“Don’t—” She sucked in a ragged breath when his thumbs pushed against the swell of her breasts, sending rivers of sensation flooding through her. “You’ve got to stop,” she cried on a broken sob. “Or else I’ll— I’ll—”
His body went rigid against hers. “Or else you’ll what?” He took a step back, branding her with eyes dark with loathing. “Scream rape?” With his gaze still locked on hers, he bent and scooped his hat from the floor and fitted it over his head. He ran a finger along the brim to pull it low over his eyes.
“It’s not rape when a woman’s willing,” he said, then spun and walked to the door, his black duster swishing against the legs of his starched jeans. He stopped, one hand braced high on the door, then turned to look at her over his shoulder. “And you, sweetheart, were more than willing.”
* * *
Hours later Callie lay on her back, the sheet and blanket clutched to her chin, her eyes wide, staring at the ceiling overhead. Though the thermostat in the room registered a comfortable seventy-two degrees, shivers shook her body.
He’d been wrong. She hadn’t been willing. She’d been desperate, almost crazy with her need for him. If he hadn’t stopped when he did, she wasn’t at all sure she could have found the strength to end what he had started.
Even now, with regret stinging her eyes and throat, an ache still throbbed between her legs, crying out for a satisfaction she knew she shouldn’t want.
A sob rose in her throat, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth, holding it back. She’d always known there was more between a man and a woman than what she’d experienced. More than just a physical joining. There had to be a higher level, an almost spiritual experience that transformed a man and a woman when they touched. She’d never experienced that with Stephen, which explained her hesitancy in agreeing to set a date for their marriage.
But she had felt “that something different” with Judd Barker. God help her, but she’d felt it.
* * *
“Prudy, I want you to fax me everything you can find on Judd Barker.”
“The country-western singer?”
Callie juggled the phone between her ear and shoulder while she laced up her hiking boots. “Yes.”
“For heaven’s sake, why?”
She caught the phone in her hand, tightening her fingers on the receiver as she lurched to her feet. “Look, I don’t have time to explain right now. I’m on my way to the cemetery to see Papa’s grave.”
“Papa’s! He’s not dead! You’re supposed to be looking for his mother’s grave. Callie, what is going on? Are you all right?”
Callie closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her forehead, not sure that she’d ever be all right again. Not after last night. But she wouldn’t trouble Prudy with that now. “Yes,” she replied. “I’m fine. I’m just in a hurry. I’ll call later and explain.”
She hung up before Prudy could demand an immediate explanation. Gathering up her jacket and purse, she headed out the door. She avoided the elevator and took the stairs, shrugging on her jacket as she went, hoping to escape the hotel without seeing anyone. She slipped out the side door and shoved sunglasses onto her nose. Thankfully, the wind was gone, the air crisp and clear, the sun almost blinding it was so bright.
She crossed quickly to her car, unlocked the door and tossed in her purse. Leaning over, she pushed the button to lower the top, then moved to the back of the car to snap the boot in place. A streak of black flashed past her, nearly making her jump out of her skin. She turned to find Baby perched in the back seat.
Glowering at the dog, she marched to the open door. “Out!” she ordered, her index finger pointing in the direction she expected him to take. The black Lab simply looked at her, his tongue lolling, his tail swishing across the leather seat. She planted a knee in the bucket seat, stretched to close a hand around the dog’s collar and tugged. Baby braced himself and tugged just as effectively in the opposite direction. After a good two minutes of tug-of-war with the stubborn beast, Callie gave up.
“Fine,” she muttered under her breath. “You can ride along, but you better watch your manners,” she warned. “And no drooling on the seats,” she added as she twisted around and dropped down behind the steering wheel.
Gunning the engine, she peeled away from the curb, sending leaves spinning in whirlwinds behind her rear tires. After giving her sunglasses an impatient shove back on her nose, she dug into her purse for the directions Frank had given her earlier that morning for Summit View Cemetery.
Once she reached the cemetery, she’d prove Judd Barker to be the lying snake that he was, she promised herself as she braked for a red light. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel in impatience. She’d walk the entire cemetery if necessary, look at every headstone and marker, and when she didn’t locate one with William Leighton Sawyer’s name on it, then she’d find Judd Barker and—
She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. And what? she asked herself. Have him tarred and feathered and run out of town? The image drew a smug smile.
It isn’t rape when a woman’s willing. And you, sweetheart, were more than willing. A shiver chased down her spine at the memory and her frown disappeared.
She despised him for his cockiness. She despised him more because he’d been right.
A horn blared behind her and a man’s voice yelled, “Hey! What shade of green do you want?”
Scowling at the man in the rearview mirror, she shifted into first gear, pressed the accelerator to the floorboard, then tossed back her head and laughed when she saw the look of surprise on his face when she left him in a cloud of dust.
Frank’s directions proved easy to follow, and within minutes she drove between the limestone pillars and black wrought-iron gates marking the cemetery’s entrance. The cemetery was laid out just as Frank had described. A tree-lined drive led to a center island where the United States flag and that of Oklahoma waved and snapped in the wind. The island served as the hub while narrow paved lanes fed off of it like spokes, dividing the cemetery into neat sections.
Callie parked beneath an elm tree and sagged back in her seat as she looked around, overwhelmed by the number of markers scattered across the hill. “Come on, Baby,” she muttered in resignation as she climbed from her car. “We might as well get started.”
Baby bounded out of the back seat and trotted along beside her. They walked for over an hour, with Baby occasionally darting away to chase a squirrel up a tree or a rabbit into his burrow. With each passing marker, Callie’s original purpose for the trip was forgotten as emotion built, tightening her throat. Infants, young children, young wives. Each marker she read reflected the hard life of the early settlers of Guthrie and the tolls it took. One in particular caught her attention, and she stopped, studying the grave of a mother and infant buried together.
Sighing, she walked on to the next marker. The surname BODEAN topped the double-wide marker and below it the names Jedidiah to the left and Mary Elizabeth to the right.
Mary Elizabeth? She knelt in front of the marker and, using her thumbnail, scraped away the gold-brown moss which had attached itself to the etchings in the granite and noted the dates. The age according to the year of birth would be approximately right for her great-great-grandmother’s, but the stone read that the woman had died in 1938. That would have made her sixty-seven years of age when she’d passed away, and Papa’s mother had died in childbirth.
Certain that she was wasting her time, she took a pen and paper from her purse and jotted down the dates of the couple’s births and deaths in order to check them with the court records later.
With a little less than half the cemetery