Callie's Cowboy by Karen Leabo Page A

onhis father’s death. Just being with Callie was more soothing than talking the subject to shreds.
    He and Callie had always been there for each other during times of adversity. Somehow, when one of them was hurting, all quarrels were forgotten. He remembered the time her father had passed away from an unexpected heart attack. Sam and Callie had fought the week before and were officially “broken-up.” But the moment he’d heard about Mr. Calloway, Sam had gone to Callie. She’d accepted his presence and his comfort without question, and whatever stupid thing they’d fought about—he couldn’t remember it now—had melted into insignificance.
    â€œSal’s, please hold,” a voice said.
    It was his own father’s death that had brought her back to him this time. Only he hadn’t accepted her attempts to comfort as readily as he should have. Looking back a few days, he was truly ashamed of the hostile way he’d treated her. Oh, he wasn’t ready to take her completely at face value. She was still a journalist first, job or no job. But she’d been very perceptive when she’d accused him of holding on to the bitterness from their last breakup.
    â€œSal’s, can I take your order?” The voice belonged to Sal himself.
    â€œYeah, hi, Sal. I need a large sausage-and-mushroom deep dish to go—”
    â€œSam? Sam Sanger?”
    â€œUh, yeah.”
    â€œWow, I thought I’d gone back in time there for a minute. Don’t tell me. It’s for you and Callie, right?”
    â€œRight.” He hoped Callie didn’t mind if people gossiped about them.
    Sal laughed. “You two are as predictable as sunshine on the Fourth of July. Same order, every Friday night. I got to where I didn’t even wait for you to call in the order, remember?”
    â€œYeah, I remember.” He was remembering a lot of things. He and Callie’d had some good times. The ache of nostalgia squeezed his chest. But it was only nostalgia, he cautioned himself. They couldn’t throw their quarrels out the window like they used to. Their differences were too fundamental these days.
    â€œOkay, I’ve got you down,” Sal said. “Pizza’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”
    â€œGreat, I’ll be there to get it.”
    Before returning to the living room, Sam rummaged around in the red-and-white-tiled kitchen for some things he knew Callie would have—a pretty china cup, some herbal tea, a kettle. He filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then put a tea bag in the cup.
    â€œThe water should boil in a few minutes,” he told Callie as he put on his denim jacket. She hadn’t moved since he’d left the room to order the pizza. “I put out some tea for you. Raspberry and chamomile. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
    He started to walk out the door, but at the last moment he strode quickly to her chair, leaned down, and kissed her too pale cheek. He wanted to do more, but decided not to push his luck. “Chin up, Callie. You’re strong, and you can get through this.”

    As soon as Sam was gone, Callie released a pent-up sigh. A few minutes ago she’d been in a state of panic, wishing there was some way she could call off this … meeting, or whatever it was if it wasn’t a date. She’d even started to phone him as her mind scurried around looking for some believable excuse. But she’d hung up before the connection was even made. She’d known Sam wouldn’t be put off by anything. He was too damned determined.
    She didn’t need the extra stress of dealing with Sam right now, she’d told herself when the bell had rung. Didn’t she have enough on her plate? But the moment she saw him, everything had changed. He’d always been there during her worst times, even when she didn’t deserve his devotion. During disasters, he made sure she ate, he rubbed her