The Final Chapter of Chance McCall

By Stephen Bly

In the high-flying, high-stakes world of New York book publishing, Atlantic-Hampton figures it has a sure bestseller. The novel, based on fact, holds a surprise ending--two pages of treasure maps to an actual hoard of gold. But just as the book is ready to go to press, the unthinkable happens. The final chapter simply vanishes. Editor Lynda Austin turns up one clue--a Fed Ex package addressed to U-Bet, Montana. But the trail of the missing chapter is about to get mighty bumpy, with trouble coming at her and cowboy friend Brady Stoner from all directions. And the trail is littered with treasure hunters too. Among them, to Lynda's astonishment, some very familiar faces. For most people, the search alone would be enough to worry about. But along the way Lynda and Brady encounter yet another situation that needs resolving: can a sophisticated New York City editor and a rustic rodeo cowboy from Idaho find true happiness together? And if so, where?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bly Books
• Release date: Mar 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370737772

Stephen Bly

Stephen Bly (1944-2011) authored and co-authored with his wife, Janet Chester Bly, more than 100 books, both historical and contemporary fiction and nonfiction. He won the Christy Award in the category western novel for The Long Trail Home, from The Fortunes of the Black Hills Series. Other novels were Christy Award finalists: The Outlaw's Twin Sister, Picture Rock, and Last of the Texas Camp. His last novel, Stuart Brannon's Final Shot, finished with the help of his widow, Janet Chester Bly, and three sons--Russell, Michael, and Aaron--was a SELAH Award finalist. She just completed her first solo adult Indie novel, Wind in the Wires, Book 1, Trails of Reba Cahill.

Book preview

The Austin-Stoner Files

Book Two

The Final Chapter

of

Chance McCall

Stephen Bly

Copyright©1996 by Stephen Bly

Copyright©2013 by Janet Chester Bly

Smashwords Edition

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Cover illustration: Ed Tadiello

Cover design : Cindy Kiple

Dedication:

For George,

who dove for

Jesse’s gold

Chapter One

The incessant short white line blinked on the deep blue screen. Lynda Dawn Austin wrinkled her forehead and chewed on her tongue in irritation.

Joaquin Estában! Benton can’t ‘nod and smile’ every time he talks.

Good story, but when would this writer ever find another way to set off his dialogue? He nods, she nods, he smiles, she smiles.

Agh!

Lynda twirled her fingers through her dark brown shoulder-length perm and glanced out the window at the fading New York autumn skyline. She reached for the phone almost before it rang. Yes?

What are you still doing here?

Hi, Kelly. What’s up?

Do you have a phone number for Chance McCall?

Only his home phone, but he’s not there. He’s in the Bahamas diving for a sunken Spanish ship.

I know that, but his sister in Florida called. She said he hasn’t reported in for two weeks. She wondered if he had called us.

I haven’t talked to McCall for a month. He told me he couldn’t be reached for about ten weeks.

Then we don’t know where he is either. Go home and get ready, girl. It’s your big night.

I was about to leave. As soon as Benton Goodnight gets shot.

You still working on the Estában novel?

Yes, behind schedule, of course. Some things never change.

Production called. They’re screaming for the last chapter of the McCall book.

The one with the charts and maps? Lynda reached down and slipped on her black heels.

That's the one. Julie Quick said they need it today.

I sent it yesterday. Lynda stared at a half-empty cup of cold coffee, wishing it were steaming hot. What’s she huffing about?

She’s going on vacation, like most everyone else, and she needs to get it to the printers before she leaves. So, you sent it already?

Nina hand-carried it for me. Check with her. Please, don’t let them fool around and foul up that chapter. I had to personally guarantee Chance he could trust us with those charts and maps.

I’ll grab Nina and straighten it out. Go soak in a tub full of bubbles, manicure your nails, curl your eyelashes—whatever you do to become fabulously beautiful.

Dream on. All I’ll do is change clothes, smear on some lipstick, and dab a little perfume. But first …

Lynda, hit the exit button. No rush and stringy hair tonight. You’re representing all of us 'little people'. You must be stunning.

Yes, Mother. Lynda wondered if she should have gotten her hair done at the salon. Or fussed with acrylic nails. Too late now.

See you tonight.

Thanks for caring, Kell.

That’s what us lowly associate editors do.

Lynda gazed at the Pro Rodeo Sports News clipping on her bulletin board next to the monitor. A rider sat bareback at the Caldwell, Idaho, Night Rodeo, his hat mashed in the dirt, his right hand flung in the air, his spurs set high on the bucking horse’s neck. His back slapped against the horse’s flank strap. The little-boy-having-fun smile on the cowboy beamed very familiar.

She pulled a small mirror out of her desk drawer. She had looked worse.

Her glance flitted back to the computer screen. Well, Benton, you’ve been given a reprieve. You won’t get shot until tomorrow.



The moment Lynda spied the network TV cameras, she knew Brady Stoner would be watching. It might be 3:00 a.m. at a truck stop north of El Paso. Or a Billings motel. Or a Spokane cafe. But sometime, somewhere he'd snag a glimpse of her acceptance of the award.

She fully expected a phone call to the office of Atlantic-Hampton Publishing Company, for his Lynda Dawn, darlin'. Or he’d drawl a message on her machine that he had looked for her in the stands at Redding, Reno, or Red Bluff.

Or maybe, just maybe, she’d be home when he called. She’d feel that tickle in her throat and the tingle in her heart when she heard Lynda-darlin’. That is, provided David didn’t get to the phone first and hang up on Stoner again.

As Lynda approached the etched glass podium at the Central Park South ballroom, nearly a thousand men dressed in tuxedos and women in designer silks and satins rose and applauded. Lynda tried to focus on the 3-x-5 card in her hand. The top line: Don’t adjust the mike. Don’t apologize for any mistakes you haven’t yet made. Smile & relax. Have fun!

Have fun? Surely she didn't write that.

Lord, help me not blurt something really dumb. Keep me from fainting.

Lynda realized she would probably relive this moment the rest of her life. She suspected she'd rewrite the script a million times in retrospect. But for now, she knew her Autumn Rose Blush lipstick was in place. She caught the aroma of her Prairie Queen perfume. She was set.

She resisted the urge to tug down her long black suede Santa Fe skirt. She felt the weight of the silver-and-turquoise squash blossom necklace and had one last pang of hope that no banquet food particle stuck to her teeth.

Finally, she accepted the award from B.J. O’Sullivan.

Now she faced the seated, expectant crowd of editors, publishers, authors, and agents. The next few minutes blurred as she gave her speech. They clapped. She accepted handshakes and hugs. Then she scooted back to the table and sat between Kelly Princeton and Nina DeJong. Her mind didn’t clear again until midway through the following reception.

You did it, girl! Kelly giggled as she grasped crystal glasses of lime green punch in each hand.

Tell me the truth, Lynda whispered. Did this outfit look out of place?

No, ma’am. Western chic is in. However, I kept expecting you to grab the mike and belt out a Reba McEntire tune.

I knew it was too much.

It was perfect. Relax. It’s over now.

Wow, I’ve never met anyone who won that award before, Nina admitted. "You’re a real inspiration. I called my parents in Wisconsin and told them to be watching the news tonight. Imagine, the youngest editor ever to receive the Literary Marketplace Award."

Thirty-one doesn’t seem all that young. Besides, it was Martin Taylor Harrison who wrote the book. I was fortunate enough to get to edit it.

But you found it. You risked your life, Nina bubbled on. You faced down the villainous Joe Trent and the reluctant hierarchy at Atlantic-Hampton.

Not to mention having to suffer the utter humiliation and degradation of becoming a cowboy’s love-slave.

Kelly! Lynda scowled her annoyance.

So, why is it you insisted the cowboy not come to New York for this awards banquet?

The six-foot, five-inch tuxedoed and lanky frame of T.M. Hampton IV blustered into their circle. Ms. Austin, we’ve not always seen eye to eye on this Harrison thing, but I sincerely congratulate you. This is a grand day for Atlantic-Hampton Publishing Company, and you deserve the credit.

Thanks, Mr. Hampton. I appreciate the company hosting this reception. It means a lot.

And we hope you know you mean a lot to us. That’s why this reception, the corner office, and the new Austin Imprint.

Kelly touched the frosty glass to her cheek. I thought the imprint had to do with Lynda’s brother’s negotiating skills and the threat of a possible lawsuit. She took a swig.

Yes, that, too. Hampton searched the crowded room. Have any of you seen Ms. Sasser?

I noticed a crowd of men on the balcony. I presume she’s in the middle of them, Nina said.

Isn’t that dress ravishing? I picked it up for her in Paris. He scooted away from the trio and weaved through the crowd toward the balcony.

I’d be embarrassed to wear that dress to bed on my honeymoon, Kelly whispered.

I thought you and Andrew broke up last week, Nina teased. Are you planning on getting married soon?

Not at all. And certainly not to Andrew. But I do aspire to marriage. That’s more than I can say about some in this room. She raised her eyebrows at Lynda. Tell us again why your cowboy isn’t here tonight?

Lynda! A short Oriental woman in tight navy blue wool-blend business suit and cropped jet-black hair scooted into the group. I’m Rebecca Soto with the Times. May I ask you a couple questions?

Sure.

"Is With the Wind in My Face going to be the last of the Harrison books? Or do you plan to discover another such novel every year or so?"

Are you questioning the authenticity? Kelly challenged.

Oh my, not me. There are a number of others, eminently more qualified than I, who make that point.

Lynda touched Kelly's shoulder to calm her. "It’s all right. As far as I know, this is the last novel Mr. Harrison wrote. But next summer we’ll be bringing out the autobiographical Message of the Winds based on his journal he wrote in the Arizona canyon. I think it will help readers understand the changes that took place in his life over the last fifty years."

Which other authors will fall under the new Austin Imprint?

Lynda stared into Rebecca Soto’s long false eyelashes. I'll bet she doesn’t give a squat about my answer. Terrance O’Brian and Joaquin Estában, among others. And I look forward to bringing out a great novel by a new author.

Soto nodded, then scanned the room. That’s nice. Say, is that O’Brian in the black turtleneck?

None other than Mr. Hesitant Spy himself, Nina confirmed.

Soto began to pull away from the trio. What was the name of your new novelist?

Ernest Hemingway. You might enjoy reading his book.

Sure. Yeah. Send me a copy, Soto droned as she turned her back to them. Think I’ll try to catch O’Brian.

Catching O’Brian is easy. Getting away from him is the hard part, Nina called out.

Kelly laughed and handed Lynda a punch glass.

You don’t really have a new Hemingway? Nina pressed. That last one they dug up and slapped together wasn’t much.

Ladies, my fifteen minutes in the limelight has worn off. I’d say Ms. Soto wasn’t too thrilled to get this assignment.

What did you think of those lashes? Nina faked a gag. They were a little too much even for Manhattan.

It wasn’t the only phony thing she was packing, Kelly put in. "Speaking of your new author, Nina and I couldn’t find that last chapter of McCall’s Confederate Gold anywhere."

I know I laid that Fed Ex pac on Julie’s desk. She was out of the office, and no one seems to know where it got shuffled.

Kelly shrugged. With so many hurrying up to go on vacation, it’s a wonder more things don’t get lost.

Lynda frowned. Chapters don’t just disappear. I’ll go down tomorrow and sort through the files.

You are supposed to have tomorrow off, Kelly insisted. You, me, and Nina are all working next week, so we can tackle that chapter on Monday. And I don’t want to talk work tonight. I want to talk men. Nina, is it just me, or is Lynda ignoring conversation about the cowboy?

She’s trying to distract us, Nina said. Kind of like when you keep a guy talking about sports so he won’t get around to asking you out for another date.

I don’t know why you want to make it a big deal. Brady called last Tuesday and said he ‘drawed good’ in Winslow and Phoenix. He figured he should keep going hard until the Finals. There’s an outside chance if things fall his way, he could still make it. I told him all along he should stay out there and rodeo.

I think she’s afraid to have him come back to New York again. Too much competition. I thought Spunky would melt when Brady walked into the office last spring. And Nina-girl clutched his arm all afternoon.

I did not.

Brady did tell me to give you and Nina a big hug for him.

Nina scrunched her nose. Well?

Kelly snickered. A hug from you is about as gratifying as a hamburger without meat. Think I’ll go flirt with the square-jawed guy with bulging biceps and cowboy boots. Must be from west Jersey. You girls coming with me?

You need help? Lynda baited.

Kelly scowled and they watched her bob between conversations until she reached a small circle of men. She stumbled, and a tall, strong man caught her.

Nina groaned. Not the old trip ploy. I tried that once and fell on my backside. And no attempt at a catch. How does she pull that off?

Years of practice. He does have nice boots. Full-quill ostrich.

Nina sorted through a small glass plate of slimy hors d’oeuvres. She bit into a light green one, made a face, and tossed it back. That was cute what you said to your cowboy.

When?

In your speech.

What are you talking about?

You didn’t mention Brady’s name, but ... don’t you remember?

This entire event has been unreal. I prefer behind the scenes. When I get up front like that, I can’t remember anything. I’m in a fog. I’ll have to catch it on the late news. What did I say about Brady?

You said, ‘Special thanks to the cowboy who gave me what I needed most.’

I didn’t!

Yes, you did. Got the biggest laugh of the evening.

No! Lynda ground her teeth.

What did you mean?

I meant to say, thanks for being there when I needed him, to help me find the lost manuscript. He took care of me when I got hurt ... and everything.

That’s not how it came across. I hope you’re not too disappointed he wasn’t here. It’s not good to keep stuff like that inside.

I’ve told you, we’re just friends. Very good friends. We agreed he needed to pursue his job. He’s got to make a living. So do I. He makes his going down the road.

The two of you have the weirdest relationship in the world. My mother thinks so, too.

Nothing strange about it. We live and work in different worlds. So, naturally, there’s a distance. We're friends from 2,500 miles apart.

How often have you seen him since last fall?

Twice.

I’ve dated creeps more often than that. It's obvious you think about him all the time. The western outfits. The rodeo pictures in your new office. The constant talk about last fall. It’s like when I was in the seventh grade and had a crush on this guy who was a senior, but I never told him.

It’s nothing like that, Lynda snapped. Brady and I have a very meaningful relationship.

You don’t have to explain it to me. It’s your heart, not mine.

And it’s my reception. Let’s hang around L. George Gossman and make him look short or something.



David sprawled across the couch when Lynda returned to her sixth-floor condo. He opened one eye to acknowledge her presence, then rolled over.

Boy, you’re in a pouty mood. I had a lovely evening, not that you’re in the least interested. She stared at a very dark, very neat guest room. A seldom-used milk glass hurricane lamp stood sentinel next to a star-quilt covered bed.

Did I mention this place is too big? she called out. Ever since Janie moved to Atlanta, it feels like a museum. We really ought to get a smaller place. But despite the raise and all, I only break even. Lynda flipped the bedroom light and jammed her heel into the bootjack. The turquoise cowboy boots slipped off one at a time, then perched like flowered cactus in the corner of the light peach wallpapered room.

After hanging the suede skirt and jacket on a padded hanger exactly one and a half inches from the blue western yoked dress with the white fringe, she pulled the black slip over her head. She tossed on a well-worn deep purple silky nightshirt, then padded into the bathroom and stared at the mirror.

Well, girl, you’re thirty-one, single, and look it.

Tired eyes and fast-fading smile. She pulled out two gray hairs this morning. At that rate, she’d be bald by forty. She just won the highest award in her field and where was she going?

There’s a big lodge north of Jackson, Wyoming that comes to mind, she mumbled aloud. And a rock fireplace six feet tall. A morning sun that reflects pink off the Tetons. And, of course, a cowboy. Lynda pulled out her perfume chart and looked at the schedule for Friday, October 20.

Blossom Amor? Am I back to that already?

That cowboy is probably sleeping in his truck behind some dirty-smelling arena right now. Or sitting in some crummy restaurant with some silly waitress throwing herself all over him. Or slapping himself in the face to keep awake as he drives another six hundred miles.

David startled her by standing at the bathroom doorway. What do you want? As if I didn’t know. She scooted by

him into the bedroom.

Come on, let’s get it over with. I’m tired. David traipsed behind her to the tiny kitchen. She reached the top pantry shelf and pulled down the small, round tin. You know, David, this might come as a shock to you, but many cats eat dry cat food. Really. Their owners put out a bowl of that stuff, and it lasts for a couple days.

She thrust the can into the electric opener and listened to the familiar grind. The room reeked with the smell of fish.

‘Chunk light tuna in spring water’ with liberal amounts of hydrolyzed soy protein, vegetable broth, and salt. If I could sneak your little furry head past Howard, I’d take you to the lower east side and sell you at a market.

David rubbed up against her leg and purred.

Oh, sure, now you like me. She placed the cat’s bowl on the floor.

Lynda nuked a mug of water in the microwave and shuffled into the living room. She flipped on the TV. Tucking her feet beneath her on the green overstuffed sofa, she leaned back and sipped hot water.

I did not say, ‘Special thanks to the cowboy who gave me what I needed most.’ I didn’t giggle. Or clear my throat. Or fool with the mike. Or display shrimp sauce on my chin.

Please, Lord, please.

At 12:27, the late news flashed Lynda’s smiling face across the screen, accompanied by a thirty-two-second sound bite. But both she and David the cat snored on the couch.



The phone blared one loud ring, then a crash, and Lynda leaped from the sofa. She dove toward the sound by the light of the unwatched black-and-white movie on the TV screen.

The gray cat with black-striped legs and three white paws pounced on the phone. David, no. Not again. Crawling on her hands and knees, she grabbed the swinging receiver and banged it against her ear. Ouch! Yes? Hello?

A young woman’s stern voice responded. Lady, you don’t have to put up with that. Would you like me to call a Domestic Abuse Hot Line or the police? If so, just say ‘yes’ and stay on the line. I’ll slip to another phone, and we can get the creep in custody before he hits you again.

What creep?

David.

David’s a tomcat.

Aren’t they all?

Who is this? What do you want?

Really, I know what it’s like to be in an abusive situation.

Who is this? What do you want?

Are you Lynda Dawn Austin?

Yes I am.

I’m a registered nurse. I work Emergency at Phoenix General Hospital. Mr. Brady Stoner was brought in tonight. An accident at the rodeo.

Oh, no! The bottom dropped out of Lynda’s stomach. She gasped for breath. What happened to him?

Oh, Lord, please let him be all right.

He asked me to call you. I’ll let him tell you about it.

He can talk?

He can do a lot more, but he won’t be riding broncs for a while.

Does he still have his awesome smile? Lynda asked.

Stupid. Why did I say that?

After a pause, He sure does. Here’s Brady.

Hello, Lynda Dawn darlin’.

What happened?

It’s nothin’, really.

Don’t give me any garbage about having been hurt worse. Tell me everything.

Well, I told you how I drew Kadafy Skoal, and he was a money horse, if I could cover eight.

Yes.

So I’m in the chute just settlin' down when he blows up and decides to go home.

What?

He tries to jump out of the chute before I even get seated. I’m holdin’ on with my left hand as always, but Kadafy is startin’ to panic, so they turn him outside.

They what?

They open the gate. He kicks the gate against the chute boss, bustin’ a nose and scatterin' teeth.

Whose nose? Whose teeth?

The chute boss’s. Then the gate swings back, and I ram into it like a yo-yo on a string slammin’ into the blacktop.

What happened to you?

My arm fell off.

What? Lynda shouted.

No, no, it just felt like it. I figured I wouldn’t get a score, so I turned loose.

You were still holding on?

I don’t like gettin’ bucked off. A man could get hurt.

What’s the bottom line on the damage? Besides losing your marbles, what other injuries?

Bruised ribs. A chipped bone in my right wrist. Some pulled tendons. A sprained shoulder. Doc says I’ve got to rest it up for two months. But I figure a couple weeks, and I’ll crack out again.

You in a lot of pain?

They’ve got me out in la-la land, so Terri Beth volunteered to look after me tonight. On her own time, too.

Who’s Terri Beth?

The emergency room nurse who called you. Sure was nice of her to help ease me through the night.

Yeah, yeah. She’s a real sweetheart.

You got it, darlin’. How’d you get along at that dress-up banquet? Did you wow ’em like I told you to?

I think it went pretty well. You can catch a blurb on TV. CNN was there.

I’ve sort of been out of it. But me and Terri Beth will see if we can find it, even if we’re awake all night.

I bet you will. So, what do you aim to do now?

I’ve been layin' here kickin’ myself for not coming to that banquet of yours. I’d like to have been there when you touched your old North Star.

Touched my what?

I always figured personal dreams and goals were sort of like the North Star. Not many people actually get to touch it. But if you keep it in view, you eventually reach your destination.

Like you chasing the world champion gold buckle?

Yeah. I should have been there.

And wear a tux and smile and visit with a bunch of phony, self-centered people?

You’re right. I would have hated that part.

What are you going to do now?

Figure me and Capt. Patch will mosey up home and visit the folks.

You feel like driving?

I think so. ’Course, Terri Beth said she wouldn’t mind takin’ off a few days and drivin’ me.

All the way to Idaho? Forget it, Brady.

He snickered. I’ll get along fine. My left arm’s kind of like a limp noodle, but I’m not nearly as disappointed as I thought I’d be. Maybe I’m gettin’ used to missin’ the Finals. The hospital insists they observe me until mornin’.

What are they observing?

It was sort of like a mild concussion.

Concussion? You didn’t tell me that part.

Not all that important. Happens all the time.

Are all rodeo riders as crazy as you? Or does the rough stock beat the brains out of them? You shouldn’t take your health and life so lightly. There are others who count on you being around for a while.

"Qui bene amat bene castigat."

The one who loves well ...

… chastises well. Did I ever tell you about my Latin teacher up in the San Juans? Oh, hey, Terri Beth says I better hang up and get some rest. I’ll call you from Reynolds Creek next week.

Take good care of yourself, cowboy.

You done good, girl. I surely am proud of you gettin' that award. Bye, Lynda-darlin’.

Brady, she blurted out, "let me talk to