Table Of Content“You didn’t give a reason for leaving.”
Nate ran a hand over the taut muscles at the back of his neck. “So why don’t you
tell me now, Callie? Why’d you take off like that, never to be heard from
again?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly.
For a moment he simply stared at her. After all these years, this was her answer.
“I don’t know,” he mimicked. “Bullshit!”
Callie flinched and he realized he’d never raised his voice to her before. He took
in a ragged breath, leaning his forehead against the door frame. Callie was one of
the most intelligent women he knew. Intelligent women didn’t abandon someone
without a reason.
So what was hers?
Dear Reader,
People often act in ways that they can’t explain. For instance, I have spent my
life hopping from task to task, doing a little here, a little there, until the jobs are
done. I thought I was a master multitasker—which I am. I also recently learned
that ADD runs in our family and I’m a classic case. I adapted to my particular
challenge without knowing what it was. Such is the situation with my heroine in
Always a Temp.
Callie McCarran has a problem staying in one place long enough to put down
roots. Like her father, she’s a traveler. She works as a journalist and takes
temporary jobs when she needs additional income, moving from city to city, job
to job. She avoids permanence in all aspects of her life and accepts this as part of
her makeup. What she doesn’t know is that there may be other reasons she acts
the way she does.
Nathan Marcenek, whom Callie had unceremoniously dumped the day after high
school graduation, is a stayer—or so he thinks. He’s convinced himself, after
suffering a devastating accident, that he’s happy living in his small hometown
and editing the local paper. Then Callie comes back into his life and suddenly he
finds himself questioning his decisions and the reasons he made them.
I hope you enjoy Nate and Callie’s journeys in Always a Temp. Please stop by
my Web site at www.jeanniewatt.com or drop me a line at
[email protected]. I love hearing from readers.
Jeannie Watt
Always a Temp
Jeannie Watt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Theater usher, gymnastics instructor, grocery store clerk, underground miner,
camp cook, geologist, draftsman, executive secretary, groundskeeper, ball-field
mower, janitor, teacher, artist, cowboy gear maker, writer. Jeannie Watt has
worn many hats, some temporary, some more permanent, during her life.
Because of this she knows how to politely ask a parent with a crying baby to step
into the lobby without also making the parent cry, how to coax a cranky copy
machine into operation, how to jack a loaded mine car back onto the tracks, and
how to make breakfast for thirty in a wilderness setting. The skills learned from
her many occupations have now become invaluable resources for her favorite
job—writing.
Books by Jeannie Watt
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
1379—A DIFFICULT WOMAN
1444—THE HORSEMAN’S SECRET
1474—THE BROTHER RETURNS
1520—COP ON LOAN
1543—A COWBOY’S REDEMPTION
1576—COWBOY COMES BACK
Many thanks to Kimberly Van Meter and Victoria Curran for straightening me
out on a number of journalistic points.
Any remaining errors are my own.
I also want to thank Victoria for her patience and insights during revisions.
I knew I needed something more in the story.
Victoria knew what it was.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
THE BOY SCRAMBLED UP and over the fence just as Callie McCarran opened the
back door. Sun glinted off his short, silvery-blond hair before he dropped out of
sight into the vacant lot next door.
“Hey,” Callie called, but it was too late. The kid couldn’t be more than seven
or eight, but he was a quick little guy. It was the second time she’d seen him in
the yard in the two days she’d been back in town, which seemed odd, since there
was nothing of interest back here…. But then she noticed the baseball-size hole
in the porch screen, which was quite possibly related to the baseball lying under
the wicker chair.
Callie bent down to get it.
“I found your ball,” she called. Nothing. Shaking her head, she went out into
the overgrown grass and set it on the empty birdbath.
“It’s on the birdbath,” she yelled, in case the kid was crouching on the other
side of the fence. “I’m going in the house now.” She walked a few steps, then
added, “And I’m not mad about the hole.” The entire porch needed to be
rescreened before she could sell the house, so no big deal.
Callie went back into the classic 1980s kitchen, complete with country-blue
ruffled curtains at the windows and cow-decorated canisters on the cream-
colored countertops. She poured a glass of tap water and drank it all without
setting the glass down. She’d cried a lot during the past few days and no matter
how much water she drank, she felt dehydrated. But she had held up during the
memorial service, thank goodness, because if she had broken down, the good
townspeople would have added “hypocrite” to her list of epithets. They were
already treating her like a leper.
Okay, leper was probably too strong of a word. People had been pleasant
enough, offering the obligatory condolences, but she’d been aware of the
undercurrents, the why-the-hell-weren’t-you-there-for-your-foster-mother-in-
