by JoAnn Ross
“Scout’s honor.” He lifted his fingers in the same pledge he’d given Johnny Baker earlier. “Although I refuse to be held responsible for any naughty ideas you might come up with once you get me alone.”
Refusing to dignify that remark with a response, Nora climbed into her car and slammed the door.
Unrepentant, Caine began whistling “My Girl” as he sauntered over to his own black beast parked two spaces away.
Chapter 8
Caine’s chalet-style cabin was situated in a remote forest clearing, on the bank of a stream in a grove of silver-trunked aspen, nestled up against the slope of the Olympic Mountains. Behind the cabin was a small, unnamed glacial lake.
Much more than a typical rustic structure, the chalet had a soaring cathedral ceiling and an open balustrade leading to the upstairs loft. Adding to the sense of spaciousness was a panoramic wall of glass that thrust outward toward the forest like the prow of an ancient sailing ship.
From the outside, surrounded by a dazzling carpet of the same yellow, blue and white wildflowers Caine had brought to the cemetery, the cabin appeared warm and welcoming.
The inside, however, looked as if a hurricane had swept through it. Clothes were strewn over every available piece of furniture, and although he’d been home nearly two weeks, other clothing remained in open suitcases on the floor. The rest of the plank flooring was littered with newspapers—all opened to the sports pages.
Empty beer cans littered the tops of the tables along with glasses that had etched white rings into the pine. Nora was surprised and disappointed to see an oversize plastic ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Cobwebs hung in the ceiling corners; dust covered everything.
She went into the kitchen, where she found more empty beer cans and a distressing number of bourbon bottles. The only time she’d ever seen Caine drink hard liquor was after the accident that had taken their son’s life. His drinking, which had begun the night Dylan died, had escalated daily, culminating in that horrid, drunken scene at the cemetery.
A pizza box was open on the counter, the two remaining pieces of pepperoni pizza cold and forgotten. In the refrigerator were three additional six-packs of beer, the crab her brother had given Caine, a taco wrapped in bright yellow waxed paper, a handful of individual plastic hot-sauce containers and a bowl of guacamole that looked like an organic-chemistry lab experiment gone awry.
This was a mistake, Nora thought. The one thing she’d always admired about Caine O’Halloran was his absolute, unwavering self-confidence. To think of him, hiding away out here, drinking too much, destroying his lungs, and clogging his arteries with fat and cholesterol as he ate his solitary meals from TV trays, was surprisingly painful.
She had just decided to leave when the unmistakable whine of the Ferrari’s engine cut through the mountain silence. A moment later, she heard the car door slam and Caine burst into the cabin, his arms filled with brown paper bags.
“Sorry it took longer than I’d planned,” he greeted with a cheerfulness that was at distinct odds with the bleakness of their surroundings. “But I figured I might as well pick up a few basics while I was at it.”
“That’s a good idea. Since you don’t have enough food around here to feed a starving gerbil.”
“Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard has gotten a bit bare.”
“Unfortunately, you can’t say the same thing about the bar,” she countered. “It seems to be more than adequately stocked. And when did you start smoking?”
“A few weeks ago. And for the record, I don’t know why the hell people do it. The stuff tastes like shit.”
“Not to mention the little fact that cigarettes cause heart disease, lung cancer, emphysema—”
“And may result in fetal injury, premature birth and low birth weight,” he cut in. He tried to make room on the cluttered counter for the grocery bags, then, giving up, put them on the floor instead. “I read all the labels, Doc.”
“But you smoked them anyway.”
“I’m probably the only guy my age who never tried smoking when he was a kid. I thought I might enjoy it. I didn’t. So I quit. Okay?”
“Too bad you didn’t quit the booze while you were at it,” she retorted. “I should take you into the hospital morgue and show you what an alcoholic’s liver looks like.”
A stony expression came over his face. “I’m not an alcoholic. And I damn well don’t need a show-and-tell lecture from you, Dr. Anderson.”
“You need something. Because in case you haven’t noticed, Caine, this place looks like a pigsty.” She wrinkled her nose. “And it smells like a saloon!”
“I happen to like saloons.” Caine knew he’d been spending far too much time in them lately, but he’d throw himself off the top of nearby Mount Olympus before admitting that to Nora.
They were standing toe-to-toe. “Well, I don’t.”
“If you don’t like the way the place smells, why don’t you open a damn window?”
“I’d rather leave!”
“Fine. Go ahead and leave. I’m used to eating alone.”
“No wonder, the way you’ve been acting. And a woman had better be current on her vaccinations before she risks walking in the front door, because this place is a toxic-waste dump. I’m surprised the county health inspector hasn’t condemned it.”
Caine raked his hand through his hair. “Christ, I’d forgotten what a shrew you could be.”
“Shrew?” Her voice rose. “You invited me all the way out here to call me a shrew?” Nora was trembling with a temper only this man had ever been able to ignite. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still absolutely gorgeous when you’re furious.”
She would not let him get away with this again. “You really need to work on your pickup lines, O’Halloran. Because that one went out with ‘What’s your sign?’”
“I do okay,” he growled. “Besides, if I were in the market to pick up a woman, I sure as hell wouldn’t waste my time with some flat-chested, acid-tongued nag.”
A lesser woman would have been intimidated by his glare, but Nora threw up her chin and met his blistering look with a furious one of her own.
“Then we’re even. Because the last thing I want in my life is some out-of-control, self-pitying over-the-hill jock with a Peter Pan complex!”
Her words reverberated around the kitchen like an unwelcome echo. Caine was looming over her, forcing her to tilt her head back to see his eyes. He was angry—more than angry. He was as furious as Nora had ever seen him.
Caine felt a fresh surge of fury and welcomed it. He’d been going through the motions since realizing he was going to be put on waivers. How long had it been since he’d allowed himself to experience pure, unadulterated emotion? Too long.
A muscle jerked in his jaw. They glared at one another, each daring the other to make the next move.
“You know, your aim has gotten a helluva lot more accurate,” Caine said finally. “Because you definitely scored a direct hit with that one, Nora.”
They’d had too many of these fights in the past. And although they’d eventually made up in bed, each argument, every cruel word, had succeeded in straining the already tenuous bonds of their marriage. Until finally, those ties had snapped.
“I didn’t want to score any hit,” she murmured, looking down at the floor. “I thought that’s what this dinner was all about. To put the past behind us, not relive it, word by hurtful word.”
His hands were far from steady as he brushed Nora’s bangs off her forehead. Caine wanted to try to make her understand the desperation that had led to his recent, admittedly less-than-ideal lifestyle. But how could he make her understand? When he still didn’t understand himself?
“Hell. I’m sorry. Things have been a little rough lately. What with Maggie. And this damn arm and
getting put on waivers. But I had no right to take my problems out on you.”
“You just need to give it a bit more time,” she advised. “Try a little patience.”
“You know patience has never been my long suit.”
“Would it be the end of the world,” she asked quietly, “if you had to quit playing ball?”
“That’s a moot point. Since I’m not finished.”
A nagging doubt had been nibbling at the edges of his mind. Thus far, Caine had successfully ignored it. “If Nolan Ryan can pitch a no-hitter at forty-four, I’m damned if I’m going to admit to being washed up at thirty-five.”
“You’ll be thirty-six next month.”
“Okay, thirty-six. So who’s counting?”
Everyone. And they both knew it.
Caine had been a ballplayer for as long as he could remember, and the one thing he refused to admit to Nora was that he didn’t know how to separate the man from the athlete, even if he wanted to. Which he damn well didn’t.
“Look, Nora,” he said, trying to explain once again the one thing he’d never been able to make her understand, “I’ve spent my entire adult life, standing on a mound in front of a stadium of thousands and a television audience in the millions, expecting them to take me seriously for throwing a little piece of white cowhide at a stick.
“I know that to you, with your education and lofty profession, that seems like a ridiculous way to earn a living.
“But I throw that ball nearly a hundred miles an hour and I make a helluva lot of money for embarrassing some of the league’s best hitters. I’m Caine the Giant Killer, and I love it. I love the competition. And I love to win.”
“But your injury—”
He cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand. “Injuries are part of the game. And dammit, I refuse to allow a bit of bad luck to sidetrack me from a lifelong quest.”
“I remember you were always questing after glory,” she murmured. At the same time, she’d been in her first year of medical school and struggling with morning sickness.
“It’s more than glory. I feel I have something left to achieve.”
“So you’re going to hang in there and keep swinging at the curveballs.”
That earned a smile. “And if you swing at enough of them,” he agreed, “eventually you’ll hit a few out of the park. I hadn’t realized you’d been listening in those days.”
Just as she hadn’t realized he’d been listening to her go on and on about medical school. Nora wondered if perhaps she’d misjudged him back then. Perhaps, she considered now, they’d misjudged one another.
“But I didn’t ask you here to talk about baseball—” Caine’s low voice broke into her thoughts “—or my injury.” He slid his hand beneath her hair to cup her neck and hold her to his darkening gaze, making her nerve endings sizzle.
“How about a temporary truce?” he asked quietly.
The brief hot argument had left her drained. Nora wanted to lean her head against his broad shoulder; she wanted to wrap her arms around his waist and feel his strong arms around her, reassuring her that they could put this fight behind them, as they had so many others.
In the end, she released a slow, ragged breath and nodded. “Truce,” she whispered.
She reached up and traced the planes of his face with her fingertips. Frowning at the yellowish bruise around his eye, she said, “Your eye still looks horrendous.”
“It’ll heal. They always do.”
She shook her head in mute frustration. “You really haven’t changed.” Her faint smile took the sting out of her words.
Her stroking touch was beginning to drive him crazy. Unable to keep from touching her, Caine ran his palms up and down her arms. “Ah, we’re back to my Peter Pan complex.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
He shrugged. “I shouldn’t have called you a shrew.” Lightly he traced her ear and played with her pearl earring.
“Don’t forget the ‘flat-chested, acid-tongued nag.’”
Caine had the good grace to flush at that one. “Definitely uncalled-for.” His finger trailed down her throat. “Your chest is just right.”
The finger crossed her collarbone. “In fact, I remember thinking, that first time here in the cabin, how perfectly your breasts fit my palms and wondering if everything between us would be such a close and perfect fit.”
With deliberate leisure, the treacherous finger glided over her breast. “And it was.” Just as she felt herself slipping under his seductive spell, the beeper in her coat pocket buzzed; its screen displayed the emergency-code number. Saved by the bell. Again.
She called the hospital from the kitchen phone, then turned back to Caine. He was leaning against the counter, his long legs crossed at the ankles, watching her with unwavering intensity.
“I have to go.”
He wasn’t surprised; her relief at the untimely interruption had been palpable. With uncommon self-control, Caine managed not to complain as he followed Nora out to her car.
“How about coming back after you’re finished with your emergency?” Behind her, the rays of the sunset spread out over the Olympic Mountains like an enormous scarlet fan.
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have no idea how long I’ll be.” Her hand remained firmly on the car door handle, as if to anchor herself against the storm of emotions swirling inside her.
“I don’t mind waiting.” Uncurling her fingers from the door handle, he took her hand in his.
“I wouldn’t want you to have to do that. Especially when it could take all night.” She forced a smile. “But there will be other chances to talk before you leave town.”
“You know I want to do more than talk, Nora.”
“Yes.” Her eyes were painfully grave. “And to tell you the truth, back in there—” she tossed her head in the direction of the cabin “—I was tempted. But I think what’s happening here doesn’t really have anything to do with us, Caine.
“I think deep inside you there’s a voice saying that if you could only turn the clock back to when you were younger, to those days when you and I were married and you first got called up to the majors, perhaps you could start pitching the way you once did again, too.”
He lifted a challenging brow. “Now you’re a shrink?”
“No. But it doesn’t take a psychology degree to see that you’re dealing with a lot of difficult issues, Caine. As your doctor, and your friend, I’d suggest you try to take things more slowly.”
With that, she pulled her hand free, climbed into the driver’s seat, closed the door, fastened her seat belt and drove away from the cabin.
Caine stood at the end of the driveway, hands shoved into his pockets, and watched Nora leave. Timing, he considered grimly, as he trudged back up to the cabin, was everything.
He went back into the cabin, swore as he glanced at the bags of groceries, then picked up a bottle of bourbon and walked down to the dock.
The night grew cool. A gentle mist that wasn’t quite rain began to fall. Caine sat alone, on the end of his dock, drinking his way through the Jack Daniel’s.
He’d told himself that he’d come down here to think, but that was a lie. He’d come down here to get roaring drunk.
The problem was, Caine realized, holding the bottle up toward the crescent moon to determine the level of the remaining bourbon, it wasn’t working.
Oh, he knew that if he suddenly stood his legs wouldn’t be all that steady, that the dock would appear to be swaying. But while the alcohol was undoubtedly having its effect on his body, his mind was, unfortunately, distressingly clear.
He tipped the bottle to his lips. Flames slid down his throat and spread thickly, soothingly, in his
stomach as he thought back to the afternoon when he’d finally made love to Nora for the second time.
They’d been married for six months that week, but neither had thought to celebrate the anniversary. After all, theirs had not been a conventional marriage. It had been a practical arrangement, a contract entered into by both parties for their mutual benefit. Nothing more.
At least that was what he’d been telling himself. Until that fateful day when his life had inexorably changed. He’d been eating a pizza and drinking beer while watching television when Nora burst into the apartment, her eyes red from crying. She ran past him into the bedroom as if he were invisible, slamming the door behind her. A moment later, Caine heard the sound of water running in the bathroom, the buzz of her electric toothbrush, then the unmistakable sound of weeping.
He lowered the beer can to the coffee table and sat there, debating what to do next. Part of him opted for ignoring the incident.
But another, stronger part of him couldn’t overlook the fact that something was definitely wrong. When he thought that it might have something to do with the baby, his blood chilled.
He’d pointed the remote control at the screen; the screen went black. Realizing that his breath undoubtedly reeked of beer and pepperoni, and remembering how she’d looked a little queasy this morning, Caine dug a lint-covered peppermint out of his jeans pocket and popped it into his mouth.
Then he crossed the living room and opened the bedroom door.
“Nora?” The room was dark but he could see her, curled up in a fetal position on the bed. “What’s wrong?”
“Go away.” She was hugging a pillow against her; her words were muffled by the foam.
“Not until I find out if anything’s wrong with the baby.”
“The baby’s fine.”
But she wasn’t. And that disturbed the hell out of him. Caine crossed the room. The mattress sank under his weight as he sat down beside her. “You want to tell me what happened?”
“No.”
He could feel her trembling. “Come on, Nora.” Feeling awkward, he smoothed her hair with his palm. “Whatever it is, it can’t be all that bad.”
