Hawk's Way Grooms

by Joan Johnston

  What if he didn’t make it back onto the team?

  Don’t even think that!

  Mac didn’t believe in quitting or giving up or giving in. But it was time for a reality check. He had accomplished more than most men would have. He was walking—hell, he was running again—when the doctors said he’d be in a leg brace the rest of his life. He should quit while he was ahead. If he went back to playing football, chances were good he’d reinjure his leg. Maybe next time his prognosis would be even worse.

  Mac called his agent’s office and got Andy’s secretary. “Tell Andy I’ll be in his office about four o’clock this afternoon. I’ll fill him in on everything when I see him.”

  He headed out the door dressed in a starched white oxford-cloth shirt belted into crisp new jeans and almost new ostrich cowboy boots, so he’d be ready if the media caught sight of him in Dallas. Mac wanted to look confident and ready to go back to work for the Tornadoes on the outside, even if he didn’t feel quite that way inside.

  He stopped at the boys’ bunkhouse to check on Brad Templeton, but apparently the kids had already headed over to the cookhouse for breakfast. He was about to leave when he heard something hit the tile floor in the communal bathroom. He stepped inside. “Who’s there?”

  Nobody answered, but Mac knocked on the frame of the open bathroom doorway and said, “Anybody here?”

  Brad Templeton stepped out of one of the four shower-curtained stalls. “How’d you know I was here?”

  “I heard something drop.”

  He made a face. “My plastic cup.”

  “Why aren’t you at breakfast with the other kids?” Mac asked, leaning casually against the bathroom doorway to put the kid at ease.

  “I told Gavin I didn’t feel well.”

  Mac’s easy pose evaporated. He took the few steps to bring him to Brad’s side, whipped off the kid’s New York Mets baseball cap and pressed his hand on Brad’s forehead. It all happened so fast, Brad didn’t have a chance to complain until Mac had already found out what he wanted to know. He replaced the cap. “No fever,” he said.

  Brad tugged the ball cap back down over his nearly bald head. “Naw. I’m okay.”

  Fever was one of the first—and worst—signs that a remission was over, that the leukemia was back. It wasn’t something to be ignored. “Why’d you tell Gavin you were sick?” Mac asked.

  Brad shrugged, the kind of kid gesture that could have meant anything, but really meant, I couldn’t tell him the truth.

  “What’s on the agenda this morning?” Mac asked.

  “Horseback riding,” Brad mumbled.

  “That sounds like fun. What’s the problem?”

  “I’ve never been on a horse before. I’d probably get bucked off and stomped to death. I don’t want to die any sooner than I have to.”

  Mac grinned.

  “That’s not funny!” Brad said.

  “You sound exactly like I did when I went riding the first time. Funny how being sick makes you want to live all the more, isn’t it?”

  Brad’s brows rose almost to the brim of his ball cap. It was one thing for Mac to say he’d been sick, another for him to express a feeling that could only be had by someone who had personally faced death.

  “Come on,” Mac said, putting a hand on Brad’s shoulder and ushering him toward the door. “Let’s get you fed. I know just the pony for you. Gentle as a lamb.”

  “What’s his name?” Brad asked.

  Mac grinned. “Buttercup.”

  MAC PACED THE CONFINES OF Andy Dennison’s office, from the bat signed by Ken Griffey, Jr., in one corner, to the football signed by Joe Montana in the other and back again. His agent had become his friend, and now he needed some friendly advice. But Andy was late.

  He had too much time to think.

  Andy must have leaked what time Mac was landing at Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport, because a bunch of photographers and reporters had been waiting for him when he exited the jetway. He had smiled for the cameras as he walked quickly toward the chauffeur-driven limousine waiting for him outside.

  “It’s great to see you walking so well, Mac,” one reporter commented. “Will you be back with the Tornadoes this fall?”

  “That’s my plan,” Mac said.

  “You can walk. But can you run?” another reporter asked.

  Mac smiled more broadly. “Does a Texas dog have fleas?”

  Everybody laughed, but the reporter persisted. “What’s your time for the forty?”

  Mac’s time for the forty-yard dash wasn’t anywhere near the four-point-something-second range of most wide receivers, and nothing close to his own previous time. His hesitation in answering hinted at the problems he was having, and the reporters, smelling blood, attacked in earnest.

  “Have you come to Dallas to announce your retirement?” one speculated.

  “No,” Mac said flatly.

  “Are you here to see a doctor about your leg?”

  “No.”

  “Are you negotiating with the Tornadoes to get your spot on the team back?”

  “No comment.”

  That gave them more meat to chew on and distracted them from other lines of questioning. They asked a dozen more questions aimed at determining his exact status with the Tornadoes, before he reached the limousine and safety.

  “Remind me to kill Andy when I see him,” he muttered to Andy’s driver.

  The old man laughed. “He thought you could use the publicity.”

  “Why wasn’t he here to keep the wolves off of me?”

  “He’s working on a big deal. Said he’d see you at the office at four, like you asked. You’re all set up to stay at the Wyndham Hotel. I can take you there to freshen up, if you’d like.”

  “I need to make another stop first.” Mac gave Andy’s chauffeur the address of the sex therapist, who had agreed to see him today during a time someone else had canceled an appointment.

  Dr. Timothy Douglas had first talked to Mac in the hospital after one of his operations, when Mac was scared to death that he would be impotent for life because nothing seemed to be working. The doctor had reassured Mac that the medication he was taking—and his state of agitation over the problem—had caused his lack of sex drive.

  Douglas was not much older than Mac, but he was balding and wore spectacles, both of which made him look more distinguished. The good doctor had returned several times over the years to talk to Mac in the hospital, and it was during one of those discussions that Mac had admitted he was a virgin.

  Douglas hadn’t been able to control a smile. “Good for you,” he’d said. “Too many men are indiscriminate these days.”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, Doc, but I doubt I’d be able to say that if I’d been out of this bed more than a day at a time over the past couple of years.”

  Douglas patted his shoulder and said, “Wait for the right woman, Mac. You won’t be sorry.”

  Douglas was the only person in the world who knew Mac’s secret. And the only one he felt comfortable telling about Jewel’s secret. Surely the good doctor could come up with some suggestions for how Mac could help Jewel without hurting her.

  “This is a doctor’s office,” the chauffeur said when he stopped in front of the address Mac had given him.

  “Sure is,” Mac said. “Meet me back here in an hour.”

  Mac let himself out of the sleek black car and headed inside the office building.

  The hour Mac spent with Timothy Douglas had been well worth the time and trouble to get there. As he paced his agent’s office, Mac worked through the various suggestions Douglas had made for how he could help Jewel.

  “Patience is essential,” Douglas said. “Thoughtfulness. Consideration. All the things you would normally expect in a loving relationship. Only, each step of the way, you need to check with Jewel to make sure she’s still with you. Understand?”

  Mac understood all right. The man was supposed to control himself while he attended to the woman fir
st. “What if I can’t wait?” he blurted, his face crimson with embarrassment.

  “Do you care for this woman?” Douglas asked.

  “Why the hell do you think I’m so worried?” Mac shot back. “What if I lose control and make things worse?”

  “Be sure you’re thinking of her at the crucial moment, instead of yourself, and everything will turn out fine.”

  “That’s all there is to it?” Mac asked skeptically.

  “Sex is a natural bodily function,” Douglas said. “We’re supposed to procreate. Your body will know what to do, even if you don’t.”

  Mac took comfort in that last word of advice. But as he was very well aware, knowing technically what to do, and actually doing it, sometimes turned out to be two entirely different things.

  On Mac’s next lap across his agent’s office, the door opened and Andy Dennison stepped inside.

  “Hi there, Mac. What’s new?”

  “I can walk. And I can run.”

  Andy smiled and crossed to shake Mac’s hand. “Congratulations. I should have known you would do what you promised. How about a cigar to celebrate?”

  “No thanks,” Mac said with a smile. “I’m in training.”

  “You don’t mind if I have one.” Andy crossed to his desk, took a cigar from a box on top of it, clipped the end with a sterling silver device, sniffed it and rolled the tobacco lovingly between his fingers. That was as far as he could go. No smoking was allowed in the building.

  “When can I set up an appointment with the Tornadoes?” Andy asked.

  “Not so fast,” Mac said, seating himself in one of the two modern chrome and black leather chairs facing the desk. “What’s the last date I could show up in training camp and still have a chance to make the team?”

  “Depends on how fast you can run when you show up,” Andy said bluntly.

  “How fast is the new kid?”

  Andy gave Mac a figure for the forty that made sweat bead on Mac’s forehead. It was two seconds better than Mac’s best time before he was injured.

  “What about his hands?”

  “Misses a few. Fumbles now and again.”

  Mac smiled. “Then I have a chance. Being fastest isn’t everything. I proved that when I played.”

  “Yeah. But being slow will get you cut from the team,” Andy pointed out.

  “How slow is too slow?” Mac asked, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

  Andy shrugged. “Hard to say. But if you aren’t within a second or two of your best time…” Andy shrugged again.

  Mac sighed and sat back, crossing his good ankle over his scarred knee. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Look, there’s been some interest in using you as a sports commentator. Why not let me follow up and—”

  “That isn’t what I want to do with my life.”

  “What are you planning to do? I mean, if you don’t make the team?”

  Mac drew a complete blank. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it much.”

  “Maybe you should,” Andy said. “Think about that sportscasting job. It’s national television, lots of exposure, possibility of advertising bucks. Lot of dough in a job like that.”

  “Lots of travel, too,” Mac said.

  “Yeah, there’s that.”

  “I want to settle down somewhere and have a family.”

  Andy cleared his throat. “Uh. I heard about that stop you made this afternoon. Anything I can do to help?”

  Mac laughed. “It’s taken care of, but thanks for the offer.”

  “Sure, Mac, just know I’m there if you need me. By the way, who’s the girl?”

  “Knowing your penchant for publicity I figure I’ll keep that to myself for a while.”

  “Hey. Whatever you want,” Andy said. “By the way, how long are you going to be in town?”

  “Just overnight.”

  “Anxious to get back to your girl?” Andy said with a sly smile.

  Mac thought about it, smiled and answered, “Yeah. I am.”

  “Look, I know some folks who’d like to have dinner with you. How about it?”

  “Will it help you out?”

  Andy grinned. “You’re a great guy, Mac. I knew you’d come through. I’ll have a tux delivered to your hotel room, and I’ll have my limo pick you up at eight.”

  “A tux! What kind of shindig is this?”

  “Charity ball in Forth Worth, complete with politicians and socialites. Won’t hurt you to be seen there, Mac. You can use all the good press you can get. You’ll be sitting at the mayor’s table.”

  Mac shook his head. “How do I let you talk me into these things?”

  Andy stuck the cigar between his teeth and grinned. “You like me?”

  Instead of laughing, Mac looked Andy in the eye and said, “You stuck with me when a lot of other folks didn’t. I’m not likely to forget that anytime soon.” He left before Andy could form a response.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  COLT SAT ON THE SAGGING BACK PORCH of Jenny’s house waiting for Huck to come back out. He tugged at the frayed knee of his jeans, making the tear worse, then glanced up at the hot, noonday sun. He couldn’t get what Mac had said about Huck and Jenny out of his mind.

  College is a long way off. Maybe they’ll change their minds about each other.

  Colt would never do anything to separate the two of them—not that he believed anything could alter Jenny’s devotion to Huck—but Mac had offered him a sort of hope he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a very long time.

  Lately, Colt let his eyes linger on her more. He let his heart fall more completely under her spell. Even though his head said it was a stupid thing to do.

  “Hey, Colt. You ready to go?”

  Colt leapt up guiltily as the kitchen screen door slammed and stuck his hands deep into his back pockets. “Yeah. Sure.” Good thing Huck couldn’t read his mind.

  “You’re acting awful jumpy lately. What’s your problem?” Huck asked as he crossed past Colt and down the creaking steps. “Some girl finally caught your eye?” he teased.

  Maybe Huck could read minds, Colt thought uncomfortably.

  “Who is it? Sarah Logan? Freda Barnett? I know—Betty Lou Tucker!”

  Betty Lou Tucker was the prettiest—and most curvaceous—girl in school. Huck was way off the mark. The only girl Colt ever thought about was Jenny. And Jenny wasn’t beautiful, she was just…Jenny. Colt thought of Jenny looking up at him with her bluer-than-blue eyes and felt the heat rising up his throat to make visible spots on his cheeks.

  “Thought so,” Huck said with a laugh. “Betty Lou’s been looking at a lot of guys since she broke up with Bobby Ray.” Huck unlooped the reins from the tie rail in front of the Double D ranch house and mounted his horse. “You coming with me, or you gonna sit on Jenny’s back porch all day?”

  “I…uh…think I’ll wait to talk to Jenny before I leave…about some stuff.”

  Huck shook his head in disgust. “Jenny’s gotta feed the little ones before she can do anything. You might be waiting a while. She was asking me if I could help her out, but I’ve got better things to do with my time than housework. You’re welcome to take my place.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” Colt said, his heart thumping a little harder.

  “See you tonight at the movies?” Huck asked.

  “Naw. My dad asked me to do some bookkeeping with him.”

  “When are you gonna tell him you’re not gonna stay on the ranch?” Huck asked.

  “Sometime,” Colt said.

  “Better be soon, or he’ll be depending on you so much you’ll never get out,” Huck warned.

  “I hear you,” Colt said irritably.

  Huck kicked his horse into a lope, raising a choking cloud of dust from the dry, sunbaked dirt around the house.

  Colt stepped back and waved away the worst of it so he could breathe, then turned and stared at the screen door. All he had to do was knock and offer his help. It was bound to seem a little odd
to Jenny for him to volunteer, since he’d never been in her house before.

  There was a reason for that. He stayed away from sick people, and her mother had been sick nearly the whole time he’d known her. Her mother’s breast cancer had gone into remission for a long time, but after the youngest child was born, it had come back.

  Now Mrs. Wright was dying of cancer. Colt knew what that meant. Hair falling out from chemotherapy. Frail limbs. Eyes dead long before the body was. He had seen too much of it at Camp LittleHawk. Enough to know that it hurt desperately to like—let alone love—someone who was ill and who might or might not survive another week, another month, another year.

  The only thing that could make him go inside Jenny’s house right now was the knowledge that he would get to spend time alone with her. They would probably talk and maybe laugh together. That possibility was worth having to share Jenny’s pain as she tended to her dying mother.

  But Huck had said Jenny was feeding the little ones. Colt was the baby in his family, but he figured he could probably manage whatever Jenny asked of him.

  Colt knocked on the door, said, “Jenny, I’m coming in,” and let himself inside. He immediately took off his Western straw hat and stood still inside the screen door until his eyes adjusted to the darker room. When he could see, he found Jenny staring at him, her jaw hanging open.

  “Colt. What are you doing in here?”

  “Huck thought you might need some help.” He clutched the hat against his chest feeling foolish, but said, “Here I am.”

  She smiled, and he knew it was going to be all right. He looked for a place to hang his hat, but didn’t see anything.

  “Put it on top of the refrigerator,” she said. “That way Tyler and James can’t get to it.”

  He looked at the baby sitting in the high chair before her and the older child sitting in a youth chair next to him. “They seem pretty well lassoed,” he said, but he put the hat where she told him, anyway.

  She gestured him toward her. “This is Randy,” she said, sticking another spoonful of something gross looking in the baby’s mouth, “and next to him is Sam. Tyler and James are playing in their room.