Back in the Game
Page 1
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the town of Terrell, Texas, and to Maddie, the Hurricane Katrina Survivor.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Special Acknowledgment
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Announcement to Rules of the Game
About the Author
By Lori Wilde
Copyright
About the Publisher
SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Although the town of Stardust, and the characters in it, are fictional, the warm, loving, supportive community and Timeless Treasure were inspired by the fellowship I found in Terrell and at Books and Crannies bookstore, owned by Ron and Gayle Harris and frequented by an amazing group of readers and friends. The only fictional character with a real-life counterpart is Callie, the Hurricane Sandy-surviving calico cat.
Lori
CHAPTER 1
Baseball breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.
—A. BARTLETT GIAMATTI
A crack of the bat.
The sound punctuated Rowdy Blanton’s life. Permeated everything. Seeped into his dreams.
From sandlot ball in knee-high Johnson grass in his hometown of Stardust, Texas, to luxurious major league diamonds, a crack of the bat spelled freedom. Freedom from boring classrooms where he struggled to read, from the empty belly that kept him awake nights, from watching his father wither and die.
Freedom from pain.
The crack of a bat carried him from poverty to the pinnacle of success, and all the nice things that money could buy. He had arrived, believing his lofty perch would finally ease his suffering.
His head throbbed. Tequila hangover. He squeezed his eyelids shut.
His belly ached. Kobe beef hangover. He clenched his teeth.
His left shoulder burned . . .
Oh God, his pitching arm. He winced, groaned. For one sweet fuzzy moment, he had forgotten about his ruined pitching arm.
A wet tongue licked his cheek. He put his elbow over his face, blocking the amorous kiss.
Undaunted, the persistent tongue laved his chin.
Was it the blonde from last night’s Cinco de Mayo party? Or the redhead? Might even be the brunette. She’d pawed him like a kitty at catnip.
No. Couldn’t be. He’d sent them all home.
Ever since that devastating night he always sent them home. He should be alone. But obviously, someone had lingered, taking advantage of his tequila-soaked brain.
Ugh.
The hot, wet tongue slurped across his mouth. Sloppy kisser. Which one shared his bed? Blonde? Redhead? Brunette? Someone else entirely?
Sun warmed his face. The smell of chlorine burned his nose. A plush cushion covered the thin metal frame beneath his body. No. Not his bed.
Patio lounger.
Poolside.
Who was he going to have to face, cook breakfast for, walk to her car, kiss good-bye, and never see again?
Terrific.
He might as well get it over with. As much as he hated pain, he wasn’t a coward. Dreading what he would find, Rowdy held his breath, opened one eye, and saw . . .
Nolan Ryan.
Thank God.
The old boy sat on his haunches, tail wagging, staring at Rowdy with love and concern shining in his big brown eyes.
At the sight of his bloodhound, the throbbing ebbed, his stomach settled, and a helpless smile overtook his face. He scooted onto his side, and patted a spot beside him.
It took the bloodhound a minute to position his aging legs, but he managed the short hop onto the lounger. Rowdy wrapped his arms around his dog, hugged him tight, buried his nose in Nolan’s fur, and for one brief moment felt no pain.
He closed his eyes. Drifted back to sleep.
Found baseball again. Found the lost dream. Touched peace.
The seventh inning stretch. Blue skies. Balmy weather. “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Hot dogs. Roasted peanuts. Beer. Pretzels. Dot races. The familiar feel of a leather glove against his right palm, the ball weighted in his left hand. Two hundred and sixteen stitches on a major league baseball sewn in red cotton thread.
This was his whole world. His life. The ball. The diamond. The game.
A crack of the bat.
So went the duel between pitcher and batter. The declarative noise he both loved and hated.
Contact.
The batter knocking his left-handed screwball back at him. Line drive? Pop-up fly? Foul ball? Home run?
He looked up, following the ball, but the blue skies disappeared, replaced mysteriously by velvet night.
Neon lights spiked the darkness. A woman’s perfume scented his collar. Loud music vibrated the ground. Distant laughter. A Dumpster. The fetid stench of garbage seized his nose. He was on the ground. Fetal position. Right arm held defensively over his face. Left arm separated from his shoulder at the socket, hanging useless at his side.
Ambushed.
Pain. Electric. Stunning. Shiny. Blue-white. Razor-toothed. Relentless. So much goddamn pain.
A man stood over him. Fierce. Swarthy. Extravagantly muscled. Thick black hair. Pit-of-hell black eyes. Flaring nostrils. The tattoo of a striking cobra inked on his right forearm. Louisville Slugger cocked over his shoulder. With each swing of the bat the snake undulated in the yellow glow of the alley security lamp.
His attacker yelling with every whack, again, and again, “Stay away from my wife!”
A crack of the bat.
A crush of bone.
And life as he knew it was over.
Breeanne Carlyle disliked estate sales.
The forlorn belongings of the recently departed, cataloged and arranged for easy browsing, gave her chill bumps in the same way as the turkey buzzards that nested in the loblolly pine outside her bedroom window. Each year the vultures raised a new set of voracious young to patrol the two-lane, farm-to-market road extending from Stardust, Texas, north to Jefferson, keen-eyed for the misfortune of others.
It was not what Breeanne wanted to do with her life, this picking through of things left behind.
But here she was, doing it all the same.
How could she tell her parents that she had dreams beyond Timeless Treasures? While she loved the family business that was part antique store, part bookstore, part tearoom, and the undisputed hub of Stardust for the last twenty-five years, she burned for a real writing career.
She’d enjoyed a tiny bit of literary success, just enough to stoke the flickering candle of her hunger to a raging blaze. She’d written a book about her great-aunt Polly, who played center field for women’s professional baseball during WWII. She’d gotten an agent, sold to a regional press for a modest advance, and they had contracted her to write a follow-up book about the history of baseball in Texas.
Foolishly, stupidly, she
believed she was on her way.
Then her publisher went out of business. No one else wanted the second book. Her agent quit taking her calls. Doggedly determined to make it as a writer, she self-published her second book.
And promptly fell down the well of Internet obscurity.
The book had been available online for six months, and despite extensive promotional efforts that plowed through her savings, she’d sold the grand total of eighty-seven copies, and as far as she could tell, every single one of those to family and friends.
“That means you have eighty-seven people who love you enough to buy your book,” her mother said at Breeanne’s disappointment. “You are rich beyond words.”
“You’re working too hard,” Dad had said. “Take a break.”
Her father’s comment splashed over her like gasoline on a campfire. “No,” she declared, shocked by the powerful punch of anger pushing out of her. “You’re wrong. I haven’t been working hard enough!”
Unaccustomed to opinionated outbursts from their most easygoing daughter, her parents had both taken a step back, and exchanged wary glances.
“You’re becoming obsessed with this writing thing,” her mother said. “It’s not healthy. You need to relax. Go swing in the hammock. Get some sunshine.”
Dad smiled a gentle smile. “You know, angel, it’s next to impossible to make a living as a writer. The Rangers are playing the Cardinals on TV at two, what say you come watch the game with your old man?”
Because she did love her father and baseball, Breeanne backed down, and instead of going to her room to write, she went to watch the game with him. But the entire time, she couldn’t stop thinking, He doesn’t believe in me, they don’t believe in me, no one believes in me.
But stubbornly, against all odds, Breeanne believed in herself. She would make this happen. If it took twenty years, then so be it. In the meantime, her close-knit family had expectations of her. So here she was, going picking.
Smile.
Smiling put the blues on notice. It was her go-to expression for smoothing over everything. No room for bad moods. Never mind that she wasn’t feeling it. Fake it until you make it. She was finally healthy, and had a family who loved her. The writing would eventually take care of itself as long as she kept at it.
On this Sunday morning in May, navy blue night faded into the deep purple of impending dawn. Every expert bargain hunter knew that arriving after first light meant you were already too late for the good stuff.
Breeanne’s oldest sister, Jodi, drove the minivan branded with the name of her business on the back window, “Boxcars and Breakfast.” Enterprising Jodi bought old boxcars for cheap, and with her mad carpentry skills, converted them into luxurious sleeping accommodations on land that she’d inherited near the state park.
In her role as second oldest, Kasha rode shotgun. Kasha had a PhD and worked at the VA hospital as a physical therapist.
Breeanne sat in the back with Suki, the baby of the family. Suki ran the Internet side of Timeless Treasures, and had her own jewelry-making business on the side.
Normally, their parents would accompany them on their weekly Sunday morning hunt, but their folks were celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary on a romantic getaway to San Antonio.
Bumper-to-bumper traffic idled up the sweeping driveway leading to the impressive Tudor-style mansion. An attendant, wearing a reflective vest and waving a light orange signal cone, directed them to an adjacent field.
Marion County’s wealthiest doyenne, Irene Henderson, had died at the age of eighty-five after being thrown from the saddle of her Arabian horse. Breeanne couldn’t help admiring the elderly woman’s fearless spunk. How did anyone get to be that brave?
Jodi parked the van. Armed with tote bags, they all got out.
Kasha paused and, nostrils flaring, tipped her face to the sky still sprinkled with stars. “It’s going to rain.”
“Not according to the weather forecast,” Jodi said, but she unlocked the van and retrieved two umbrellas. Kasha had an uncanny ability to predict the weather.
A swath of headlights kept coming as more cars pulled in.
“Fierce competition,” Jodi said. “We should split up. I’ll scout antiques. Kasha, you go for the kitsch. Suki, shop for the tearoom, and anything Art Deco. Breeanne, you’re assigned to—”
“Books.”
“Don’t attempt to carry them. Text us if you find any, and we’ll cart them back to the van for you.”
Breeanne traced two fingers over the top of the scar lurking beneath the neckline of her blue and green Dallas Gunslingers baseball jersey. “Don’t baby me. I tote tomes around the bookstore every day.”
“Let’s not push it. You’ve been doing so well. The last thing you need is a setback.” Jodi tucked a strand of auburn hair behind one ear.
“I’m fine,” Breeanne insisted. How long would it take for her sisters to toss the kid gloves?
Jodi raised an admonishing finger. “Text us.”
Her sisters took off in different directions, leaving Breeanne to wander the expansive lawn strewn with rows of folding tables, clothing racks, and metal shelving loaded down with the contents of a life well lived. A man in a security guard uniform policed the area, hands clasped behind his back. He stabbed her with suspicious eyes.
She daubed on a smile and raised I-don’t-want-any-trouble palms, and backed off.
Somewhere coffee percolated, tingeing the air with the scent of French roast. People rummaged through items, haggled over prices. Someone elbowed her out of the way. Someone else, headed for an overburdened shoe rack, shoved past her. Another person pushed in, and then another, and another, a current of shoppers washing Breeanne to the outer shore of the yard.
Wasn’t that just the theme of her life? Marginalized on the outskirts.
She sighed. What she wouldn’t give to be at home working on her book with Callie purring in her lap. Suck it up. Smile. They would be here only a few hours. To pass the time, she leaned against the trunk of a pecan tree, and people-watched as dawn crept over the horizon.
A frowning woman shoved a baby carriage stuffed with knickknacks over bumpy terrain. An Ichabod Crane–esque man in an argyle sweater swung a practice stroke with a driving wood that was much too short for his elongated frame. A family of five, every member almost as big around as they were tall, licked fast-food cinnamon roll glaze off their fingers while investigating a used treadmill.
A brash black Cadillac Escalade muscled through the gate. Heads turned, and a wave of murmurs surfed through the crowd. The SUV did not pull obediently into the field with the other vehicles. Instead, it sailed arrogantly to a stop near the front door, sending pedestrians scattering.
The passenger door swung open, and the town’s biggest celebrity—the Dallas Gunslingers former star lefty pitcher—got out. The very same pitcher whose number was on Breeanne’s jersey.
Rowdy Blanton.
Her inner fan girl drooled.
Instantly a funnel of humanity swirled toward him, surrounded him, went crazy over him. Breeanne longed to join the rush, but her feet grew roots, anchoring her to the earth. People pushed and shoved to get at him, especially the women, as they all shouted at once.
“Rowdy, Rowdy can I have your autograph!”
“We love you Rowdy!”
“I want to bear your children!”
“I wanna get rough and Rowdy with you!”
The driver of the SUV, a big, bald, beefy bodyguard type, moved people aside, lining them up like he’d done this a million times. Once he had everyone somewhat organized, he took a box of baseballs from the vehicle and started passing them out to excited kids.
While Bodyguard Dude handled crowd control, Rowdy stood beneath a security light, signing autographs, shaking hands, and clapping backs. His laughter burst the dawn, warm and friendly. He wore a baseball cap embroidered with the logo of the Stardust Drillers, the local high school baseball team, cocked jauntily on his head. Tight-fi
tting Levi’s jeans hugged muscular thighs, and a simple white T-shirt accentuated his tanned skin. He moved with the impertinent, nimble-limbed strut of a man fully at ease with life.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. What she wouldn’t give to be one of those kids again.
Rowdy glanced up, and stared through the crowd.
Heated estrogen cruised Breeanne’s veins, settled deep in her pelvis. Her stomach pinched, and her heart gave a funny stutter that had nothing to do with the medication she was on. Soon, she’d be able to go off even that, prescription-free for the first time in her twenty-five years.
For one heartbeat of a second their eyes met. Full-on freight trains on the same track speeding straight toward each other collided. Bam.
Oh.
My.
God.
She could almost hear the screech of metal, smell smoke, feel the jolting impact. She ceased breathing. Ceased thinking. Ceased doing anything except staring at him.
Cool blue eyes, the arresting color of a clear mountain stream, gave her a startling shock. Cheekbones like flint rock. Chiseled chin. Knockout jaw dusted with beard stubble. One corner of his mouth lifted, telegraphing her a gorgeous lopsided grin. Slowly, he winked as if they shared an intimate secret.
And for that sweet second, no one else on earth existed.
Rowdy spied the lone woman standing against the pecan tree, and thought, This one hasn’t ever been off the bench.
Their eyes met, and he felt . . . well . . .
Weird as hell.
Out of the blue, for no earthly reason whatsoever, he winked at her. Quickly, she hot-potatoed his gaze, and stared off into the distance.
He waited for it. One heartbeat. Two. C’mon, let’s have it, sweetheart. Shoot me The Look.