by
SHANNA HATFIELD
Heart of Clay
Copyright ©2011 by Shanna Hatfield
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For permission requests, please contact the author, with a subject line of "permission request” at the email address below or through her website.
Shanna Hatfield
[email protected] shannahatfield.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
To my husband -
You are an amazing person and I’m grateful
every day for the blessing of loving you.
My life with you is better than anything
I could have dreamed.
Thank you for slowing my run down to a walk,
for supporting my endeavors,
believing in me,
and loving me unconditionally.
Chapter One
Callan Matthews struggled to fall asleep, tormented by the sounds her husband made as he obliterated the peaceful quiet of the night with his nocturnal serenade.
Somewhere between a snore and a whistle, she wondered if he intentionally made such an annoying racket. If so, he had perfected it to an art.
Even though he created the horrendous noise, she had no idea how he could sleep through it. A childhood accident left Clay with a severely impaired ability to breathe through his nose and absolutely no sense of smell, but right now, she didn't care.
She turned to look at him, releasing a long sigh. A tiny sliver of moonbeam snuck through the parted drapes to caress the hollow of his cheek, giving Callan the ability to see that Clay looked peaceful.
How could he do that? How dare he do that? How could he turn off all the turmoil of daily life and sleep peacefully?
Rising on one elbow, she debated if it would be better to put a pillow over his face and end her suffering, or put it over her own and end the suffering of them both. Incapable of committing murder or suicide, she instead punched the pillow, rolled over, and tried to block out the noise. To relax. To give in to the fatigue that had plagued her for months.
After a few more minutes of restless turning, Callan quietly rose from the bed, pulled on her chenille robe, and wandered through the darkened house to stand at the kitchen window. She moved aside the ruffled chintz curtain and stared out at the backyard. Moonlight washed the snow-patched lawn in shades of silver and gray.
She hated winter, hated the cold, hated the weeks of dark gloom that filled her days and pervaded her very being. Ironically, it seemed fitting that the bleakness of the winter nearly matched the bleakness of her spirit.
Briskly rubbing her hands on her arms, trying to ward off the chill, she let her thoughts tumble.
What am I doing here? In this house, in this life, in this marriage?
What was in that heart of Clay’s? She used to know like she knew what was in her own, but not anymore. Not since he’d gone from being everything she’d ever dreamed of to a stranger she barely recognized and all too often didn't even like.
She couldn’t believe they’d just celebrated their anniversary. At least, she supposed it could be considered a celebration if take-and-bake pizza and noncommittal conversations about work counted.
How had the two of them taken thirteen years of marriage and made such a mess of it? It hadn’t happened overnight, that much was certain.
Callan thought back to the first time she saw Clay during the summer she graduated from college. After returning home to Tenacity from Oregon State University with a degree in marketing and no immediate career prospects, she took a part-time job working at the local newspaper. With an abundance of free time on her hands, her aunt Julie recruited her to help with the sorority club’s booth at the county fair, selling ice cream cones and sundaes.
She looked up from dipping what seemed like the millionth vanilla cone that first day of the fair and into a pair of the warmest blue eyes she'd ever seen.
Clay was masculine and rugged, standing well over six feet. The tips of sandy curls peeked out from the brim of his cowboy hat while his blue-striped western shirt accentuated the breadth of his shoulders.
Her undoing, however, came when he smiled, flashing not only white teeth, but dimples that should have been positively illegal to brandish without advance warning.
Frantically gathering her wits, Callan asked, a bit breathlessly, if she could get him something. He ordered a plain vanilla cone, gave her exact change, thanked her and left. Fascinated and speechless, she watched him walk away, entranced by the way he filled out his jeans. She wished she at least knew his name.
He came back three more times to order ice cream and showed up again the next day, looking just as unbelievably handsome as she remembered.
"You must really like ice cream." Callan handed him another vanilla cone. "Since you've been my best customer, I should at least introduce myself. My name is Callan." She gave him what she hoped was an engaging smile.
"I'm Clay," he said quietly, accepting the cone from her outstretched fingers. "Clay Matthews. And honestly, I don't like ice cream at all." He turned and strode away, seemingly unaware of the trail of cold confection dripping from the cone and down his hand. She gazed after him until he disappeared around the corner of the big barn.
When Aunt Julie nudged her from behind with her elbow, she jumped. “Callan, if I didn’t know better, I’d think that incredibly good-looking young man is sweet on you. Either that, or he is extremely fond of vanilla ice cream cones.”
Completely flustered, she anxiously waited for him to return. It didn’t help that Aunt Julie and her friends teased Callan relentlessly.
She didn’t see him again the rest of the day and decided he probably wouldn’t come back. As she helped close up the booth for the evening, Clay suddenly appeared.
"Hello, Callan. I wondered if you might be interested in going for a walk." Clay stared down at his dusty boots or glanced behind her instead of making eye contact.
"Sure. Just let me finish a few things here and I'll be ready to go." Her voice sounded calm although nervous fluttering filled her stomach and made her a little lightheaded.
She turned to help pack up the last of the things for the night, but Aunt Julie caught her hand and whispered in her ear. "Callan, girl, quit wasting your time here. Go take a walk with that handsome cowboy."
With a pat on the shoulder, Aunt Julie gave her a playful nudge out of the booth.
Callan and Clay strolled along the promenade looking at the variety of booths and making comments about who sold the best lemonade, the great job the FFA kids were doing with the barbecue wagon, and how old Mrs. Biggs made the best doughnuts.
They discussed the odd shapes of vegetables in the produce display in the big barn and the huge dahlia the county judge brought in for the floral competition. It not only took first place but also drew a small following of bees that terrified the women watching over the flower display until someone decided his dahlia had to go.
As they slowly sauntered along, Callan took the opportunity to watch Clay. He smiled easily, seemed polite and mannerly, and appeared oblivious to the attention he drew from many of the girls who looked at him with interest. She could tell he was shy, but tha
t was one more thing she liked about him.
Callan had never believed in love at first sight. Then she'd looked up into Clay’s warm blue eyes yesterday and the world tilted off-kilter. She felt like the wind had been knocked out of her, and she’d gone numb all over, followed by the oddest tingling sensation. That had never happened to her before.
To the very depths of her being, she knew with unwavering certainty she would spend her life loving Clay.
Since that was the case, she sincerely hoped he would ask her out. It would be hard to consider any sort of future together if they never got around to a first date.
They stopped in front of a booth that sold little figurines made out of polished stones. Earlier in the day, Callan admired one fashioned to resemble a small brown puppy. Still included among the selections, she rubbed the head of the tiny dog then withdrew her finger. She turned away and started to meander again, only to realize Clay was no longer beside her. She looked back and saw him paying for the little dog figurine.
With a shy grin that did his dimples great justice and turned her knees to jelly, he handed her the dog. When their fingers brushed, she wasn’t sure she could continue to stand on her own.
"I thought you might like to have this, you know, as a keepsake. Something for you to remember this year's fair, in addition to your role as champion ice cream scooper." Clay’s smile drew her gaze to his dimples and tempting mouth.
Callan took the little figurine in her hand, holding it carefully. “Thank you.” Completely caught off guard by this unbelievably sweet guy, she wondered if he could possibly be for real. Thoughtful, masculine, adorable, funny, and kind men didn’t typically come in such a nicely presented package.
Leisurely wandering back in the direction they had come, they returned to the ice cream booth. Aunt Julie and her cohorts were absent, so Clay offered to walk Callan to her car.
As they strolled through the parking lot, the sun painted the sky in brilliant shades of swirling pink and orange. Callan couldn’t recall ever seeing such a gorgeous sunset.
“So, um… thanks for, um, taking a walk with me,” Clay managed to force the words out of his mouth as he held open her car door. “Would you maybe want to, I mean if you don’t have anything…could I…”
“Yes!” Callan interrupted him, hoping to end his suffering and his stammering, as he shut the car door. “I’ll be here through the rest of the fair. Stop by anytime. I get a couple of breaks during the day and we’re closed up by eight each night.”
“Great.” Clay leaned on the car, gazing in the window. “I’ll see you around then.” He looked her straight in the eye with a big dimple-filled grin then started to walk away.
Callan grabbed his hand as it slid off the car, sending tremors up her arm, right to her heart. Clay stopped and looked back.
“Thanks for the dog. I’ll treasure it always.” Callan released his fingers. “See you later.”
The two of them spent as much time together as they could during the next few days. Whenever Callan had a break, Clay appeared at her side. He arrived at the booth a few minutes before eight each evening to lend a hand in closing it up before they went for a stroll. One night they attended a concert and another evening they bought tickets to the rodeo. Callan couldn’t remember ever having so much fun.
The last night of the fair, they wandered through the promenade before stopping to get some doughnuts from Mrs. Biggs. The old gal herself sat outside, waving one of the free fans the insurance companies passed out by the hundreds, stirring a little breeze, while several of her granddaughters scurried around inside the booth. The sound of sizzling dough and the scent of vanilla and cinnamon floated out on the evening air.
“Well, look at you two.” Mrs. Biggs cackled, giving them a gap-toothed smile. Clay and Callan smiled at her in return. “It does an old heart like this a world of good to set eyes on a young couple so in love. It’s not often you see people your age so devoted to each other. God bless you both.”
Clay’s ears turned the color of the candied apples they’d passed earlier and Callan’s cheeks burned from embarrassment. The old woman was obviously off her rocker.
“Thanks, ma’am.” Callan offered a tight smile while attempting to move away from Mrs. Biggs and her crazy proclamations. “Oh, gosh,” she said as they walked out of earshot of Mrs. Biggs, carrying the bag of fresh, hot doughnuts. “I wonder what she was thinking. I can’t…”
Clay squeezed her hand, took a doughnut, and flashed one of his dimpled grins. “I think Mrs. Biggs is one smart woman.”