9. Wade
WADE
The last of the guests had gone.
I walked down the dark hall of our house to our bedroom, my boots heavy on the wood. My shoulders ached from handshakes and backslapping, my face from smiling. Ten years married, and I'd spent the whole night working the crowd while Callie disappeared somewhere.
I pushed open the bedroom door. The lights were off.
"Cal?" I flipped the switch.
The bed was made. Not turned down like it would be if she'd gone to sleep. Just made, cold and untouched, the quilt stretched tight over the mattress.
Something gleamed on the pillow.
I crossed the room and picked it up. Her wedding ring. The one I'd slid onto her finger ten years ago today, in front of everyone who mattered.
I turned it over in my palm. It was small. I'd forgotten how small her hands were.
She'd left it here. On our bed. On our anniversary.
My chest ached. I closed my fist around the ring and shoved it into my pocket.
This was ridiculous. She was probably out in the yard, cleaning up.
Callie never left a mess for someone else to handle.
I headed back down the hall, my boots loud in the quiet house, and out the side door.
The long tables under the cottonwoods were bare, the chairs stacked, the grass trampled flat.
Nobody was there. The party had been huge—over two hundred people, the whole county and then some.
She was probably in the kitchen in the main house.
The kitchen in the main house was dark. I flipped on the lights. The counters were clean. No dishes in the sink, no half-empty glasses lined up by the faucet. Someone had already put everything away.
Not Callie, though. She would've said something to me first.
I checked the dining room. Empty. I stood in the middle of the room and listened to the house settle around me.
Where the hell was she?
I pulled out my phone and called her. It rang four times, then went to voicemail. Her voice came on, cheerful and familiar, asking me to leave a message. I hung up and tried again.
Voicemail.
I texted her. Where are you?
The message showed delivered. No reply.
My jaw tightened. She'd left the party early, I knew that much.
I'd noticed her missing around nine, but I'd been busy with the Bradshaws and the investors Shelby's father had brought.
Important people. People I needed to keep happy if I wanted the deal to close.
I'd figured Callie was tired, maybe dealing with one of the animals.
She did that—slipped out to check on a sick calf or a dog that was off its feed, then came back smelling like hay and antiseptic.
But she always came back.
I went through the main house room by room. The office. The den. The mudroom. I even checked the damn laundry room, like she'd be in there folding towels at midnight. Nothing.
I crossed the gravel back to our house. My truck keys were on the hook by the door. Hers were gone.
She'd left. She'd actually left the ranch.
I called her again. Voicemail. I wanted to throw the phone across the room. Instead I stood there with it pressed to my ear, listening to her voice tell me she wasn't available, and felt something cold slide down my spine.
This wasn't like her. Callie didn't just leave. She didn't walk out without a word, didn't answer her phone, didn't take off her wedding ring and leave it on the bed like some kind of?—
I didn't finish the thought. I couldn't.
The front door opened. I turned, my heart kicking up, but it wasn't Callie.
Shelby Bradshaw stood in the doorway, her coat over her arm. She looked perfect, like she always did. Not a hair out of place, her dress still crisp even though the party had run until eleven. She smiled when she saw me, but it faded fast.
"Wade," she said. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." I shoved my phone in my pocket, next to the ring. "What are you still doing here?"
"I left my wrap on a chair out by the tables." She held it up, a silver thing that probably cost more than most people made in a month. "I came back for it. I saw your truck, so I thought I'd check on you."
"I'm fine," I said again.
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The house felt smaller with her in it. She moved closer, her heels clicking on the floor, and looked up at me with those big concerned eyes that made me feel like I was supposed to explain myself.
"Where's Callie?" she asked.
"Out."
"Out where?"
"I don't know, Shelby." My voice came out harder than I meant it to. "She left."
Shelby's face did something I couldn't read. Then she reached out and put her hand on my arm. Her fingers were cool through my shirt.
"Wade," she said softly. "She's been under a lot of pressure lately."
I stared at her. "What?"
"Callie. She's been . . . struggling. I think tonight was just too much for her. All those people. You know how she gets."
No. I didn't know how she got. Callie loved people. She was good with them, better than I was. She remembered everyone's names, asked about their kids, made them feel like they mattered. She didn't struggle with parties.
"She left her ring," I said.
Shelby's eyes widened. Just a little. Just enough to make my stomach drop.
"Oh, Wade." Her voice was soft, sympathetic. Like she felt sorry for me. "I'm sure it doesn't mean what you think it means. She probably just needed some space."
She squeezed my arm. "It's all been too much for her, that's all."
I pulled my arm away. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm trying to help."
"I didn't ask for help."
Her mouth tightened. For a second she looked like she wanted to say something else, something sharp, but she swallowed it. She stepped back and smoothed her dress.
"Fine," she said. "I was just trying to explain why she might have left. But if you don't want to hear it?—"
"I don't."
She stared at me for a long moment. Then she picked up her wrap and headed for the door. She paused with her hand on the knob and looked back.
"She'll come back," Shelby said. "She always does."
Then she was gone.
I stood there in the empty house and felt the weight of the ring in my pocket. She always does. Like Callie leaving was something that happened all the time. Like this was normal.
It wasn't normal. None of this was normal.
I pulled out my phone and tried her again. Voicemail. I thought about leaving a message this time, but what the hell would I say? Come home. We need to talk. I found your ring.
I couldn't say any of it. The words stuck in my throat.
I needed to find her. That was all. I needed to find her and bring her home and figure out what the hell was going on. She couldn't have gone far. It was midnight, and Callie didn't have anywhere to go except?—
Jolene.
If Callie had gone anywhere, she'd gone there.
I grabbed my keys off the hook and headed for the door. My truck was parked out front. I climbed in and started it up, the rumble loud in the quiet night.
The road to Jolene's place was dark. No streetlights out here, just the headlights cutting through the black and the occasional pair of eyes reflecting back from the ditch. I drove fast, my hands tight on the wheel, the ring pressing into my thigh through my pocket.
Callie was fine. She had to be fine. She'd just needed to get away from the party, from the noise and the people, and she'd gone to Jolene's to cool off. That was all. It didn't mean anything.
But she'd left her ring.
My chest felt like it was caving in. I pressed harder on the gas, the truck eating up the miles, and told myself I was being an idiot.
Callie was fine. She was probably at Jolene's right now, drinking tea and complaining about the party, about me, about whatever had set her off tonight.
She'd be annoyed when I showed up. She'd tell me I was overreacting.
I wanted her to tell me I was overreacting.
The road stretched out ahead of me, empty and endless. The radio was off. The only sound was the engine and the tires on the asphalt and my own breathing, too loud in the cab.
I didn't know why she'd left. That was the worst part. And I couldn't ask her because she wouldn't answer her damn phone.
Shelby had tried to explain. She'd stood there in my house and told me Callie was struggling, that it had all been too much for her. I hadn't wanted her explanation. I wanted Callie's.
My hands tightened on the wheel until my knuckles ached. I let the speedometer climb.
The road curved, and I followed it, the truck's headlights sweeping across the darkness. My phone sat on the seat beside me, silent. No calls. No texts. Nothing.
I'd find her. I'd go to Jolene's, and I'd find her, and I'd bring her home. And then we'd figure this out. We'd sit down and talk, really talk, and she'd tell me what was wrong and I'd fix it.
I could fix it. I could fix anything.
Except the tightness in my chest wasn't going away. And the cold feeling sliding down my spine was getting worse.
Jolene's road was coming up on the left. I could see the turnoff ahead, the gravel drive that led back to her little house. The headlights swept the fence post and I slowed, my turn signal clicking in the silence.
I didn't know what I'd say when I saw Callie. I didn't know if she'd even talk to me. But I had to try.
My hand went to my pocket and closed around the ring.
The phone on the seat stayed dark. I turned in at the gravel drive.