Callie's Convict Read online

  He nodded almost imperceptibly. “Good. But don't go out there again, all right? It's too dangerous, and I don't want anyone getting suspicious."

  "We're quite a ways from town or any other houses, so I doubt there will be anyone to see, but even if there were, I would still have to go out to tend to my daily chores. The chickens aren't going to feed themselves, I'm sorry to say."

  Wade didn't offer any further remarks, but his teeth continued to grind, and Callie thought it might be best to distract him from the direction his thoughts were taking. She set the change of clothes aside and took the plate of cheese and pork from the chair where she'd set it earlier and handed it to him.

  "Sit,” she ordered, waving a finger at the now empty seat. And keep that towel tight, she begged silently.

  Wade sat, tearing into the food on the plate as if he hadn't eaten in a week. And for all she knew, he hadn't.

  He was a big man, covered with glorious muscles that ran through his chest and upper arms, his abdomen and thighs. . .. She'd gotten more than just a glimpse at all those parts and didn't fool herself for a minute thinking he couldn't back up any threat he made with sheer sinewy strength. But around the musculature, his cheeks were thin, his legs lax, his stomach almost concave.

  Without a word, she went to the kitchen and returned with the remaining chunks of bread, pork, and cheese. She would fry up some eggs or put a hank of beef in the oven for him later. And if he could chew through either, she'd have him fattened up in no time.

  He accepted the extra portions gratefully and continued taking large bites from the chunk of meat in his hand.

  Sinking to her knees, she set the hammer and chisel on the floor beside her and turned one of the manacles about his ankle so that she could work on it at a better angle. A heavy chain linked the two cuffs, but each shackle was actually held closed with a separate padlock. If she could just cut through the thick iron of these bolts, the rest of the hideous contraption would fall away. It sounded simple, but Callie knew she had her work cut out for her—four times over.

  Taking a deep breath, she positioned the hacksaw against the metal fastener and began the repetitive back and forth motion that would hopefully gain Wade a bit more freedom.

  Sweat began to bead on her forehead and upper lip. Her arm was so tired, she doubted she'd be able to lift it in the morning. And still she sawed.

  When it looked like she might be making progress, she wedged the chisel between the two ends of the manacle and tried to pry it loose even more. Having finished off every crumb of food she'd given him, Wade set his plate aside and took over holding the chisel in place. He probably would have offered to take over with the hacksaw, as well, but at such an awkward angle, he never would have been able to manage it.

  "Hand me the hammer,” he said after another minute.

  Callie leaned back, wiping her brow with the back of her arm. She set aside the saw and handed him the hammer, letting him pry and bang. She only hoped the racket wouldn't wake Matthew. With three more shackles to go, she didn't have time to heat a bottle and change his diaper, too.

  "Stand back,” Wade warned, and Callie scuttled a few steps away.

  He gave the chisel one more hard hit with the hammer and the metal cuff snapped open, just missing taking off a toe with the sharp tip of the lever.

  He pulled his leg away from the offending piece of metal as though it burned . . . and then Callie saw why, and let out a gasp of despair.

  "My God,” she uttered.

  "Not a pretty sight, is it?” His words were tense and biting as he examined the damage himself.

  The portion of his ankle where the manacle had rested was raw and bleeding. Callie thought every bit of skin might have been rubbed away . . . or if it hadn't, the area was too damaged and covered with blood to notice. He would be lucky if the wound wasn't already infected; if it was, he could very well lose his leg.

  And to think that he suffered from three more marks exactly like this one.

  "I can't believe anyone would treat a fellow human being this way. Why do they lock you in shackles if they know it causes this kind of injury?"

  He snorted, an angry, derisive sound. “Do you think they care? They work prisoners until they drop, and even if they lose one from exhaustion or infection, there are plenty more to take his place."

  "How did you ever get away?” Callie asked. If his wrists and ankles had already been in this bad a shape, how had he managed to make his way from Hunstville to Purgatory?

  "It wasn't easy, I can tell you that. The guards watch us like hawks, and don't hesitate to shoot if it looks like we're trying to escape."

  "Then how. . .?"

  "It took a few months to plan, and to find the perfect moment, but I snuck away when they took a group of us out to clear a field of stones. That's why I'm in shackles; they don't keep them on us when we're in our cells or the prison yard, but they do when they move us anywhere else. I don't think the guards noticed I was missing for a while, thank God, or they'd have shot me in the back. They know by now, though, and probably suspect that I would come back to Purgatory—at least briefly—to see old friends and collect money to stay on the run. They wouldn't know the real reason."

  He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. “It may not be safe for me here much longer."

  "You came back just to see your son?” she guessed.

  He lifted his brown gaze to her own then, and gave a firm nod. “I didn't kill Neville Young, no matter what his son and Sheriff Graves said. They sent me to prison so they could steal my land, but I'm going to prove my innocence and get my ranch back. Then I'll have a place to raise my son the way he deserves."

  Wade Mason. Of course, now she remembered the rest. A couple of years ago, the gruesome murder of prominent rancher Neville Young had been all the people of Purgatory talked about. And Neville's son, Brady, had never wasted an opportunity to rage about the bastard who'd shot his father in the back.

  But from everything her brother said, Wade had been a fairly successful rancher. He'd have had no call to hassle with Neville Young, let alone kill him. And Nathan didn't think he had.

  Maybe she couldn't believe completely in his innocence—it was hard for her to imagine a man spending eighteen months in prison for a crime he hadn't really committed—but he seemed brutally determined to clear his name.

  Normally, she might have applauded his courage and conviction. But if he did everything he said he would—proving his innocence and regaining his land—then he would take Matthew away from her. She wasn't sure she could live with that possibility.

  Somehow it didn't seem prudent to confront a convicted felon about how far his parental rights extended, regardless of the fact that Lily had entrusted her child's welfare to Callie, with no mention of how large a part Matthew's father should play in his life.

  Deciding to leave that topic for a later date—perhaps after the authorities had recaptured Wade and returned him to jail—she retrieved the hacksaw and went to work on the second leg iron.

  "Let's get the rest of these off of you so I can bandage your wrists and ankles. They're going to hurt for a while before they start to heal."

  Wade laughed and leaned back in the seat to let her get partway through the other lock. “I've lived with the pain this long, a couple more days can't hurt any worse."

  That's what he thought. But then, he'd never been treated with her mother's special ointment before. The balm was repulsive, smelling worse than horse liniment and burning like brimstone whenever it hit a patch of open skin. With the amount of skin open on Wade's arms and legs, he'd be lucky if he didn't shoot straight through the ceiling.

  "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Wade bellowed, clutching the underside of the chair in both hands to keep from lurching to his feet. “Christ on a cracker, woman, what the hell is that stuff?"

  "Mama's homemade, all-purpose ointment,” Callie answered, continuing to slather the wretched salve all around his left ankle. When she was satisfied with t
he amount of pain she'd caused him, she began wrapping the area with a clean length of fabric that would act as a bandage.

  "Your mama must be one hell of a hardhearted woman,” he muttered. The damn stuff still stung and put him in none too good a mood.

  "My mama's been dead for nearly ten years,” she told him, “but she left me her recipe. And you'll be glad in the morning, when your wrists and ankles aren't nearly as sore as they are now."

  "Hmph."

  She ignored his grumbling and went on to cover his other ankle and both wrists with the odious salve, then wrap them to keep out infection. Just as she was finishing, a high-pitched shriek rent the house and caused Wade to jump as though a snake had bitten him.

  "What the hell was that?” he demanded, looking ready to bolt, if necessary.

  "That,” Callie said, climbing to her feet and winding the leftover bandages about her hand, “is your son. Up from his nap and demanding immediate attention, as usual."

  Wade rose gingerly to his feet, testing just how much and in which directions he could move without causing undue pain, while Callie put away the ointment and rags, then brushed her hands down the sides of her robe and headed upstairs.

  Having taken the time to discard the towel and change into the shirt and trousers Callie had provided, Wade was only halfway up the stairs when she appeared, Matthew in her arms.

  The air froze in Wade's lungs as he got his first decent look at his son. The boy was beautiful. Wearing only the white square of a diaper on his bottom, his pudgy arms and legs flailed and his little potbelly stuck out. It took every ounce of restraint Wade possessed not to lean forward and press a kiss to the soft flesh above the baby's belly button.

  Tears no bigger than raindrops balanced on the edges of tiny eyelashes from where the child had worked himself into a fit, crying for Callie, and a thin layer of baby-fine hair covered his round, oversize head.

  Wade had never seen anything so breathtaking in his life. Unless, of course, it was the sight of Callie holding his son to her breast.

  She wasn't the boy's mother, so he didn't know why the picture of her cradling the infant hit him so low in the gut, but it was enough to stop his breath and send his heart pounding at twice its normal rhythm.

  She looked like she had been born to take care of babies. Tend injured men and nurse innocent babies. The thought almost sent Wade to his knees.

  He needed to sit down. Fast.

  Using his raw ankles as an excuse, he backed carefully down the stairs and returned to the chair he'd vacated earlier. Callie laid the baby on the flat surface of a wide cupboard that reached nearly to the ceiling and unpinned the sides of his diaper. From somewhere—Wade couldn't even begin to guess where—she produced a fresh, clean square of cloth and changed the child in less time than it took for Wade to figure out what she was doing.

  Matthew kicked his little legs the whole while, and looked to be attempting to fit one entire fist into his mouth. When she'd finished pinning the corners of the material, she lifted the boy under the arms and perched him up near her shoulder.

  Then she turned and headed straight for Wade. He knew by the expression on her face that he was in trouble. She stopped in front of him and held the squirming, gurgling, breakable child out to him.

  He was already shaking his head and leaning as far back as the rungs of the chair would allow. “Uh-uh. I can't hold him."

  "He'll want a bottle soon, which I need both hands free to fill and heat. Besides, as you so often reminded me when you first arrived, he is your son,” Callie stated primly.

  "But I'll break him. Or drop him. Or squeeze him too hard.” When she didn't move away but waited patiently for him to take the baby, he leapt up and dodged behind the ladder-back chair, all in one graceless but effectively speedy motion. “No. I don't want to."

  For a moment, when she shifted the child to her hip, he thought he'd been granted a reprieve. Instead, she'd merely changed her hold while she stalked around the chair in his direction.

  "Of course you do."

  He moved backward, she moved forward, and before he knew it, she'd put a hand to his chest and pushed him back into a sitting position.

  Talking the whole time she positioned the baby, she said, “You'll be fine. Sit just like that and let him rest on your chest.” She brought his arms up to wrap around the child, one to support his head and one under his bottom. “There, how does that feel?"

  "Terrifying."

  She chuckled, a low, knowing sound working its way up her throat. “You'll get used to it. Just don't let him topple over."

  "Oh, God."

  This time, she laughed outright at his groan of despair. “I'll only be a few steps away in the kitchen. You'll be fine."

  Oh God, oh God, oh God, he thought. Please don't let me drop him. Or break him. Or squeeze him too hard.

  The baby let out an ear-splitting screech and Wade jerked, clutching the baby tight to his chest. “What's he doing?” he yelled anxiously to Callie.

  Sticking her head around the corner of the open doorway that separated kitchen from pantry, she smiled. “He's just talking. That's his happy squeal. If his lower lip starts to tremble, then cover your ears because we're in trouble."

  She went back to moving around the kitchen but called out, “You can talk back, if you'd like, though he won't understand a word."

  "What the hell am I supposed to say to a three-month-old baby?” Wade muttered to himself. And then he grinned wryly. “Well, for starters, I probably shouldn't say hell, huh? Damn, I said it again."

  He probably shouldn't say damn, either, he realized ruefully.

  "All right, let me start over.” Taking a deep breath, he considered his options and decided introductions were probably in order. With Matthew's bulk feeling pretty well balanced on his stomach and lower chest, he risked moving an arm away from the child's back and taking one of the tiny, smooth baby hands in his own. He did his best to shake it the way he would any man's he met on the street.

  "I'm Wade,” he said softly. “Your father. Your pa. Your daddy.” He liked the sound of daddy best of all, he thought. Less rigid than his own father, though both of his parents had been wonderful people. He was sorry they hadn't lived long enough to see their first grandchild. It might have been nice to have family around for support during his trial, too, but a part of him was glad they hadn't had to see their only son convicted of murder.

  And having no family left was simply one more reason he wanted to be a good father to Matthew. He just hoped he'd have the chance to prove himself in that regard.

  Raising his voice so Callie would hear, he called, “You said his name was Matthew, right?"

  "Yes,” she answered.

  "Matthew Mason.” Wade frowned. He wasn't sure that sounded quite right. A few too many ms for his taste.

  "Who named him?” he asked. “Lily?"

  Callie returned to the doorway, drying a glass bottle with what looked to be a new, clean dish towel. “I did, actually.” Her mouth turned down slightly as she looked away. “Lily wasn't much up to naming him, I'm afraid. She was very sick after the birth."

  Wade nodded. From Lily's letter, he was aware that she'd contracted childbed fever and died within days of Matthew's birth. Even if she hadn't fallen ill, however, Wade couldn't help but wonder how much contact she'd have had with the boy.

  Lily's lifestyle hadn't been particularly conducive to caring for a baby, and worse than that, she'd been furious as she stormed away from the prison—already pregnant, but neither of them had known that at the time. He couldn't know whether she'd been happy or furious at the prospect of having a child. And the fact that it was his child might only have made an already bad situation even more dire.

  "Is there a problem?” Callie asked, and he didn't miss the slightly annoyed tone that edged the question.

  He shook his head. “I was just thinking that Matthew Mason is quite a mouthful."

  "Well, that's no problem, then, since his name is
Matthew Quinn."

  Chapter Four

  Wade's eyes narrowed and he fought to refrain from lurching to his feet in a fighting stance. Only the child on his lap blowing spit bubbles and yanking on his beard kept him from doing just that. “You care to explain that?” he all but growled. “And make it real slow so I don't miss anything."

  If he'd expected his words or tone to intimidate his hostess, he was sorely disappointed. She stood calm as an oak in a storm and held his gaze.

  "His name is Matthew Quinn. You weren't around when he was born, Lily didn't know if you'd ever be around, and she turned him over to my care, legally. Which makes his last name Quinn."

  The tugs on his beard made Wade wince, so he carefully pried the baby's hand away. Not bothered in the least, Matthew became immediately entranced by the buttons running down the front of his father's shirt.

  "We're going to have to talk about that issue,” Wade said calmly. “He's my son; he should carry my name."

  "Then you should have married his mother,” Callie retorted with a snap, and flounced her way back into the kitchen.

  Wade stared after her for a moment, wondering why she didn't seem more afraid of him. She should have been, considering where he'd come from and why he was here. Maybe he hadn't done a good enough job of intimidating her when he'd first confronted her. But he'd purposely tried not to scare her. He hadn't wanted to scare anyone; he'd merely wanted to see his son.

  Then again, even if he did try intimidation, if he made a move Callie didn't like, he imagined she could flay him like a fish with her tongue alone. Besides, Callie was his link to his son. She knew how to care for Matthew, and now Wade had seen his son, held him, he realized how difficult—and impractical—it would be for him to try to travel on the run with an infant he knew less than nothing about caring for.

  "Kid,” he said, staring down at his son, “you've got yourself one hell of a guardian there."

  Matthew raised his head, popped a spit-covered fist out of his mouth, and looked at him. Then, before Wade had a chance to recognize the telltale sign of a quivering bottom lip, Matthew's eyes puckered, his mouth opened, and a screech loud enough to peel the paper off the walls reverberated against Wade's eardrums.