by DiAnn Mills
Paige snapped out of her reverie. “Next year on my birthday.”
“July it is. Here’s another topic for you.”
Actually it’s November. “Is it up for discussion?”
“Get rid of the library talk. This is me, your pal.” Voleta walked toward her, stirring a small plastic bowl of walnut brown color. “Eleanor said Miles was at your church last week.”
“I have no idea, but he did say something about it. And your point?”
“Are you going to let him slip right through your fingers? He’s a huge catch.”
Paige closed her eyes. Miles talk only reminded her of what would never happen. “Voleta, he’s a sweet guy, but I’m not interested.”
“If you don’t watch out, you’re going to end up an old maid. Girlfriend, are you reading the Farm Journal? You scare me.”
“I’m thirty-three, and there are worse things than being an old maid.” She tossed the magazine aside and eased out of her comfy sandals, letting them fall to the floor.
“Don’t you want babies?”
The idea cut deep. “I’d be a lousy mother. You know, I’d always have my head stuck in a book.”
Voleta set the color bowl on the counter and pulled out a bright orange styling cloth to Velcro around Paige’s neck. “I think you’re gun-shy—afraid of Miles and afraid of motherhood. Honestly, I’ve never met a more caring person. You take better care of other folks than you do yourself. Give the man a chance. I think you two would be a perfect match.”
Paige seized control of her emotions before Voleta saw her flinch at the word gun-shy. If Voleta only knew how true her words were. Another life, another context, but all the more validation that women like her weren’t fashioned for rocking chairs, diaper changings, and PTA meetings.
If Miles hadn’t already attached himself to her heart, Paige could counter Voleta’s comments more easily. “Ever wonder why he isn’t married?”
Voleta picked up a comb. “You mean Miles? Probably waiting for the perfect woman.”
“There’s your answer. I’d drive him crazy.”
The phone rang before Voleta could list her countless reasons why Paige should welcome Miles into her life.
“Uh-huh. Yeah. Just a sec. She’s right here.” Voleta handed Paige the phone and mouthed, “It’s a guy.”
Paige figured it was George, still concerned that he’d offended her, but the moment the man’s ultrafriendly, ultrasweet voice assaulted her ears, images of the past chilled her.
He had someone watching her. She stood from the styling chair and walked outside.
“You hurt my feelings,” Keary said. “I thought you’d want to work on my campaign. It’s nearing the finish line, and I can pay well for a hard worker.”
“Think again.”
“A woman of your talents shouldn’t be wasting away in a library.”
“That’s none of your business. What do you want, anyway? I haven’t bothered you.”
“Cooperation, for starters.”
I’ve kept my end of the bargain and lost everything I ever cherished. “Give me one reason why, because I don’t understand the sudden interest.”
“You have skills my campaign needs.”
She had seen his “skills” in action and had no desire to be associated with him or anyone connected to him ever again. Once had soured her for good. “Forget it.”
“We have a deal, remember?”
“And you won’t risk doing a thing to damage your campaign.” She disconnected the call but suspected that Keary wasn’t finished with her. Judging by the amount of time and energy he’d expended on her behalf in the past two days, something had happened to shake him up. But what? And who was watching her every move?
Taking a deep breath to settle the anger, she stepped back into current time, walked inside, and set the phone on Voleta’s station.
“Who made you mad?” Voleta stood back and placed her hands on her hips. “I’ve never seen you that upset.”
“A jerk who doesn’t deserve my repeating his name.”
* * *
Miles wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. Ninety-eight degrees and the kids were in full pads. “Keep drinking water,” he called out. “We have a scrimmage a week from tonight, and it’ll be as hot then as now. Maybe hotter.”
He studied each of his players. Good kids. Most of them. Two of them would flunk out the first six weeks, and four others needed to keep their noses clean. Then there was Walt, his Chickasaw Wonder. Miles would personally tutor that kid and tuck him into bed every night if it would keep him in the game.
“Listen up.” He gestured the boys to the sidelines. “We’re going over the new plays again. First, though, we’re going to talk about grades. Need I remind you that school starts Monday?”
Moans rose like a dust storm.
“This is a no-pass, no-play team. Grades are your number one priority. Those of you who have played before know I don’t kiss up to teachers. You might think football is life now, but when you have a family to feed, you’ll need a career. I’ll stay on you about grades just like I stay on you about learning plays and perfecting your skills. Any problems with your schoolwork, I’ll help you find tutors and be talking to your parents.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” One of the boys snickered.
“Both. Those of you who are taking history and civics, I’ll be your teacher. Be ready. I won’t cut you any slack, but I’ll be fair. The public library has six new computers and will soon have Internet access. If you start falling behind, I’ll be the one tutoring you and assigning research papers.” Several more moans. “All of you get some more water and then back on the field.”
All but Walt made their way to the five-gallon water jugs. “You want to talk to me?” Miles asked.
Walt lifted his helmet and ran his fingers through sweat-drenched black hair. “Coach, my grades have never been real good in English and history.”
“We’ll work on it.”
“I got a job on Tuesdays and Thursdays after practice.”
“Then come early to school. I’ll help you.”
Walt glanced toward the players.
“What else?”
“Nothing. That’s it.” He walked toward the team.
Miles understood exactly what was going on with his players. Chris Dalton, a senior, wanted the starting quarterback position, not the dual positions of second-string quarterback and first-string receiver. Chris hadn’t hidden his feelings about a Native American sophomore taking his place. Miles would let them settle the problem among themselves unless a fight broke out or the team suffered. Didn’t help that Chris’s dad, Ty, sat in the bleachers and held a position on the school board. Ty’s constant insistence that Chris had better skills than Walt was driving Miles nuts.
He blew his whistle. “I want to see that play again.” Miles zeroed in on his quarterback and receiver.
Walt went back for a pass. He took a five-step drop and waited in the pocket for Chris. Crucial seconds sped by. No receiver. A senior linebacker sacked Walt hard. He got up by himself and shook off the tackle.
Miles clenched his jaw. He drew the line with Chris deliberately setting Walt up for a hit. If Chris couldn’t put aside his personal vendetta, then he could be replaced with a receiver who understood how the game was to be played. Miles sensed someone beside him—Ty Dalton wearing a smirk. Miles steeled the impulse to toss good sportsmanship to the dry wind and send him back to the bleachers.
“Put Chris at quarterback.” Dalton nudged him. “He’ll get the job done. Hey, Coach, don’t forget who I am.”
Miles took a huge gulp of water and attempted to drown out the laughter coming from a few seniors on the sidelines. He wouldn’t give Ty the pleasure of acknowledging his comment.
Shouts echoed from the field. He knew in an instant a fight had broken out, and he could bet who was throwing the punches. If this kept up, no one would need to worry about the state championship this
year. His best players would be injured or thrown off the team. He jogged to the scene of the scuffle.
* * *
Much later that afternoon, Miles tossed football gear into the back of his pickup. He’d delivered a lecture to Chris and Walt that had echoed from the field house to the courthouse. He’d talked about teamwork, playing time, and what the consequences would be if they chose to fight again. Miles doubted his pep talk had done much good. Teenage boys with an overload of testosterone had their pride and their own creative ways of handling disputes.
Glancing at his watch, he decided to rush home and take a shower before making another appearance at the library. He’d pick up the latest Dean Koontz novel for the weekend along with his school requests so Paige wouldn’t think he was coming on too strong—again. Oh, and he wanted to see those new computers.
Who was he trying to fool? One look at her and he’d forget the problems on the field. For an hour, anyway.
Twenty minutes before the library was scheduled to close, Miles strode in wearing clean jeans and a Split Creek High football coach T-shirt and smelling more like Dial soap than sweat and grime. Paige had a book cart parked in front of an aisle in the nonfiction area. She bent down with a book in her hand.
“Need some help putting those away?” Miles asked.
“No thanks. Thought that was you—sounded like your footsteps.” She straightened and smiled.
His insides felt like apple butter. Her teeth were perfect, her tanned skin flawless. A few phrases from the Song of Solomon stretched across his mind. Her hair looked different today. Why couldn’t he let it go? move on and leave Paige at the library?
“I know you’re not here to see me. It’s not pie day.” Her eyes widened. “Must be the computers.”
He’d forgotten to look.
She gestured to a long library table where six tabletop computers faced each other. “I have three of the new ones up and running. And today I was promised high-speed wireless Internet within a week.”
He wove around the book cart to the oak table that held the new computers and monitors. They were beauties. The brand did everything but dance. He’d seen the commercials on TV. “Where did these come from?”
“A donation.”
“Next time put in a good word for the football team. We could use some new equipment.”
She pushed the empty cart beside the waist-high circulation desk. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Whoa. Where had that tone come from? “You’re not happy?”
“Oh, I’m thrilled for the patrons.”
He pulled his list of books from his pocket. “These are the books for my students that I was telling you about.”
Paige took the paper and headed for an aisle. How amazing that one woman could fill out a pair of jeans like a magazine model and still attract him to her keen mind. Not in that order, of course.
“Have you memorized every book here?”
“Oh, most of them. You forget I work with media material all day long.”
He studied her for a moment. “Your hair looks nice. Did you get it cut?”
“Thanks. Got a trim.”
Miles realized he was supposed to continue with witty comebacks, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“So . . . how was your day?” she asked.
“Okay, I guess.” No point in boring her about his problems on the field. “I’ve been thinking about how to make this history class more interesting.”
She piled two books into his arms. “And what did you come up with?”
“I want to make history come alive for these kids. Maybe role-play. Possibly ask them to rewrite a segment of history, then trace that outcome to the present. Lectures and tests don’t make it for me.”
“Me neither, and I like your idea of engaging them in role-play.”
“I’m also thinking of incorporating a section of history about national security, everything from the FBI and the CIA to the development of Homeland Security.”
Paige dropped a book, and he reached to help her.
“Do you think that will keep them interested in history?” he asked.
Before she could answer, the phone rang, and she excused herself. He piled the books on the circulation desk and seized the opportunity to examine one of the new computers. Let it never be said that Coach Miles Laird spent all of his spare time gawking at the town’s librarian. Correction: after last night he’d learned she was more than a librarian. He glanced over the monitor and tilted his head to pick up some of Paige’s one-sided conversation. From her responses, she didn’t care for the caller.
“Don’t send your dogs around here again.”
Paige turned and carried the phone as far as the cord would allow. Why didn’t the library update those things?
“I already said no. Come on back and pick them up. I refuse to owe you a thing.”
Miles lowered his gaze. Unhappy about the new computers? Why? The library had needed this kind of modern technology for ages. Most of the kids at the high school came from poorer families and couldn’t afford computers except for used pieces of junk that had no memory. Several moments passed while he pretended interest in a software tutorial.
“Frankly I don’t give a rip about what you do.” She hung up and lingered a few moments at her desk. Experience with two sisters reminded Miles not to question a frustrated woman.
“The kids will get a lot of use out of these computers,” he said when Paige returned.
“I’m glad.” She picked up a children’s book from the floor and walked toward the kids’ section. “Can I get back with you about the items you need for school? What we don’t have, I’ll order.”
“Sure. How about dinner? I hear the Methodists are having a fish fry.”
“Not tonight, Miles. I’m really tired.”
“I imagine so. Last night was a zinger.”
She still didn’t meet his gaze. Her cell phone rang several times.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?”
“No. I’m talking to you. Patrons come first.”
“Good to know. My ego just shot up a notch.” He powered down the computer and noted the hour on the black-rimmed, round clock above the library’s front door. “I’d better get going before you lock me in here.”
“Ice cream.”
“What?”
“How about treating me to the Dairy Whip?” She whirled around and leaned against the circulation counter.
He’d never understand women—especially this one. “I’m ready.”
A few minutes later, with the library securely locked and his checked-out books on the front seat of his truck, they walked the two blocks to the Dairy Whip. Sweat once again formed on his temples.
“What’s your poison?” he asked.
“A large vanilla waffle cone.”
“I always drip those things all over me.”
“You have to learn how to eat them. It’s a skill, like throwing a football.”
He deliberated whether to question her about what he’d overheard in the library, but she might need to talk. “Paige, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She waved at a woman with two small children. “Can’t a girl want ice cream on a Friday night?”
“The last time you asked me to treat you to a Dairy Whip was when the sheriff’s wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, and the time before that was when those kids were driving back from a basketball game and a truck ran a stop sign and killed them.”
She looked at him—no emotion, not even a blink. He didn’t make it past the fifty-yard line when it came to reading her. “You’re pretty good. But everything’s fine.”
“Do you want me to follow you home?”
“I want you to stop worrying about me.” She nearly snapped with that one.
“Impossible.” He stood in front of the order window. “A large vanilla waffle cone for the lady and a chocolate milkshake for me.” He paid and waited while the order was filled. A few moments
later, he handed Paige her ice cream and watched her take a generous lick. “As I said before, it’s impossible to not worry about you.”
Without responding, she sat on a nearby plastic chair and focused on the young mom with the children. A little boy closed his eyes as he licked around a cone. Paige laughed.
Miles sat in a chair beside her, curious about her interest in the small boy. “I refuse to apologize for caring.”
He caught a sadness in her light brown eyes. “We will never happen. This I can promise.”
The children with their ice cream captured his attention.
“Why don’t you ever try something different?” the older girl asked.
“I like vanilla. A lot,” the little boy said.
The mother wiped a dribble of ice cream from the boy’s chin. “There are wonderful flavors out there—like chocolate and strawberry.”
“But, Mommy, I just like vanilla.”
“One day you’ll see what you’ve been missing.”
Chapter 7
The next morning Paige left her peaceful bungalow and drove to the interstate en route for Pradmore, where she faithfully subjected her body to a monthly car-wash tan. Mikaela Olsson had two shades of skin: pale and paler. But Paige Rogers kept her skin a golden color, even if it had to be sprayed on.
The burnt grass fit her dark mood while images of Keary haunted her—past and present. His reappearance in her life after all these years had shortened her temper and left her contemplating the idea of shortening his life span. Not exactly a Christian thought, but definitely honest. For certain, she’d never accept this charlatan gaining ground in popularity as Oklahoma’s next governor.
Paige understood him well enough to know he wouldn’t give up on his ludicrous demands for her to join his campaign. The man never took no for an answer. Unfortunately he had the power to persuade the most reluctant of objectors.
And therein lay her problem.
She’d done her best to bring Keary to justice a long time ago, and what did it get her? The world thought Mikaela Olsson was dead, a disgraced CIA operative who’d been killed in the line of duty. Paige couldn’t do anything without proof, and that meant finding Rosa. But she’d disappeared into the throngs of Africa over seven years ago. Was she still alive and hiding with her children from Casimiro Figuiera or Keary?
