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Amy Winter? The reporter? Impossible! Fate wouldn’t be that unkind, not after he’d endured being auctioned off in front of hundreds of women, let himself be humiliated for charity. It couldn’t be her!
“Mr. Richards, are you still there?”
It was her, all right, he realized with a sinking feeling. Now that she’d identified herself, he recognized that distinctive, slightly husky voice. His headache suddenly took a turn for the worst, and he closed his eyes. “Yes, I’m here. Look, Ms. Winter, is this a joke?”
“Hardly. I paid good money for this date. And I have the receipt to prove it.”
“But why in the world…?” His voice trailed off as her strategy suddenly became clear. He wouldn’t talk to her in a business setting, so she figured he’d have to in a social situation. A muscle in his jaw clenched, and his headache ratcheted up another notch. “It won’t work, you know,” he said coldly.
“What?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Ms. Winter. You’re still trying to get me to talk about the trial. Well, forget it. You wasted five hundred dollars.”
“It went to a good cause. Besides, how do you know I didn’t bid on you because I really wanted a date?”
“Ms. Winter, anyone who looks like you doesn’t need to buy dates at an auction. Let’s stop playing games. You bought a date, I’ll give you a date. And that’s all I’ll give you. How about dinner Friday night?”
“How about sooner?”
“Sorry, that’s the best I can do.”
“Okay. Just name the time and place.”
“I’ll pick you up. That was part of the deal.”
“Don’t put yourself out.”
Cal frowned. She sounded miffed. And she had a right to, he conceded guiltily. As Cynthia had said, she’d paid good money for their date, whatever her motivation. He took a deep breath and forced a more pleasant tone into his voice. “I’ll be happy to pick you up. Just give me your address.”
She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to refuse. But in the end she relented and they settled on a time.
“I’ll see you Friday, Mr. Richards. It should be interesting.”
That wasn’t exactly the word he would have chosen, he thought grimly as he hung up the phone, reached for his coffee and shook out two aspirin from the bottle he kept in his desk drawer. On second thought, he made it three. Amy Winter was definitely a three-aspirin headache.
As Amy replaced the receiver, she realized her hand was shaking. The strain of keeping up a breezy front with the recalcitrant assistant prosecuting attorney had clearly taken a toll. She’d always been out-spoken and assertive, but “pushy” wasn’t her style. Which was unfortunate, given the career she’d chosen. Though she’d learned to be brash, she hadn’t yet learned to like it. The in-your-face approach just wasn’t her. But it was part of the job, and she figured in time it would get easier. The only problem was, she’d been telling herself that for years now.
Amy took a sip of her herbal tea and gave herself a few minutes to calm down. Cal Richards didn’t like her, and though she knew she shouldn’t let that bother her, it did. She liked to be liked. But she’d chosen the wrong business for that, she reminded herself wryly. Investigative reporters didn’t usually win popularity contests. Acrimony went with the territory.
For a fleeting moment Amy wondered if she might have been happier using her reporting skills in some other way. But she ruthlessly stifled that unsettling thought almost as quickly as it arose. It was way too late for second-guessing. She’d invested too much of her life and energy building this particular future to question it now. She’d very deliberately set her sights on a career as an anchorwoman, and she knew exactly why.
First, she liked the glamour. She enjoyed being in the spotlight, relished her pseudocelebrity status.
Second, she liked the big-city lifestyle. Unlike her sister, Kate, who had actually enjoyed small-town farm life, Amy had always dreamed of the bright lights and the excitement of the city. If the lights were more garish than dazzling up close, well, that was more a reflection of the nature of her work—which often took her to seedy areas—than of the actual city, she assured herself.
Third, she liked the money. Or at least the freedom it gave her. The freedom to travel to the Caribbean on exotic vacations, the freedom to live in an upscale town house, the freedom to walk into any store in Atlanta and buy whatever designer outfit she chose without having to give up something else to do so. Money had always been tight on the farm. Her parents had done their best, but she had vowed to put the days of homemade prom dresses and hand-me-downs far behind her.
Fourth, she liked feature reporting, especially human-interest stories that uplifted and inspired and made people feel optimistic about the goodness of the human race. True, those rarely came her way. Someday, though, when she made her mark, she would be able to pick and choose her assignments, decide when and if she wanted to come out from behind the anchor desk. But that was still a long way down the road. In the meantime, she did what she was told and worked hard to get the best possible story. Including bidding on a date with a man who clearly disliked her.
Amy sighed and took another sip of tea, trying to find something positive in the situation. She thought back over their conversation and suddenly recalled Cal’s comment about her not needing to buy a date. So he thought she was attractive, she mused. It wasn’t much, she acknowledged, but it was a start.
“Hi, Gram. How’s everything at home?”
“Cal? My, it’s good to hear your voice! We’re both fine. Jack, it’s Cal,” she called, her voice muffled as she apparently turned her head.
Cal smiled and leaned back, resting his head against the cushion of the overstuffed chair as he crossed an ankle over his knee. Just hearing the voices from home made him feel better.
“Your dad’ll be right here, son. How’s life in Atlanta?”
“Okay.”
“Hmph. I’ve heard more enthusiasm from old Sam Pritchard.”
Cal smiled again. Sam Pritchard was legendary in the mountains for his blasé reaction to life. As usual, his grandmother had tuned right in to Cal’s mood. Probably because she was one of the few people who knew of his growing dissatisfaction with city life.
“Sorry, Gram.” He modified his tone. “I can’t complain. The job is demanding and stressful, but it’s worthwhile work, and I’ve been blessed in a lot of ways.”
“Are you taking any time for fun?”
Cal pondered that question. Fun? The only time he really had any fun was when he went home, and that wasn’t often enough. When he was in the city, he was too busy for much socializing. His job ate up an inordinate amount of his time, and most of the little that remained he spent at Saint Vincent’s.
“I get out once in a while,” he hedged.
“You need to take some time for yourself, son,” the older woman persisted, the worry evident in her voice. “A body needs more in life than work and responsibilities. You meet any nice women lately?”
For some reason, his social life—or lack thereof—had become a hot topic over the past year. His grandmother seemed to think that if he got married and had a family, many of his doubts and issues would be resolved. Frankly, he thought a romantic entanglement would just complicate matters. He needed to get his life in order, make some decisions about his future, before he got involved in a relationship. That was only fair to the woman. And it was that sense of fairness, not lack of interest, that kept him from serious dating. In fact, in the past couple of years he’d begun to long for the very things his grandmother was suggesting, had become increasingly aware of an emotional vacuum in his life. He’d lain awake more nights than he cared to admit yearning for warmth, for a caring touch, for someone who would listen to the secrets of his heart and share hers with him. He wanted to fall in love. It was just that now was not the time.
“Cal?” his grandmother prompted. “It wasn’t a hard question. ’Course, if it’s none of my business, that’s okay.”
“Actually, I have a date Friday night,” he offered, to appease her.
“Well! Now that’s fine.”
He could hear the surprise in her voice, could tell she was pleased, and he felt a twinge of guilt. He should explain the situation. After all, it wasn’t a real date.
“It’s no big deal, Gram. Just dinner.”
“Everything has to start somewhere. Where did you meet her?” she asked eagerly.
He felt himself getting in deeper. “At the courthouse. But Gram, she…”
“Is she a lawyer, too?”
“No. She works in TV. Actually, that’s how…”
“My! That sounds interesting. What’s her—oh, your dad’s ready to talk to you. We’ll catch up some more later. You call us again over the weekend, okay?”
Cal sighed as the phone was passed on. He’d certainly handled that well, he berated himself. Now his grandmother would get her hopes up, jump to all sorts of wrong conclusions. But he’d be better prepared when he called the next time. He’d use the old “we just didn’t click” routine, and that would be the end of that.
“Cal? How are you, son?”
Cal settled deeper into the chair. “Hi, Dad. Fine. How’s everything there?”
“Same as always. Quiet. Things don’t change much in the mountains, you know. But tell me about you. I know there’s a lot more going on in Atlanta than there is here.”
Cal relayed some recent events that he knew his father would enjoy hearing about—the black-tie dinner, though he made no mention of the auction part of the evening, a meeting he’d had with the mayor earlier in the week, the publicity the Jamie Johnson trial was receiving. As usual, his father ate it up.
“My, son! You sure do lead an exciting life. But you deserve all your success. You worked hard for it. And I’m proud of you. I was just telling Mike Thomas about the governor’s commission you were appointed to. He was real impressed.”
Cal felt the old familiar knot begin to form in his gut. His father was a kind, gentle, decent man who’d never had a break in his entire life. He’d spent his youth and middle age barely scraping by, handicapped by limited education and limited opportunity as he struggled to support a son and an ailing wife. He’d worked with his hands all his life, accepting that as his lot but dreaming of better things for Cal. Now he was living Cal’s success vicariously. If his son returned to the mountains, in whatever capacity, the older man would be sorely disappointed, Cal knew. But there had to be a line somewhere between responsibility to his father and to himself. He just wasn’t sure where it was.
Up until now he’d done everything that was expected of him—by others and by himself. He gave his job one hundred percent, and did his best to make a contribution to society. He’d provided well for Gram and his dad. They’d refused his offer to move to Atlanta, both reluctant to leave the only home they’d ever known, but he made sure they lived comfortably, that neither had to work anymore. By choice, Gram still put in a great deal of time at the craft coop she’d founded. His father, however, who had always disliked working the land, had walked away from his job without a second look, content to spend his time helping out at the church or reading, a pastime he’d had little opportunity to indulge in most of his life. They were both happy. Unfortunately, the vague discontent that had been nagging him for years had intensified dramatically in the last few months, leaving him restless and searching.
“You coming home to visit soon, son?” His father interrupted his thoughts.
“I hope so, Dad.” The sudden weariness in his voice reflected the burden of decision he was struggling with, and he tried for a more upbeat tone. “It’s hard to get away, though. Things are pretty busy.”
“I understand. You have an important job. I’m sure they need you there. But your room is always waiting, anytime you can get away. You’ll come up sometime later in the spring, won’t you?”
“Of course. Have I ever missed spring in the mountains?”
The older man chuckled. “Can’t say you have. One thing about you, son. You’re reliable. We can always count on you.”
The knot in Cal’s gut tightened. “I’m not perfect, Dad.”
“Maybe not. But I sure wouldn’t trade you in. You take care, now.”
“All right, Dad. Tell Gram I said goodbye.”
Cal replaced the receiver and wearily let his head drop back against the chair. He needed to make some decisions, and he needed to make them soon. There were rumors that he was being considered for a promotion to the coveted position of prosecuting attorney. He should be happy. It was what he was supposed to have been working toward all these years. Instead, it just made him feel more pressured, more trapped. If he was going to make a change, this was the time, before he got so deeply entrenched in his urban career and lifestyle that he couldn’t get out.
Cal closed his eyes. He wanted to go back to the mountains, back to the place where he felt more in touch with nature, with himself and with his God. Cal hadn’t let his spiritual life slip since coming to the city. It was too important to him to neglect. But it was harder here to retain a sense of balance, to stay focused on the really important things in life. There were too many distractions, too many demands, too much emphasis on materialism, power, prestige and “getting ahead.”
Cal’s priorities had always been different. Position and money meant nothing to him personally. Their only value, as far as he could see, was that they gave him the means to help others who were less fortunate. In his job, he did his best to see justice served, which helped humanity in general. That, in turn, provided a good income, which allowed him to make life better for Gram and his father. And he was able to contribute both time and dollars to the causes he believed in, such as Saint Vincent’s. So plenty of good had come from his career choice. Was he being selfish to consider changing the status quo?
Cal rose, walked restlessly over to the window and stared pensively out at the city lights. In his heart, he wanted to go home, back to the mountains where he could spend his days free of the confines of concrete and steel and glass. There was a part of him deep inside that had always yearned to share the beauty of nature with others hungry for nourishment for their souls. Though he had no specific plans for it, he’d completed a degree in forestry last year by going tonight school. It was just something he’d wanted to do, and he’d shared the accomplishment with very few. Even Gram didn’t know.
Cal sighed. He knew that few people would understand his feelings about the mountains. Certainly no one in the city, and very few at home. Gram did. But not his father. And the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint the man who had sacrificed so much for him. As his father saw it, Cal was his one success in life. If Cal scaled down his lifestyle, gave up his high-profile job and moved back home, his father would feel that all his efforts had been for nothing, that he was a failure after all. And Cal didn’t know if he could do that to the man who had given him life and love so abundantly. Nor was he sure he should walk away from his present job, knowing he was good at it and that he did, sometimes, make a difference.
Cal jammed his fists into his pockets and looked up at the sky, trying to discern the stars that shone so brightly in the mountains but here were dimmed by the glare of city lights.
Lord, I need Your guidance, he prayed. I want to do the right thing, but I need direction. I need to know Your will. You know I want to go home, that my heart is most at peace in the mountains. But maybe my dad’s needs and my work here are more important. Please help me make the decision that best serves You. And, Lord—please do it soon. Because I feel like a man in limbo. I’m torn between two worlds, and I don’t think I can give my best to either until this issue is resolved.
Chapter Three
Amy took one last look in the mirror, nervously brushed a stray strand of hair back into place and glanced at her watch. Cal Richards was late.
For a moment she wondered if he’d stood her up, then quickly dismissed her doubt. There might be many things she didn’t like about the assistant prosecuting attorney, but somehow she sensed he was a man of honor who played by the rules and kept his promises. If he was late, there was a reason.
Amy had no idea where they were going for dinner, so she’d chosen a middle-of-the-road outfit—nice enough for a dressy place, but not too dressy for a casual restaurant. She looked at herself critically. Since the only pleasant thing Cal Richards had ever said to her related to her appearance, she’d taken pains to look especially nice tonight. Her fashionably short, slim black skirt and two-inch heels enhanced the line of her legs, and the jade-green, jewel-neckline jacquard silk blouse softly hugged her curves and shimmered in the light. A wide, black leather belt emphasized her small waist, and a clunky hammered gold necklace and matching earrings added an elegant touch. She’d softened her usual sleek, businesslike hairstyle by blow-drying her fine hair into gentle waves that fluffed around her shoulders, and she’d added a touch of eye shadow that brought out the green of her eyes.
Amy studied her image for another moment, then gave a satisfied nod. This was definitely the right look, she decided. She could be any young woman going out on a Friday-night date. The fact that there was an ulterior motive—well, if she was lucky, Cal Richards would quickly forget all about that.
The doorbell rang and Amy’s pulse kicked into high gear. She forced herself to take a couple of deep, steadying breaths, squared her shoulders, plastered an artificial smile on her face and then walked purposefully toward the door, determined to give this evening her best shot. As she reached for the knob, the image of a boxing match, complete with a gong followed by the voice of an announcer saying “Round one,” suddenly flashed through her mind. An appropriate analogy, she reflected, her lips quirking wryly. Then, with her adrenaline pumping for the battle of wits ahead, she opened the door.
The sight that greeted her instantly wiped the smile off her face. It appeared Cal Richards had already fought round one—and lost. His tie was askew, his hair was mussed and he was holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose and sporting a rapidly blackening eye.
She stared at him speechlessly for several seconds before she found her voice. “Good heavens, what happened?” she finally sputtered, her face a mask of shock.
“Where’s your phone?”
“What?”
“Your phone. I need to report a mugging.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding!”
He glared at her, his voice muffled behind the handkerchief. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“No. I mean…I can’t believe this! Look, come in. Sit down. Are you all right?” She took his arm and guided him toward the couch, pushing the door shut with her foot. Once he was seated she scurried for the portable phone and handed it to him. “I’ll get some ice. And a towel.”
“Don’t bother.”
She ignored him and headed toward the kitchen. By the time she returned, the phone was lying on the coffee table and he was trying vainly to staunch the flow of blood with his very inadequate handkerchief. She thrust the towel into his hand.
“Here. Use this. And tilt your head back. Then put this on your eye.” She placed the ice bag in his other hand.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re bossy?” he grumbled, wincing as he gingerly settled the ice bag against his bruised skin.
She grinned. “I think my sister might have said that a few times through the years.”
“Well, she was right. Listen, the police will be here in a few minutes. I’m sorry to put you in the middle of this.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“Two thugs jumped me in the parking lot. I didn’t even see them coming,” he said in disgust. “I’m usually more alert than that.” And he would have been tonight, too, if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with this obligatory date, he thought ruefully.
Amy frowned and sank into the nearest chair. “I’ve never heard of anything like that happening here before.”
“There’s always a first time. No place is really safe, Ms. Winter. You ought to know that. You cover the crime beat.”
She sighed. “Look, can we move past the ‘Mr.’ and ‘Ms.’ business? It’s starting to seem kind of silly.”
Even with only one good eye, his piercing gaze was intimidating, and she shifted uncomfortably. But instead of responding, he suddenly closed his eyes and leaned wearily back against the couch.
Amy frowned. He looked pale. Maybe he was hurt worse than he was letting on, she thought worriedly as a wave of panic swept over her.
“Look, Mr. Richards, are you sure you don’t need an ambulance or something?” She rose and hovered over him nervously.
