Heart of Clay

Women of Tenacity Series, Book 1

by

USA Today Bestselling Author

SHANNA HATFIELD

Heart of Clay

Women of Tenacity, Book 1

Copyright ©2011 by Shanna Hatfield

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, transmitted, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, now known or hereafter invented, without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Please purchase only authorized editions.

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

shanna@shannahatfield.com

µshannahatfield.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Design: Shanna Hatfield

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of 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 Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Recipe

Heart of Hope

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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 that 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.

Callan shivered from both the cold and her memories, dropping the curtain back into place. Ultimately, she wasn’t sure old Mrs. Biggs was as smart as Clay thought.

After the fair, Callan and Clay began dating seriously. Engaged a couple of months later, they wed just before Christmas. It was all exciting, wonderful, and romantic.

Their first few years together had been so happy and carefree. Everyone talked about them being the perpetual honeymooners.

She had loved Clay so much then. It seemed like she only felt complete when they were together. Gradually, they started to drift apart. It was impossible to pinpoint the day they had become distant and not always polite strangers.

Maudlin, Callan wondered how love could just disappear. Then again, she wasn’t sure it had, at least not completely.

Confused and exhausted, she knew it was best to clamp the lid on those thoughts. She excelled at closing down her emotions to keep things neat and orderly.

On silent feet, Callan returned to the bedroom, pausing at the door to release another beleaguered sigh. Quietly removing her robe, she climbed into bed, careful not to disturb Clay. At least the snoring had stopped.

The cool sheets gave her a chill and she fought down a shiver. Refusing to scoot closer to Clay’s warmth, she turned onto her side, willing sleep to come.

Unable to get warm, she debated putting on a pair of socks or freezing. Callan started to slide out of bed when Clay rolled her direction and threw an arm around her waist, bringing welcome heat and security.

Callan relaxed for a moment, enjoying the weight of his arm around her and the feel of his strong body pressed against hers. His warmth and proximity threatened to open the box of emotions she worked so hard to keep tightly sealed.

Too exhausted to fight her conflicting feelings, she finally drifted into a less than peaceful slumber.

Chapter Two

Callan awoke to the sound of the alarm blaring. It took her a moment to register that Clay let it continue resonating in the early morning quiet.

She felt across the bed. No Clay. As she opened her eyes, she realized she was alone in their big bed. Nothing unusual about that. Rolling over, she silenced the alarm and tossed back the covers.

Hurriedly jumping into the shower, she mentally ran through her to do list, dreading the meetings and deadlines ahead.

It took just minutes for her to blow dry her hair and twist it up on her head then apply a coat of mascara. After brushing her teeth, she selected a skirt, blouse and blazer from the closet. It didn’t really matter what she choose to wear since most everything was black. She disliked her current wardrobe almost as much as everything else in her life. Even if her selections seemed somber and depressing, she maintained a respectable and professional appearance.

Between bites of cold cereal, she threw together a lunch. She shoved her feet into shoes, snapped on her watch, slipped on her coat, and headed toward the front door. Clay left a note taped to the glass in the door’s window.

Had an early meeting. See you for dinner.

I seriously doubt that, Callan muttered. She tugged on her gloves then hurried outside to start her car and scrape the windshield before running back inside the house. In the days when Clay was madly in love with her, he would have scraped her windshield when he did his. Recollections of the past only served to add fuel to the fire of irritation burning a hot blaze through her, despite the early hour of the morning.

Snatching Clay’s missive off the door, she slammed it down on the counter and added her own note.

Working late, don’t wait up. Please do the dishes!

Angrily stomping out the door, Callan slid in her car and headed off to work. As she turned into the parking lot at the convention center where she worked as the creative director, she knew the sink would still be full of dishes when she got home late that night.

The only dinner she’d been home for in the past week was last night’s pizza. They’d eaten it on the good china because all the other plates were dirty… in the sink. Perhaps Clay thought she joined in the spirit of celebrating because she’d brought out the china.

The dirty dishes had definitely become another hot button with her that Clay seemed all too eager to press.

Their rule of thumb had always been the first one home was responsible for dinner. If she made dinner, she made it as quickly as she could with as few dishes as possible. When Clay cooked, she was surprised there was a pot, pan, or plate left clean. She couldn’t fathom how he created such a mess making something as simple as soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.

Unfortunately, Callan and Clay rarely ate a meal together. When they did, it more often than not involved them sitting in separate chairs in front of the television with Clay watching sports or hunting programs while Callan quietly seethed that he always controlled the remote.

She would spend the remainder of her evening in her home office, working to get her own business off the ground. At bedtime, she’d return to the kitchen expecting Clay to have done the dishes. Disappointment always washed over her to find them still piled on the counter, covered in dried-on food.

Instead of addressing the issue, she’d say nothing and start loading plates into the dishwasher. Clay would wander into the kitchen and ask if she needed help. Rather than responding, she’d send him a heated glare that would have fried lesser men and continue slamming dishes. Clay wouldn’t say anything, retreating to their bedroom. By the time Callan climbed into bed, she would be in a snit because he always left the dishes for her to do. She was the one who cleaned house, purchased groceries, paid the bills, and did all the laundry. She didn't think it was such a big deal for him to take responsibility for the dishes. Especially when she worked two jobs and wasn’t home most nights.

In addition to her full-time job at the convention center, Callan ran her own event planning business. The board at the convention center fully approved of her second job because it brought in a respectable amount of additional revenue. Callan always suggested the meeting space there to her clients who searched for a place to hold an event. Too bad Clay didn’t appreciate it as much as her employers did.

When she started the event planning business four years ago, Clay half-heartedly agreed to her trying it. It was the ideal career for her. She loved to socialize, was known for her attention to detail and organization skills, and she possessed a unique creative flair. Event planning was her passion.

Callan attended some small business classes, put together a business plan, took out a loan, and started her business. She ran it out of her home office and spent any free moments during her evenings and weekends meeting with clients and organizing their events. She dreamed of growing the business to the point she could do event planning full-time and quit her job at the convention center.

The first few years in business had been rough as she sought to establish herself and gain a client base. The business was like a, black hole of debt, sucking money left and right, or so Clay said in one particularly unpleasant conversation.

He didn’t want to incur any debt and instead thought it better to borrow the money from his parents to start her business. Callan refused. They had never borrowed money from relatives and she wouldn’t start just because Clay acted hardheaded. Clay quickly went from offering unenthusiastic support to being actively annoyed at any mention of her business, Elegant Events. They finally agreed not to discuss it at all.

Due to that fact, he was unaware that her business had recently experienced remarkable growth or that she had made a sizeable dent in the debt. If the growth continued like it had for the past two years, she should be debt free in another eighteen months.

Callan pulled her car into the parking space she had used for the past eight years. It was hard to believe she’d been at the convention center that long, but she did enjoy her job. The only fly in the ointment was the general manager the board hired to replace the last in a long line of incompetent general managers.

Arty Bierwagen was in his late sixties, short, overweight, and a prime candidate for a study on the early stages of dementia. He took a daily bath in cologne that smelled like a cheap motel’s lounge and walked as if his hips might come unhinged at any moment. A tacky comb-over graced his shiny bald dome, creating a vision similar to limp, greasy gray noodles stretched across the top of his head.

Callan had yet to decide if Arty was an improvement over the last general manager. Jane was a shrewish woman in her fifties, in cahoots with the receptionist, Bev. She disappeared for weeks at a time while she had something else tucked, lifted, or sucked and Bev had an unlimited supply of excuses for Jane’s absences. Fortunately, the two women managed to tangle their stories one day with some of the board members and that was the end of Jane and Bev.

The new receptionist was a big improvement over Bev. Although she was young, Rachel worked hard, was professional, punctual and sweet. They had a good management team and a strong staff.

Except for Arty.

Callan knew, though, that given enough time and rope, Arty would hang himself. However, in her current state of fatigue and stress, she didn’t know if she could wait that long. Arty constantly pushed her closer and closer to the edge of a complete breakdown.

She entered the conference center and pasted on a smile, offering a friendly