Miss Lizzy's Legacy by Peggy Moreland Page A

Callie. Her name played through his mind again and again, like the refrain of a favorite song. His breath eased out of him on a heavy sigh. He’d made love to a lot of women in his day, and suffered through that morning-after awkwardness when they each went their separate ways. But he’d never awakened with a knot of fear lodged in his chest, dreading that moment of separation. In one night, Callie had chipped her way through the walls he’d erected around himself and burrowed her way into his heart.
    He sighed again, then shifted to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, giving him a better view of her face. Her eyelids twitched at his touch, and he held his breath. He didn’t want her to awaken just yet, for he didn’t want their time together to end. Time was something they didn’t have. Once she solved the mystery surrounding her great-grandfather’s birth, he knew she’d leave—for what would keep her in Guthrie? A woman like her would smother and die in a small town like this. She needed the big city with all its culture and color. Dallas was her home and much more her style.
    He tensed as his mind clicked to another possibility. Was there someone in Dallas waiting for her return, even now?
    In spite of him willing them otherwise, her eyes slowly blinked open and her gaze met his. She smiled sleepily. “Good mornin’,” she murmured and cuddled closer.
    â€œIt is that,” he agreed, snuggling her up higher on his chest. “Did you sleep well?”
    â€œLike a rock.”
    Judd chuckled. “Me, too.” He traced a line from her shoulder to her hip. She was here with him, had spent the night in his arms, yet he couldn’t shake the worrisome thought about her leaving soon or the possibility of someone awaiting her return.
    They hadn’t discussed their pasts. There hadn’t seemed to be the need or even the time for that. But now he was curious and not sure how to raise the question.
    â€œIs there a husband or a boyfriend who might come gunning for me?” he finally asked.
    Callie lifted her head and looked at him. He thought he caught a glimmer of apprehension in her eyes, but then she laughed and tucked her head back against his chest. “A little late to be asking that question, don’t you think?”
    * * *
    Callie sat on a scarred barstool, her stockinged toes curled around its rungs, her chin resting in her hand. Before her, a lump of terra-cotta clay and an armature rested on an old formica-topped kitchen table. Both the stool and the table she’d bought for a bargain at a used-furniture store a couple of blocks from the Harrison House. A drape of plastic sheeting protected a second smaller table “borrowed” from the whorehouse’s main storage room. A plant mister, a scrub brush, several different sized bristle brushes, pieces of wire screen and her modeling tools awaited her use on its top.
    It had taken her less than two hours to set up her temporary studio. She’d spent at least two more hours staring at the clay, waiting for inspiration to strike. The deadline for the sculpture for the Houston hospital’s new women’s pavilion was a scant six weeks away.
    She shifted on the stool and let out a sigh. So far the clay remained untouched, her hands clean and inspiration something she feared she might never experience again. Knowing the statue wouldn’t form itself, she broke off a large chunk of clay. She scooted her stool closer to the table and began to work the clay between her hands, warming it and softening it.
    In her mind’s eye, she saw the completed piece. A mother cradling a sleeping infant to her cheek. She’d never given birth herself, but she could imagine the emotions that would fill a mother’s heart when holding her newborn for the first time. Pride. Love. Thankfulness. All mixed with a measure of awe. Each emotion she wanted reflected on the mother’s face of the