone could have moved Theodora’s booth that quickly.

“D-did we just have a group hallucination?” Millicent asked, her voice a timid squeak.

Callie opened the hand in which she’d been clutching the key chain. It was still there. She could see that the other girls still held their souvenirs from their visit with Theodora. “I’m not sure what it was,” Callie said. “But I don’t think we should tell anyone about it.”

“Agreed,” the other two girls responded together. They all clasped hands, knowing that the secret they must keep would bind them to each other forever.

ONE

Callie hated covering funerals, but she hadn’t trusted anyone on her staff to handle Johnny Sanger’s send-off. She’d felt compelled to be there herself. Johnny’s sensational death was the type of event that naturally led to gossip and speculation, but Callie had forbidden her reporters from pursuing the story. If anything beyond an objective accounting of the facts was to be written about the Sangers, she would be the one to do it.

Callie’s chest tightened as her gaze focused on Sam, who sat with his family in a special section reserved for them on the opposite side of the closed casket. She couldn’t see his face. He’d kept his head bowed during most of Reverend Snyder’s endless eulogy, the oblique autumn sun glinting off his sun-bleached hair. She wondered if he’d seen her, and if he had, what he would think.

Then she had to laugh at herself. He had more important things on his mind than an ex-girlfriend. His father had just died, violently and unexpectedly, and he
must be devastated. Though he lived far away, he was devoted to his parents. Callie suspected that the only reason the Sangers had held on to their farm was because Sam helped them out financially.

Her physical reaction to him was undeniable, even after all this time. Much to her chagrin, her breasts tingled, and she couldn’t seem to get comfortable in her chair. True, they’d hardly spoken in years, but they’d once been involved in a rip-roaring, explosive relationship, complete with all the passionate declarations, tearful arguments, and lonely, anguished nights that often come with the territory of first love.

Callie tried to push those old memories aside. Whatever the ups and downs of their past, the Sanger family would always be special to her, and she wished there was some way she could lend her support. Just because she’d turned down Sam’s marriage proposal didn’t mean she’d stopped caring about him. They had always been there for each other in times of trouble.

The last eight years had been good to Sam. His body looked tough and solid beneath his dark blue suit, while his tanned skin contrasted with the crisp white shirt he wore.

His nervous hands fiddled with the bow at the back of his two-year-old daughter’s dress. Callie wondered where Debra, Sam’s wife, was.

Little Deana Sanger wiggled down from Sam’s lap to play at his feet with a pink stuffed animal, oblivious to the fact that she was witnessing her grandfather’s burial. A lump formed in Callie’s throat, and she determinedly swallowed it back. That poor child would have to live
the rest of her life with the knowledge that her grandfather had shot himself.

The police had ruled it suicide, anyway, and Callie had dutifully reported it as such. But something hadn’t felt right about the story from the moment she’d first gotten the news of an accident at the Sanger farm.

She focused her attention on the rest of the family. Beverly, Sam’s mother, looked grim and determined, as if all she wanted was to get through this tedious ceremony so she could go home and fall apart. Callie wondered how in the world she would get along without Johnny.