Back in the Game

by Lori Wilde

  Rowdy walked away smiling. The image of those cheetah panties permanently imprinted in his brain. That was the most fun he’d had in a long time.

  Which was sort of pathetic when you thought about it because he’d done nothing special. Just checked on the woman who’d gotten beaned by one of the freebie baseballs he doled out, and he flirted with her a little.

  Is that what his life had come down to, mild joy over mild teasing with a mild woman in a mild place?

  Oh how the mighty have fallen.

  He rubbed his shoulder. Winced. He was losing his touch. He hadn’t even gotten her name, or phone number.

  Who cared? It wasn’t like he was going to call her. Or ever see her again.

  But damn she looked cute in the baseball jersey with his number on it, that denim skirt, and those surprising cheetah panties. He grinned again just thinking about those rocking panties. She’d done what no one had been able to do in over four months. She’d made him forget about his problems for a few minutes.

  Why was he feeling like this? And why hadn’t he insisted on getting her name and number?

  Before he could fully figure out his unexpected urges, Jenna Tomlinson, his former high school biology partner—and one of the few girls in town that he hadn’t dated because she’d been madly in love with her boyfriend—hollered his name. Jenna was Irene Henderson’s great-granddaughter, in town from San Francisco with her husband and kids. He’d skipped Irene’s funeral, not wanting to intrude on the family’s private grief, but he wanted to make time to see Jenna and offer his condolences before she returned to California.

  Jenna flung herself into his arms, and Rowdy spun her around. Laughing, she kissed his cheek, slipped her arm through his, and chattering a mile a minute, guided him toward the house.

  Just as they stepped inside, Rowdy paused to glance over his shoulder for one last puzzling peek at Miss Cheetah Panties, but she’d already disappeared.

  Leaving him feeling vaguely, inexplicably disappointed.

  CHAPTER 3

  It’s no coincidence that female interest in

  baseball increased greatly since ballplayers swapped

  baggy flannel uniforms for leotards.

  —MIKE ROYKO

  Illogically jealous of the beautiful woman who’d thrown herself into Rowdy’s eager arms, Breeanne slipped around the other side of the tree, striving to calm her somersaulting heart. She slapped a palm to her chest, gulped in a deep breath of air.

  Big whoop. What’s all the fuss about? The man put his pants on one leg at a time, just like everyone else. He was not worth a cardiac arrest.

  What was the fuss?

  Heck, just look at him. He was big, bold, and utterly gorgeous, and her body was still tingling from his touch. What was up with that?

  Time to cut herself some slack. Rowdy was one sweet slice of man. Any red-blooded female would respond. Everything about him was impressive, from his brash, cock-of-the-walk strut, to those sharp blue eyes that didn’t miss a thing, to that slow, lazy smile designed to charm the cheetah panties right off a girl.

  Sighing, she shook her head, reoriented herself. What was it she was supposed to be doing?

  Oh yes. Books. She was scouting for books. The bookstore needed supplying. Family expectations needed meeting.

  The sun had cleared the horizon and the temperature warmed, but gray clouds snaked across the sky. Kasha’s weather predictions were more accurate than the Farmer’s Almanac. How long before the rain started?

  Vendor-type stalls had been set up on the right side of the house under a sheltering of pines. Breeanne roamed the booths, picking her away around bargain hunters, her pulse tripping over Rowdy Blanton. She couldn’t seem to focus on the task at hand, and within ten minutes she’d reached the last stall, nothing purchase-worthy having caught her eye.

  The final stall displayed a collection of 1940s memorabilia from when Irene Henderson had been a young woman—movie posters, WWII collectibles, vintage clothing, plaques, postcards. Pretty cool stuff. She edged closer, wondering if Irene had owned any mementos relating to her great-aunt Polly. It was possible. Her great-aunt and Irene were from the same generation, contemporaries, and Polly had been something of a local celebrity.

  Breeanne spied a hope chest tucked into a corner underneath a shelf of dolls. It stood as tall as Breeanne’s kneecap, and it was almost as long as a GI’s footlocker, the perfect size to fit at the end of her bed.

  Buy me, the box dared. I hold the key to what’s missing in your life.

  It was a silly idea, foolish and absurd, but a dizzy sensation came over her, as if she were being tugged down a long tunnel to a parallel dimension, even though her feet were firmly planted on the ground. Her attention shrank to one thing, and one thing only.

  That trunk.

  Bizarrely, she felt as if she was on the precipice of something monumental, and if she were to open the trunk all her hopes and dreams would come true. She sank to her knees and tugged it from underneath the shelf.

  It was not a typical hope chest. Instead of a single lock, it contained five. Five locks for five individual compartments inside one wooden box. In that regard, it reminded her of her father’s tool chest.

  Admiring the handiwork, she ran a hand over the smooth planks. An expert carpenter had hewn this with talented hands. The black hasps were hammered metal, the locks polished and free of rust. Carved on the trunk’s lid, in elaborate script, was a cryptic message. She traced an index finger over etched letters, read:

  Treasures are housed within, heart’s desires granted, but be careful where wishes are cast, for reckless dreams dared dreamed in the heat of passion will surely come to pass.

  “What does it mean?” she murmured.

  “It means,” said a voice so scratchy and ancient that it was difficult to tell whether it belonged to male or female, “be careful what you wish for, because you will get it.”

  Startled, Breeanne jumped up, banging her knee against the shelf and knocking loose the dolls. She grabbed for them, barely managing to right them before they hit the ground.

  Jerking her head around, she searched for the source of the voice and found a wizened woman that she hadn’t noticed before sitting in a small black rocking chair. The woman wore a shapeless floral print dress and men’s rubber-soled camouflage hunting boots. A thick gray bun, held in place by two green pencils, sat pinned to the top of her head. She studied Breeanne with yellow, unblinking eyes as if she was a fairy-tale crone debating if Breeanne was worth eating.

  The wind gusted, sending pine needles swirling through the air, and the temperature dropped at least five degrees. A shiver, cold as a refrigerated knife blade, sliced down her spine. Vigorously, Breeanne pumped the heels of her palms up and down her arms to warm herself. “Is this a hope chest?”

  “It’s not for sale,” the woman said, sounding as if she regularly gargled with gravel.

  “Then why is it here?”

  “Someone made a mistake.”

  “I’ll give you two hundred dollars,” Breeanne said, surprising herself. What was with her today? Saying things she hadn’t thought through.

  People milled through the small stall, but they might as well have been on Saturn. Only she and the crone and the trunk existed in this strange new world.

  For the first time, the woman blinked. “Not for sale.”

  Breeanne crouched down to caress the chest once more. Her palm warmed against the wood, and her vision blurred softly the way it did with surgical anesthesia. An ethereal fog rolled over the stall, and it was as if she were watching an old timey television set with fuzzy reception.

  In the weird vision, she saw a young woman dressed in a gauzy white gown, bluebonnets braided through her hair, put something inside the trunk. The ethereal woman turned, and Breeanne realized, without surprise, that she was that woman.

  In the vision, a man came to stand beside Dream Breeanne, who raised her head and held out a hand to him. The image wavered, ghostly
and unreliable.

  She squinted.

  Who was the man?

  His chestnut brown hair was mussed, his smile wide and lopsided, a devilish grin that promised a world of bedroom delights. He wore distressed, button-fly blue jeans, and nothing else. His crystal blue eyes cut a hole straight into her heart, and it was as if he knew every single thought that passed through her head and approved of them all.

  Rowdy Blanton.

  Breeanne sucked in a hot puff of air, and a peppery taste popped into her mouth. Was this a hallucination? Some weird aftermath of being hit on the head with a baseball? Did she have a concussion? Breeanne rubbed the crown of her head where the ball had landed, but the spot wasn’t even sore to the touch.

  The old woman observed her, a knowing look polishing the yellow of her eyes to a high sheen. Her lips did not move, but Breeanne distinctly heard her say, Trust your feelings, and don’t be afraid.

  The mist rolled away. Breeanne’s vision cleared and the out-of-body sensation evaporated.

  Don’t be afraid.

  “What did you say?” she asked the old woman.

  “The trunk is unique.”

  “I can tell.”

  “It’s very old.”

  “How old?”

  “Older than time.”

  “Nothing is older than time.”

  The crone shrugged.

  Breeanne scratched her cheek, more to release tension than because her skin itched. She disliked haggling. Hated the confrontational nature of it. But she wanted this trunk. “Did the hope chest belong to Irene Henderson?”

  “For a time.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Across the universe.”

  Breeanne pressed her palms together and rested her thumbs against her sternum in a quasi yoga prayer pose. It was a calming technique she’d learned as a teen in a support group for kids facing potential death, and she glanced back at the trunk. “What’s inside?”

  “Whatever you want it to be.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Is it?”

  “You’re being mysterious.”

  “Am I? You’re the one hankering for the trunk.”

  “Will you sell it to me?”

  The woman sat silent for a time before she said, “This trunk requires a special owner. Someone who believes.”

  “Believes in what?”

  The woman drew bony knees to her chest and tucked tiny feet beneath the hem of her long dress. She set the chair rocking, and smiled a toothless smile. “Why, the unstoppable magic of true love.”

  Breeanne notched up her chin, felt her heart thump harder beneath the pressure of her thumbs against her breastbone. “I believe.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Do you?”

  “More than anything in the world,” Breeanne said. “Will you sell me the trunk?”

  She’d been reading romantic fairy tales since she was five years old. Of course she believed. But it was her parents’ real-life, thirty-year love story, and their devotion to each other and their four adopted daughters, that truly made her believe in the unstoppable power of true, unconditional love.

  “I’m not sure you are strong enough to own it.”

  “It’s just a trunk.”

  The old woman’s eyes flickered, searched her face. “You know it’s not.”

  The smell of rain thickened. Clouds darkened. Wind shook the plastic walls of the stall. People scurried for shelter.

  Neither of them moved, nor looked away.

  Her cell phone dinged. Jodi texting. She ignored it. She needed this transaction completed before her sisters descended and tried to talk her out of it.

  Breeanne almost offered the woman three hundred dollars, but managed to bite her tongue in the nick of time. It was all the money she had in her purse, and it belonged to Timeless Treasures. She didn’t have three hundred dollars in her savings account to reimburse her parents. And if she got this trunk, she was not putting it up for sale in the store.

  Besides, money wasn’t the woman’s end game, but Breeanne didn’t know what was. “I want the trunk.”

  The crone’s eyes deepened to amber beneath the darkening sky and her mouth quirked into a sly curve. “If you make a wish before opening a compartment for the first time, that wish will come true.”

  “Without fail?”

  “Without fail. Make certain you truly want what you wish for, because you will pay a great sacrifice for it. And once the wish has been cast, it cannot be undone.”

  “I understand. So five compartments. Does this mean there are five wishes in total?”

  The woman gave a curt nod, as if she was growing bored of her. “Yes, yes.”

  “What happens if I don’t make a wish when I open a compartment?”

  “Then you will find nothing inside.”

  Ha. Likely nothing was inside. She didn’t care, because she was buying an exquisite trunk, not what was or wasn’t in it. If anything was inside . . . bonus. “Two hundred and twenty dollars, but that’s my final offer.”

  The woman considered her a moment, the breeze whipping the material of her faded dress around her.

  Breeanne’s cell phone pinged again, another text from Jodi.

  Finally, the woman stuck out a wrinkled hand, palm upturned. “Done.”

  Warmth spread through Breeanne’s body, pumping adrenaline, jittering her nerve endings, dizzying her head. She shuffled her feet in a happy Snoopy dance. She’d won. The trunk was hers.

  She counted out the money.

  The woman folded her fist around the twenty-dollar bills and stuffed them into her bra. “All sales are final.”

  “Where’s the key?”

  That toothless smile again. “I have no idea.”

  “But how will I open it?”

  “That’s for you to figure out.”

  “You could have mentioned that in the beginning.”

  “You could have asked.”

  “Fine.” She squatted beside the trunk again, and her irritation vanished. It was such a beautiful hope chest and worth the inconvenience of not having a key. No biggie. She would hire a locksmith.

  “Breeanne?” Kasha called. “Where are you?”

  She raised her voice. “Here. I’m over here.”

  Her sisters rounded the corner of the stall, their heads bowed beneath the umbrellas Jodi had brought.

  It had started raining, and Breeanne hadn’t noticed. Her clothes were plastered to her wet skin. All the stalls, except the one she was crouching in, had been covered with plastic tarps, and people stood huddled beneath them, staring at the odd girl who didn’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain.

  “What are you doing?” Jodi scolded, rushing over to shield her with the umbrella, Kasha and Suki following close behind. “You’ll catch your death.”

  “I just bought this hope chest.” She felt her smile start in her heart, spread upward, outward, flooding her face with white, joyous heat. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Who did you buy it from?” Jodi asked.

  Breeanne understood her sister’s bewilderment. She had overlooked the tiny old woman at first too. Without glancing up, she waved in the direction of the rocking chair. “Why, from that lady there.”

  Jodi leaned over to put a hand to Breeanne’s forehead.

  Breeanne jerked back. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking to see if you’re running a fever.”

  “What for?”

  Jodi chuffed out a breath. “You’re standing in the rain, seeing imaginary people.”

  “What do you mean?” Breeanne sprang to her feet, spun around to face the old woman.

  But the rocker was empty.

  CHAPTER 4

  Baseball is the only place in life where

  a sacrifice is really appreciated.

  —AUTHOR UNKNOWN

  “Wake up.”

  A towel snapped against Rowdy’s bare feet from where he lay poolside on the p
atio lounger. He slept better here than in his own bed, although he couldn’t really say why. Whenever he lay in his room alone at night, it felt as if the walls were collapsing in on him.

  His toes stung. He pried open his eyes to stare at the mammoth-sized man towering at the end of the patio lounger, holding a white terry-cloth gym towel rolled up between two beefy hands. Simultaneously, Nolan Ryan, snuggled against Rowdy’s chest, raised his head, and sighed.

  “Buzz off, Warwick,” he drawled. “We’re taking a nap.”

  His bodyguard, and best friend since kindergarten, threw the towel at him. It landed on Rowdy’s chin. “Let’s be clear. Nolan Ryan was taking a nap. He got up at dawn. You’re just lazy.”

  “Whatever.” Rowdy dragged the towel over his eyes, blocking out the sun. Ah, that was much better.

  The truth was he’d been having a sexy dream about Miss Cheetah Panties, and he wanted to get back to it. He was still perplexed over his attraction, but ever since his encounter with her at yesterday’s estate sale, she’d haunted his mind.

  Why?

  Now that was the million-dollar question.

  Forgetting her seemed easy enough in theory, follow-through was where the problem sprouted like a field full of dandelions after a drenching summer rain. Every time he closed his eyes all he saw were cheetah panties, silky black and brown and orange cheetah panties.

  As if he’d never seen panties in his entire life.

  He imagined the feel of them in his hands, soft and feminine, and soaked with her scent. Christ, he didn’t want that image in his head, but it had been lodged there since yesterday morning, leaving him dizzy and slightly nauseated since their encounter, but for the life of him, Rowdy couldn’t explain why.

  Warwick yanked the towel from Rowdy’s face. Sank his hands on his hips. Snorted.

  “You look like a sour housewife who’s sore because hubby didn’t make it home after a long night out with the boys,” Rowdy drawled.

  “It’s eleven a.m. Time for your physical therapy.”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “You pay lip service to getting your career back on track, but you’re not acting like a guy burning for a return to the pitcher’s mound.”