Always a Temp

Yeah, Nate had changed.

A few minutes later she parked her car in front of Grace’s house, which, once the estate was settled, would be hers.

Callie McCarran. Home owner.

What a joke. Houses were for people who liked to put down roots, form relationships. Other people signed mortgages and long-term leases. Callie paid rent on a mouse-proof storage unit to store the few things she treasured and could not bring with her on her travels.

A house would be wasted on her.

CHIP ELROY POKED HIS shaved head into Nathan’s office. “Hey, was that Callie McCarran I saw leaving the building a while ago?” He had two cameras hanging around his neck and a large black lens bag in one hand.

“In the flesh,” Nate muttered, looking back down.

“Wow. I haven’t seen her since high school.” Chip gave a slight cough. “She, uh, filled out nicely, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” Nathan said in a conversation-stopping tone. “Do you have something you need to discuss?”

“Nope,” Chip answered, emphasizing the p and taking the hint. “I’m heading out to take photos of the new bridge.” He pushed off from the door frame, his baggy pants dropping an inch as he did. He hiked them back up with his free hand.

“Are you done with the BLM story?”

“I will be by tomorrow morning.”

“See to it.” Nathan shifted back to the piece he was editing. It would be so great if Chip had a clue when to use an apostrophe. At least he took decent photos.

Two hours and one headache after Callie had left, Joy came into Nathan’s office carrying a cup of green tea. She insisted he drink one cup a day to help combat stress. Nathan actually thrived under pressure and hated green tea, which tasted like boiled lettuce, but he was wise enough not to mess with Joy. The office would implode without her.

“Thanks,” he said absently as she set the cup on the one clear spot on his desk—the spot he kept clear for this purpose—close to the potted plant. He was beginning to think that there might be something to the purported medicinal properties of green tea, since the dieffenbachia had put on an amazing growth spurt.

“You should have hired her to freelance,” Joy said. There was no doubt which “her” she meant, since with the exception of Millie, the advertising salesperson, there had been no other woman in the office that day.

Nathan looked up. “You were listening?”

“Not on purpose. You didn’t close the door and I was in the supply closet taking inventory. You should have given her some work.”

“But I didn’t.”

“It would have reduced the load here.”

“She’s going to be gone in a few weeks, Joy.”

“How do you know?” Joy challenged.

Nathan moved his mouse, bringing his screen back up. “Trust me. I know.”

“We’ll see,” she replied on her way out the door, which she closed behind her, leaving Nathan free to dispose of his tea and to wonder why she was defending Callie. Since Joy and Grace had been friends, he hadn’t expected that. And he hadn’t made a mistake.

Vince Michaels, the owner of the Wesley Star and several other rural papers scattered throughout Nevada and western Utah, would not agree. He’d be totally pissed if he discovered that Nathan had refused to hire Callie, since she’d won a few awards and people knew her name.

Was that why he felt like hell?

“WHAT ARE YOUR SKILLS?” Mrs. Copeland, the woman who managed the only temp agency in Wesley, propped her fingertips together as she asked the question. Tech Temps catered almost solely to the gold mining industry, the number one employer in northern Nevada, but Callie was more than willing to take on a mine job, which ranged from secretarial to truck driving. Two days had passed since her unsettling conversation with Nate, and she still had no idea what she was going to do in the future. But if she was going to stay in Wesley for an undetermined amount of time, then she needed to work, because at the moment, writing wasn’t cutting it.

If she had to, she could write the service articles her magazine contacts were asking her to take on, but Callie’s strength was her voice. She wrote about people and places and her unique style had earned her both a name and a steady income.

Now, not only was her writing off, her voice was MIA and she was getting concerned. She hoped that if she got out into the workforce, met new people, had new experiences, something would spark, as it always had before, and the words would flow once again.

Grief was a bitch.

“I can do just about anything.” And she had, having supported herself with temporary jobs, between travel writing and other freelance gigs, since she’d left college. Indeed, the list of Callie’s skills, noted on the résumé sitting in front of Mrs. Copeland, was long and detailed. Maybe that was why the woman wasn’t looking at it.

Mrs. Copeland puckered her mouth thoughtfully and turned to her computer. She clicked her mouse and made a face. “Diesel mechanic?”

Callie couldn’t help smiling. “No, that’s one area where I’m lacking, but I did work in a tire store once.”

“Accounting?”

“At first, but one of the regular guys got sick for a week, so I mounted tires and fixed flats.”

Mrs. Copeland clicked through several more screens, her expression not exactly reassuring.

“Anything?” Callie had already checked the local paper, which was her only source of employment information. A remote town like Wesley had no short-term job listings on the Internet boards.

“Doesn’t look good. Most temp jobs are seasonal and you’re here at the end of the summer rather than the beginning.”

“I was hoping someone had become conveniently pregnant and needed time off.”

“It happens,” Mrs. Copeland mused. But it didn’t look as if it was happening now. Callie felt a sinking sensation when the lady took her hand off the mouse and turned to her, propping her elbows on her desk and clasping her fingers under her chin. “I see you have a college degree.”

“In journalism.” But she had a sneaking suspicion there wasn’t a big call for journalists in the mining industry.

“I suggest you go to the school district office. They’re crying for subs.”

“Subs?”

Callie’s horror must have shown. Subbing involved kids, and she hadn’t spent much time around kids. Like, none. The woman smiled. “It’s not a bad job. They pay close to a hundred dollars a day. You work from eight to three forty-five.”

“Then why are they crying for subs?” A justifiable question, considering the high pay and the short hours.

“They require two years of college to get the license and not many people here meet that requirement. If they do, they usually have full-time jobs.”

“A hundred dollars a day.”

“Almost a hundred,” Mrs. Copeland corrected her, her chin still resting on her clasped hands.

“I was hoping for something steadier.” Even a serial temp worker needed a little security in the short term.

“Trust me, it’s steady. My brother teaches and I know.” Mrs. Copeland picked up Callie’s résumé and slid it into a manila folder. “If you’re not interested in subbing,” she said, after placing the folder on a high stack on the rolling file cabinet next to her, “you can check back every few days, or check online. Maybe something will open up.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Callie left the office and walked to her hot car. Subbing…did she want to get back in the workforce that badly?

She gave herself a shake. Okay. The idea of trying to control a class of kids was intimidating, especially since she had zero notion how to do that, but…if it didn’t work out, she didn’t have to go back. Heck, if it didn’t work out, she probably wouldn’t be allowed back. She would go with Plan B then—taking the magazine contracts. She didn’t want to do that just yet because a small part of her was afraid that was all she’d ever do from that point on. She might never write anything worthwhile again.

Callie got into the Neon and drove the half mile to the school district office, where they practically hugged her for showing up with a bona fide college diploma and the desire—although Callie wasn’t quite certain that was the correct word—to substitute teach. These people were desperate.

After filling out forms and getting instructions on what to do with transcripts, she went to the sheriff’s office to be fingerprinted—a requirement for the sub license application. She’d looked around cautiously when she arrived, since once upon a time Nate’s father, John Marcenek, a man who’d never particularly cared for Callie, had been sheriff. But surely he’d retired by now. He had to be over sixty.

“Who’s sheriff?” Callie asked the brisk woman wearing too much perfume who took the prints.

“Marvin Lodi.”

Callie wasn’t familiar with the name. “John Marcenek retired then?” She was actually kind of hoping he’d been voted out of office.

“Yes. He’s chief of the volunteer fire department now.”

That sounded like the perfect retirement gig for Nathan’s dad. Something where he could be in command and throw his weight around.

Callie left the sheriff’s office and went back to Grace’s house, where she ordered her college transcript online, requesting that it be sent directly to the State Department. The extreme shortage of subs in the district meant her application would be expedited, according to the district office secretary. As soon as the paperwork was approved, all she had to do was wait for a call.

And in the meantime, she could try to force out some words.

Callie went into the kitchen with its sparkling linoleum floor, waxed in a bout of insomnia the night before, and glanced out the back window at the grass she needed to mow as soon as it cooled off. Then she smiled.

The baseball, which had disappeared from the birdbath a few hours after she’d put it there two days ago, was back, next to her bottom step. She went outside and picked it up, wondering if the owner was anywhere nearby.

The fence separating her property from the alley and the vacant lot next door was solid wood, but on the other side chain-link divided the backyards, so Callie was able to see Alice Krenshaw pruning her bushes near the corner of her house.

“Hey, Alice,” she called, her first voluntary contact since the memorial. She figured if they were going to be neighbors, however temporary, then they needed to develop a working relationship.

Alice looked up from under the brim of her gardening bonnet, her pruning shears still open, prepared for the next snip. “Do you know a little white-haired kid in the neighborhood?”

“He lives in the rental on the other side of the vacant lot. The Hobarts.” Alice pointed to the two-story house, which was a bit ramshackle, with worn paint and missing screens.

“Thanks. I need to return something.” Callie held up the baseball and Alice nodded before returning to her pruning.

Callie went through the back gate into the alley, half expecting to find a kid crouched in the shadow of the fence, waiting for the opportunity to retrieve his ball. She walked along the buckled asphalt to the house Alice had pointed out. The backyard wasn’t fenced and the weeds of the lot that separated the house from Grace’s were encroaching into the dried grass. A few toys were scattered about—a yellow dump truck and bulldozer, a half-deflated plastic swimming pool. Dead bugs and leaves floated on the remaining water.

No kids.

Callie looked up at the second floor windows and clearly saw two children looking down at her—the white-haired boy and a darker blonde girl. Callie held up the ball and they both instantly disappeared from view. But they didn’t come out the back door as she expected. She waited for several minutes, and when it became obvious that she could be cooling her heels for nothing, she walked down the alley and around to the front of the house, where she rang the doorbell. The bell made no sound, so she knocked. And knocked again.

Nothing happened.

Okay… Then it hit her. The kids must be home alone and had been told not to answer the door. It made perfect sense. Callie set the baseball on the weathered porch boards and headed back to her own house.

Maybe she could do a piece on latchkey kids….

NATHAN MOUNTED THE road bike and expertly locked his shoe cleats into the clipless pedals, then started down the road leading out of town. It had not been a good day, with deadlines stacking up like cordwood and a phone call from the big boss, Vince Michaels, insisting that Nathan put Vince’s high-school-aged son, Mitch, to work again. Mitch had worked as an intern the previous semester and had been about as useless as a screen door on a submarine. Then to complicate matters, Nathan found out Mitch had been harassing Katie, the part-time billing clerk, with sexual innuendos. Nathan had put a quick stop to that and had called Vince, who hadn’t taken the matter seriously until Nathan mentioned the potential for a harassment suit. Then he’d taken notice. Mitch had sulked and stayed away from Katie, but he’d continued to be as useless as ever.

Nathan didn’t need Mitch hanging around again, doing nothing and upsetting the people who were actually working, but he had him. Another Vince-related headache. Nathan had a lot of autonomy working at the Star, but there were areas where the boss needed to back off and keep his fingers out of the pie.

Nathan geared down as he approached the first big hill, and the tension on the pedals eased as revolutions per minute increased, allowing him to maintain speed as he climbed. The first time he’d ridden after getting out of the hospital, he’d gone all of a mile. His good leg had had to do the work; his injured leg had been along for the ride, the foot locked onto the pedal by the cleat mechanism in his shoe, the leg doing little more than bobbing up and down as the pedals turned. But as time passed, the remaining muscles in that leg started doing their job, and now he rode fifteen to twenty miles a night, sometimes thirty, depending on how late he left the office and how stressed he was. Despite the deadlines, he’d managed to get out relatively early tonight, before seven o’clock, anyway, because Chip had turned in two decent articles, proofread and well written for once.

It was twilight by the time Nathan had completed the loop around the edge of town, dipping down near the river, then back through the older section of town, where he lived. When he rounded the last corner before his house he saw his younger brother, Seth, backing out of the driveway. Seth caught sight of him and pulled the truck forward again.

“Good ride?” he asked, getting out. He had on his wilderness clothes—a light green microfiber shirt, khaki pants, hiking boots. His hat was jammed in his back pocket instead of on his close-cropped, dark blond hair. Out to commune with nature, no doubt. Or to rescue someone. He was driving the official beaten-to-death truck with the SAR—Search and Rescue—insignia on the door.

“Every ride’s a good ride,” Nathan answered, pulling off his helmet and shaking his sweaty hair. For a while he’d been afraid that he’d never ride again. “What’s up?”

“I’m on my way out of town and needed to borrow your GPS.” He held it up. “Mine’s on the fritz.”

“Help yourself to my stuff anytime,” Nathan said as he pushed the bike into the garage with one hand on the seat. “You know how much I like it.”

“Oh, I will,” Seth said with a laugh. “Has Garrett talked to you at all?”

“About?” Nathan hung the bike on a set of supports attached to the wall, hooked his helmet over the bar extender, then peeled off his gloves.

“He’s all ticked off about some fight he had with Dad. Don’t tell him I told you.” Seth started for his truck.

“Hey, he’s the one who wanted to live next door to Dad.” Nathan was surprised that his dad had fought with Garrett, though. Usually he saved his arguments for Nathan, the kid he didn’t understand.

“No. He’s the one who wanted to live rent free,” Seth corrected, and he had a point, since their father owned the house next door and didn’t charge Garrett rent in return for minor property upkeep. “Want anything from the city? I’m stopping in Elko on my way to Jarbidge.”

Nathan shook his head. “I’m good. What’s going on in Jarbidge?” The isolated mountain community boasted a population of less than a hundred.

“Probably a party, but we’re going up for specialized search and rescue training starting early tomorrow morning.” Seth got into the truck and was about to close the door when he said conversationally, “You aware that Callie’s still in town?”

“I am.” His brothers were the only people who knew the truth about what Callie had done to him. As far as everyone else knew, they’d parted by mutual agreement.

“Just wondering,” Seth said casually.

“No big deal.” Because it wasn’t—except that whenever he thought about her coming into his office, cool as could be, his blood pressure spiked. He was really looking forward to the day she put Wesley behind her. Then the coronary he was working on would result from deadlines alone.

As his brother swung out onto the sealed blacktop, Nathan lifted a hand, then went into the house through the side door, hitting the switch to close the garage as he went in. He’d barely peeled out of his sweaty shirt when the town fire siren blew. He grimaced and put the damp shirt back on again. He hated going to fires, but Chip was leaving town for two days, so he was the only one there to cover the story.

He really had to hire another reporter.

But it wouldn’t be Callie. He didn’t care if she stayed for a decade.

CHAPTER THREE

CALLIE WOKE to the smell of smoke. She pushed her hair back from her forehead as she sat up, disoriented until she realized that, despite the noise of the antique cooling system churning in the window beside her, she’d conked out on the sofa. That would teach her to wax floors at midnight.

She got to her feet, rubbing the crick in her neck as she went out on the front porch. The neighborhood was quiet, but the smell of smoke was strong. She walked out to the middle of the street, where she could see over the tops of the houses, and sure enough, a column of dark smoke rose into the rapidly darkening sky on the north edge of town, where housing developments encroached on the desert and Bureau of Land Management property. It was the season for wildfires, but black smoke meant a structure was burning.

Maybe she’d find something to write about.

Callie went back in the house, ran a comb through her sleep-flattened hair, then grabbed her car keys. By the time she’d followed the smoke to the outskirts of town, about a mile away from Grace’s house, several vehicles bearing volunteer firefighter license plates had sailed by her.

A crowd of onlookers gathered on the last street of the development, which had new tract houses on one side and vacant lots on the other. Maybe seventy yards away, on the undeveloped side of the street, firemen were dousing flames that had engulfed a derelict trailer parked in a weed-choked lot.

Ever conscious of not getting in the way of people who had a job to do, because that tended to get one banished from the scene, she parked her car several yards from the closest vehicle, hugging her wheels to the ditch to keep the roadway clear. She left the car and casually walked up to the knot of bystanders, wanting to blend in as she took in the scene.

“Any idea how it started?” she asked the teenager next to her, a sandy-haired kid with baggy pants. The sky was clear, so if the fire had been caused by lightning, it was a freak strike.

The teen shrugged without looking at her, but the middle-aged man standing slightly in front of her turned, frowning as if he was trying to place her. Probably not too many strangers showed up at neighborhood fires, so Callie couldn’t blame the guy for thinking she might be a firebug there to enjoy the results of her handiwork.

“I’m Callie McCarran,” she said, saving him the trouble of trying to memorize her face or get her license plate number.

“Doug Jones.” He turned back toward the action, but Callie caught him watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Callie gave the teenager another shot. “Have you had many fires this summer?” Fire seasons varied. Some years would be fire-free and during others it would seem as if the entire state was ablaze.

“We’ve had a few,” the boy said without looking at her. His focus was on the firemen—or rather, on one particular fireman who looked as if he might be a she. The only she, as far as Callie could tell.

“Do you know the name of the female firefighter?”

The kid shrugged again and ignored her.

Oh, yeah. She was going to do well substitute teaching. Couldn’t get kids to answer the door. Couldn’t get kids to answer a question. And speaking of kids…Callie saw a distinctive white head at the edge of the crowd. Her across-the-lot neighbor. This little guy got around. Callie craned her neck to see who was with him, but the crowd shifted and she lost sight of him.

The breeze was light and it didn’t take long for the firefighters to get the blaze under control and stop it from spreading to the desert, where it could have taken off in the dry grass, sage and rabbit brush, causing major damage. The crowd started to disperse as the flames died, some people going to cars, others to nearby houses, and Callie once again caught sight of the boy as he tried to resist his sister’s efforts to pull him down the street. No adult was in sight and it was nearly nine o’clock. What would two kids that age be doing so far from home?

Unless they had sneaked out to see the action without their parents knowing. Kids did do things like that, or so she’d heard. She’d been too afraid of the wrath of Grace to have tried.

The girl finally got her brother to cooperate, even though she wasn’t much bigger than he was, and he began trudging down the street beside her. Every now and then he looked over his shoulder at the firefighters.

Callie wasn’t about to offer them a ride, being a stranger and all, and no one else seemed concerned by their presence, so she decided that Wesley was indeed a very small town and the rules were different than in a more urban area. She watched until they pulled their tired-looking bicycles out of the ditch near a streetlight and started riding off along the sidewalk. Okay. They had transportation home. But it still disturbed her to see kids out that late without an adult.

Doug Jones gave Callie one last suspicious look, then headed to a nearby house. Bye, Doug. Callie stayed where she was, hoping to get a chance to talk to the female firefighter, who was still dealing with embers near what was left of the trailer.

As she waited, a big Dodge truck and a panel wagon pulled out of the throng of vehicles belonging to the volunteers, giving Callie a better view of the fire engines. She also had a better view of Nathan and his older brother, Garrett, standing in the headlights of one of the engines, deep in conversation.

She hadn’t realized Nate was there, though it made perfect sense—his staff was probably so small that he had to report as well as edit—and she certainly hadn’t realized that the deputy she’d spotted a few times on the fringes of the crowd was Garrett Marcenek. Go figure.

She’d known Garrett for years, and had no idea he’d ever thought of pursuing a career in law enforcement. How ironic. Now instead of being arrested, he’d get to do the honors. So what might Seth Marcenek be doing? If the rule of opposites applied, he’d pretty much have to be a priest.

“Hey, Garrett,” someone behind her called. “I’m taking off.”

The brothers both looked up, catching Callie midstare.

Damn.

She instantly started walking toward them, as if that had been her objective in the first place. If she was going to stay in this town for a while, then she wasn’t going to try to avoid the Marcenek brothers.

“Garrett, good to see you,” Callie said before either man could speak. She firmly believed that whoever spoke first had a psychological advantage. “Nathan.”