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Nathan wondered. He took off his reading glasses, holding them by the bow. “So,” he said briskly, making the change of topic sound like a brushoff, “once the estate is settled, where are you heading off to?”
“Nowhere.”
His jaw tightened. He didn’t want her in town, didn’t want to be around her. Didn’t like being reminded of those days when he’d gone through hell wondering why she’d left. Why she wouldn’t take his calls. Not the best of times for a kid who was struggling with self-image issues, issues his dad wasn’t exactly helping him with.
“You’re keeping the house?” His voice was amazingly cool considering what his blood pressure was doing.
She drew back at the suggestion. “Of course not. I just want some…” Her voice trailed off as she made a small gesture. A fire opal set in an asymmetrical gold band on her left ring finger caught the light. An engagement ring? Somehow he doubted it. “I want some time to go through Grace’s things. Tidy up the place to sell. I don’t have any pressing commitments.”
“I see.” And he now had an idea of what was coming next. If she wasn’t here as an alleged friend, then…
“I need a temporary job, Nate. I don’t want to live solely on savings.”
Bingo.
She leaned forward in her chair, her expression intent. “I thought I could freelance for you.” When Nathan didn’t answer immediately, she added, “I might even improve circulation.”
Heaven knew she’d improved his circulation more than once. Nathan shoved the thought aside. “Yeah, you would do an excellent job. There’s just one problem.”
“That I’ll be leaving?”
He set his glasses on top of a stack of papers, rubbed his eyes again. “That’s not the problem.”
“Then what, Nate?”
He hesitated for a moment before he said, “I don’t want to work with you, Callie, and I don’t want to publish your articles.”
Her eyebrows, a few shades darker than her hair, rose higher. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head, watching Callie’s expression change as she realized he meant what he said. He was passing up work from a writer of her caliber.
“Because of what happened between us,” she said. He nodded. “But that was twelve years ago.”
“That doesn’t make what you did any less crummy.”
Callie showed no emotion as she said, “I’m not here asking for friendship, Nate.” But he had a strong feeling that had been exactly what she’d been there for. Callie didn’t have any friends left in town. He was all that remained of their small high school group. “I just want to submit some freelance work.”
“Isn’t going to happen.”
“I can’t believe you’re letting personal matters interfere with professional.”
“Believe it, Cal.”
“Would you at least give me a chance to—”
“What would it matter?” he asked sharply, cutting her off. “If you had something to explain, maybe you could have answered one of my calls twelve years ago. You know, back when I cared?”
Callie rose to her feet and slung her leather bag over her shoulder so hard it made a noise when it hit her back.
Nathan also stood, and again his leg cooperated.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you around.” Her voice was cold.
And he probably would see her around for a few days, because she’d make certain he did, but he’d bet his next paycheck she’d be gone within a matter of weeks. Or days. She’d find a new assignment, let the real estate agent sell the house, the accountant handle the estate.
“Goodbye, Callie.”
She left without another word, the distinctive sound of her flip-flops echoing on the tile in a weird staccato rhythm as she returned to the main office. Nathan sat back down, stretching out his bad leg, feeling the familiar deep ache as his scarred muscles protested. His nerves were humming.
He’d done a decent job of pushing Callie out of his mind over the years, filing their relationship away under Rugged Learning Experiences. He rarely read her articles and he’d had no intention of ever seeing her again.
Now here she was, back in Wesley, ready to let bygones be bygones. He reached for his glasses.
As he’d said, it wasn’t going to happen.
CHAPTER TWO
THANKFULLY, JOY WONG wasn’t at her desk when Callie left Nathan’s office, because, thick-skinned as she was, Callie didn’t think she could handle any more rejection today—not even a dismissive smile. Joy had been one of Grace’s friends, although Callie had never known her well, and it had been obvious from her politely distant demeanor at the memorial service that Joy was in the Callie-is-a-rotten-person camp.
Callie quickly skirted the receptionist’s desk, crossed the foyer and escaped out of the building into the heat. The big glass door closed behind her with a muffled click.
Safe.
She couldn’t believe how off base she’d been about Nate.
The plan had been simple when she’d entered the Wesley Star office. She would apologize to Nate for running scared, explain that she’d been overwhelmed by things she still didn’t fully understand. And then Nate, realizing that she’d been young and confused, and obviously had a reason for not contacting him, would forgive her. After all, twelve years had passed. Time heals all wounds and all of that. But two seconds into the reunion Callie knew she’d better come up with a different plan. The young Nate she’d jilted was nothing like the older Nate sitting behind the editor’s desk. Oh, they looked almost the same—dark-haired, blue-eyed, with glasses—but they weren’t the same guy. So she’d saved face and pretended she was interested in freelancing, which she was, never dreaming that Nate would reject her there, too.
She felt like crap.
Heat waves danced on the asphalt as Callie crossed the lot to her car. She didn’t even look at the man loading equipment into a minivan two spaces away from where she was parked. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she wasn’t going to submit herself to more rampant disapproval.
Callie opened the car door with a little too much force, making the old hinges squeak, and climbed into the two-hundred-degree interior, cranking the windows down as soon as she shut the door. Since she rarely needed a car, unless she happened to be making a trip across the Nevada desert to a place with no airport, she didn’t own one. The Neon belonged to a friend of a friend in Berkeley, who’d had no qualms about lending it to Callie indefinitely in exchange for two hundred dollars—which was approximately twice the value of the cranky little car, as near as she could tell.
Callie pulled the neck of her shirt away from her damp skin before she reached for the ignition. The no-frills Neon lacked AC, and she was getting a quick refresher course in just how hot Nevada could be in August. Even the high desert, where Wesley was located, had long stretches of days in the hundred-degree-plus range, and wasn’t she lucky that they were having one now?
As she pulled away from the building, she glanced at Nate’s window. He was sitting there staring at his computer. It killed her how much he looked the same, yet how different he was. Of course, there were small changes that came with maturity. His face had become leaner, making his cheekbones more prominent, his chin more angular. And his body was harder, more muscular. Ironically, he’d been dressed almost exactly the same the last time she’d seen him, on graduation night, right down to the sleeves of his oxford shirt rolled up over his forearms and his shirt tucked into jeans rather than pants. He’d once told her that the only thing that stood between him and complete nerddom was that he refused to give up his Levi’s. She’d never thought of him as a nerd, but rather as the quiet brother sandwiched in between two hell-raisers. Safe, dependable, understanding Nate…Scratch understanding.
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.”
