07 It Had to Be You Read online

  “Both of us will,” Jake said firmly.

  “How about I keep my own eyes out for myself?” Callie handed them their drinks. “Because if something’s going on, and it would seem that it is, it couldn’t be about me.”

  “How do you figure?” Jake asked. “Your horse, your Jeep.”

  “The ranch.” She rubbed her temples. “It’s got to be about the ranch. Look, we’ll figure it out.” She could see the worry and strain in each of them and managed a smile she didn’t quite feel. What she did feel was a lump in her throat for these two tall, stubborn, beautiful men looking at her in mutual concern, not even realizing how alike they really were. “And anyway, we have much more to worry about.”

  “Like?” Jake asked darkly.

  “Like…” They both looked so serious. So intense. She wanted to change that. She wanted to see them laugh. Lifting her brush from the red paint tray, she turned to Tucker and dabbed it right in the middle of his chest.

  Tucker sputtered.

  Jake grinned.

  “Oh, you like that?” she asked him silkily, and repeated the favor on his chest.

  He looked down at the hand span-wide mark of red paint in shock. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  Tucker moved behind her, gestured to Jake over her shoulder. She knew this because Jake’s face split into an evil grin. “Callie?” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ll want to run now,” he said softly.

  Before she could, her arms were seized from behind by Tucker, and she was pulled back against his chest.

  “Warned ya.” Jake reached down for his brush with his left hand and came up with that wicked smile. He stepped close.

  Laughing, she tried to tug free from Tucker. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Oh, I’m thinking about it. How about you, Tucker?”

  “I’m thinking about it, too,” Tucker said in her ear.

  “Don’t you dare—”

  Jake painted a big X on her chest, taking his time about it, too.

  Tucker let go of her, and the two of them looked at her and laughed uproariously.

  She tried to remain indignant but the sight of these two men laughing, together, was a sight. Almost unbearably touched, she turned her back, not wanting them to see, but they only laughed harder.

  Because she was also wearing the paint from the front of Tucker all down her back.

  That night Callie spent some time in her office, working on the ranch’s books. Normally she loved this part of her job, being alone, entering numbers, seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, but tonight she felt distracted and it wasn’t just the scent of paint still on her skin.

  Michael had dropped off the loan application she’d requested. It was a few years early in her life plan, but her life plan had been altered. She’d talked to Michael about it in detail. As a solution, he’d offered her a job at his mortgage company, which she took to mean he didn’t think she could qualify for a loan.

  The job was in data entry, a starter position, but she could make more money than here at the Blue Flame. He said she could rent one of the houses he owned in Three Rocks real cheap. He’d offered this countless times since Richard’s death, and she’d never even considered it. She didn’t now, either.

  Alone, stressed and worried, she dropped her head in her hands and rubbed her temples. When the phone rang, she looked at the clock, startled to discover it was past nine already. “Blue Flame.”

  “I’m looking for Tucker Mooney.”

  The voice was feminine and carrying what Callie would have sworn was a fake English accent. Odd. Tucker had led a colorful early life, she knew this, but since he’d come here, he’d had no contact from anyone from that old life. That had been part of the deal when Jake had given him the job two years ago. He hadn’t looked back.

  He had a tight-knit group of friends in town, including some young women, one of whom was Macy, the ranch’s on-call massage therapist. Callie knew them all, and this woman on the phone was one she’d never met. “I’m sorry, but he’s gone into town for the evening.”

  “Oh, damn.” The European accent took a dive, straight into an annoyed American one.

  “Can I take a message?”

  “How about Jakey?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Jake Rawlins. My other boy. I know he’s there; I saw his face plastered across every single newspaper in San Diego, so I called his station. They told me where to find him.”

  “Uh…”

  “Tell him it’s his momma. And hurry up, honey, I don’t have all night. This is a long distance call.”

  9

  Jake had done his physical therapy every day. It was time-consuming and not a little painful, but he wanted to get back to work—God, did he want to get back to work—so he’d been diligent.

  But he hated the weight room. No doubt that was due to the humiliation of Callie’s rescue there, but he’d been doing his exercises in the barn and been happier for it.

  Tonight he walked between the stalls lining either side, watched by a curious Sierra. He stopped to pet her and check on her sides, which were healing. While he stood there Moe stuck his head over his stall, and before Jake could figure out what that meant, the horse opened his mouth and clamped his teeth on the back pocket of Jake’s jeans, which held his cell phone. “Hey!”

  Without letting go, Moe eyed him.

  Jake broke free and clamped his hand over the spot. “What the hell is your problem?”

  Moe snorted and turned away.

  Jake rubbed his butt. “I could send you off to the glue factory. You know that, right?” He stared at an unrepentant Moe, then had to shake his head at himself for even caring that the horse hated him. Still muttering, he began his pull-ups on a hanging wood beam. He got to three before the muscles in his shoulder and bicep started trembling like a baby’s.

  He forced himself to five, then hung, panting. His physical therapist had demanded ten, building up to three sets of ten. He could no more do that than hop to the moon, and yet once upon a time he’d have been able to do them forever. Now, as he hung there, he tried to consider what life would be like without firefighting, but his heart took a slow roll in his chest.

  No. He wasn’t going there. Arms quaking wildly, he forced his sixth and seventh pull-up, then dropped to the floor.

  Moe stuck his head out again, and snickered.

  “Yeah,” Jake said, flat on his back, his shoulder on fire. “Get a good look.”

  The door of the barn opened. Moonlight spilled in, as well as the silhouette of a woman holding a flashlight. “Jake?” She rushed forward. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. You just go about your life, maybe even on another date with Michael, and I’ll go about mine.”

  She stared down at him. “What is your problem?”

  “No problem.” Jake got to his feet even though he wanted to curl into a little whimpering ball.

  “I wasn’t on a date with Michael. Not a date date, anyway. Not that I need to explain myself to you.”

  “Whatever.” Christ, listen to him. He was an ass.

  “I thought you were painting,” she said.

  “Was. It got dark.”

  “We have a weight room.”

  “I remember.” He looked around at all the horses watching them and let out a mirthless laugh. “This felt more private than the weight room.”

  “You have a phone call.”

  “All right.” He followed her to the door, suddenly remembering another night—the night of his father’s funeral service. He’d found her out here, staring around her with a lost, haunted expression on her face. They’d shared a bottle of whiskey because he’d wanted to see that expression erased, and in the process had ended up sharing far more of himself than he’d ever intended. “Remember the last time we stood in this very spot?” he asked her.

  “No.”

  “You were crying.”

  “Was not.”

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