by Melissa Tagg
“What? You’ve got better things to do? You don’t have a team. You don’t have a girlfriend. You don’t—”
Colton lifted one palm. “Enough.” How in the world had a broken watch started this?
Webster stepped closer. “You think because we’ve both done the foster-kid thing we’re the same or something? We’re nothing alike. I read about you. Your parents died in a freak accident but before that they probably cared about you, right? Most parents do—that’s what I hear.” He yanked off his soaking wet shirt.
The kid had no idea what he was talking about.
No idea.
“Know what my mom loved? Shooting up.” He slapped his shirt to the ground, leaving it in a muddy wad as he skulked a few steps away.
“Web—”
He turned, lifted up both arms. “I’ll play receiver if you want. But eventually the season will end and I’ll graduate in a couple years and age out of the foster system—and then what? Land a huge scholarship like you did? Go All-American? Get drafted? Right.”
Why couldn’t Colton find words to ease or at least acknowledge the pain he heard in Webster’s hurled words? Another moan rumbled through the sky, and then the first crack of lightning.
And Webster stopped his pacing. Squared off with Colton. “Even if all that happened, look at you.” He sized Colton up in one angry swoop, eyes narrow, gaze dark. “One dumb move on the field, one injury, and you’re done. At the end of the day, it’s just a stupid game. Can’t depend on it anymore than you can a drug-addict mom.”
He swiped his shirt from the ground, flung it over his shoulder, leaving spatters of mud and rain to trail down his back as he stalked away.
And Colton to face the razor-sharp truth in his words.
Surely Colton wasn’t standing her up.
Kate scanned the length of the gravel lane reaching from Dad’s house, now ribboned with puddles. Dusk had chased away most of the afternoon’s storm clouds and now wisped through the sky in chalky pastels. Where are you, Colt?
Maybe he’d been joking when he told her he’d meet her tonight for the requisite evening picnic. Maybe she’d been too preoccupied with the contents of that article to realize Colton didn’t actually expect her to make sure he got at least something for money he’d spent on her basket.
Maybe she’d let herself look forward to tonight too much . . . for reasons that didn’t make any sense. She couldn’t let herself get distracted now—not when she was on the brink of living the dream she’d locked away for too long. Not when she’d already missed her chance once—because of a man who’d turned out to be as false as her hopes for their future.
The creak of the screen door whined behind her, and footsteps—Dad’s, she just knew—padded over the porch boards. “He’ll be here.”
She set down the picnic basket that had doubled in weight since she snatched it from the table in the band shell. “It’s not like it’s a big deal if he doesn’t show up. It’s just a silly town tradition.”
Dad’s hand settled on her shoulder. “He’ll be here.” A few seconds of quiet later, Dad shifted and drew out Kate’s gaze. “Katie, I need to tell you something. I’ve had a phone call . . . from Gil.”
She swallowed, tasted sour displeasure. “Gil?” He’d only met Dad a few times—once when Kate was still at ISU, and then when Dad had come to Chicago to visit her. Why would he . . .
“He said he’s tried to call you.”
He had? “I must not have recognized the number. I don’t usually answer if I don’t recognize the number.” And she was even worse about listening to her voice mails. “Please tell me you hung up on him.”
“Believe me, I wanted to. But I could hear sincerity, desperation in his voice. I didn’t make him any promises. Only told him I’d tell you I heard from him. Pass on his number.”
“I’m not calling him, Dad.”
He nodded. “That’s your choice. Understandable. But I have to wonder—”
“I don’t.” Did she sound hard and unfeeling? Could Dad blame her if she did?
The rumble of Dad’s old truck, the one he’d loaned Colton for the duration of his stay, saved her from finishing this conversation. She didn’t want to talk about Gil. Didn’t want to think about him—or why, after all this time, he suddenly needed to talk to her. Dad patted her back. “Told ya Colton would come. Have fun.”
Kate leaned in to kiss his cheek, then reached for the picnic basket. She hurried down the porch steps and walked to the truck. But when she opened the passenger door, it was to see a hardness in Colton’s face. “Hey.”
Her greeting fell flat.
“Should we talk about where we want to do this picnic?” Or why you look like you just came from a funeral?
“Let’s just drive.”
“Okay.” She handed him the basket, climbed into the truck. Her eyes connected with his when he handed the basket back. And though he blinked and looked away just as quickly, she still saw it—the flicker of turbulence in his eyes.
Hurt. Raw and unmistakable.
His name was on the tip of her tongue, a question just waiting to be asked—what had happened in the hours since she stood with him in the town square? But he jerked the truck into reverse before she could speak, gravel crumbling under the tires, puddles splattering, and hesitation overriding her curiosity.
They were half a mile from Dad’s before he finally spoke. “Sorry I showed up late.”
“No worries.” A lie, really. Because that’s all she’d been doing as she stood on the porch. Worrying that he wasn’t going to show up. Worrying about the fact that she was worried.
It’s not like we’re friends. Not close ones anyway. He doesn’t owe me an update on his whereabouts.
“By the way, as a thank-you for buying my basket, I moved all your stuff back into my bedroom. I’m back in Beckett’s.”
“Kate—”
“Don’t even try to argue. I’ve seen you rubbing your neck constantly. You can’t sleep in that little bed in Beckett’s room any longer. It’ll turn you into a permanent pretzel. Besides, it’s fun playing musical bedrooms.” She waited for him to laugh or argue again or something. Nothing. “I take it . . . it wasn’t the best afternoon ever.”
The rural landscape passed outside in a blur of green and gold and brown. Triplet silos rose in the distance, and even with the truck’s windows rolled up, the grainy scent of field dust and wet grass mingled. “Not the best.”
“We don’t have to do this, you know. We can go back to the house.”
His momentary quiet convinced her he was about to agree. But a stretched-out pause later, he shook his head. “No. I paid good money for this picnic.”
“You sure?”
And then he smiled, a smile that seemed an effort at glossing over the past five minutes—maybe his whole afternoon. “Pick the place and steer me the right direction, Rosie Walker.”
Gravel shifted to pavement under the truck’s tires. “What do I have to do to get you to call me Kate?”
“I can’t help it. You look like a Rosie.”
“Do not. Rosies should have pretty curly hair and wear sundresses and . . . and pink lipstick.”
Colton laughed and loosened his grip on the steering wheel. “You have curly hair.”
“I have unmanageable tangles, and I can’t remember the last time I wore lipstick.”
“Well, you blush on command. That seems like a Rosie-ish trait to me.”
“I do not.”
“You do. I could make you blush right now.”
“Colton—”
“You look very pretty tonight, Katharine Rose Walker, even if you’re not wearing a sundress or pink lipstick.”
“Thank you, but I’m not going to blush.” Too late, because she could feel the heat climbing into her cheeks.
“I saw a picture of your mom in the hallway back at your dad’s. You look so much like her, it’s uncanny.”
She stilled, any joking argument lost in a breathless
moment of soft surprise. “I never thought I looked much like her. Raegan’s the one who got her blond hair and blue eyes.”
Colton moved his gaze from the road to her. “You got her smile.”
If she was blushing now, the warmth came from a place deep inside her. His words filled a hungry space she hadn’t even recognized until now.
Colton returned his focus to the road. “And her nose.”
Her laughter poked at the weight in the air between them, and he joined in, a sound she could get used to, if she were honest. Deep and rumbly and . . .
“So where are we going? I’m just driving aimlessly, but I’m starving.”
The idea slid in as soon as she looked out the window. “Pull over here.”
“You want to eat in a ditch?”
“Nope, just pull over.”
He obeyed, parked, took the basket from her lap, and seconds later they stood at the side of the road. She pointed toward a corncrib—metal cylinder with a cement base—squatting on a hill in the middle of the field.
Colton shrugged. “Not exactly a picnic table, but I can go with it.”
Tall grass swished through their feet as they made their way toward the field. The ground was still damp from the afternoon storm. “We used to play in this field when we were kids. Beckett’s best friend’s parents live just down the lane. We’d come here and play house—although if you ask him, he’d lie and say we played war or cowboys and Indians or something.”
Kate angled around an abandoned tire, avoiding slabs of wood and scrap metal to reach the corncrib. Colton climbed up its cement base first, then reached down to help Kate up. She bumped against his chest before steadying.
He looked down at her. “Here’s a question that’ll make you laugh. What’s a corncrib actually used for?”
Kate’s laughter knocked into the quiet. “Oh, you are so not a Midwesterner. But shouldn’t you know this? You went to college in Iowa City.”
“Yeah, but I was consumed with football and partying, not expanding my ag knowledge.”
Partying, that’s right. She’d read a few more articles about Colton this afternoon. Okay, more than a few. Once she’d started Googling, she couldn’t stop. She’d read about his college success, his reputation as a wild card on and off the field, then his sudden lifestyle change a couple years into his career with the NFL. He was even quoted in one of the articles, crediting his turnaround to newfound faith and a friend who, in his words, had knocked sense into him.
She had a feeling Logan might be that friend.
Colton walked a circle around the inside of the crib now, long stride easily crossing over the opening cut through the crib’s concrete base. Thin metal bars, halfway orange with rust, wrapped around the roofed bin.
“Corncribs are used for storing and drying out corn after the harvest. The crib is open so the air can dry out the corn and it’s raised on cement so pests can’t get it. Like rats or mice.”
“Rust and rodents. And this is where you want to eat dinner?”
She nodded. “And if you’re lucky, I might tell you all about combines and barns and irrigation, too.” She nudged a board with a nail sticking upward out of the way. “Careful of all the nails out here. Tetanus just waiting to happen.”
Colton stopped in front of her. Man, he was tall. And big. And why couldn’t she stop herself from reacting to him? It wasn’t just his appearance. It was the way he’d fit into her hometown so quickly, how he woke up early to clean up debris in Dad’s yard and then spent all day at the depot. It was the way he obviously cared about that kid on the football team. It was the hurt she was convinced lurked underneath. I like you more than I want to, Colton Greene—so much more than I should.
“So should we eat?”
Right. Food. The picnic. The reason they’d come out here. Yes, they should eat. Probably on opposite sides of the crib. “Not just yet. I have to show you the best thing about corncribs first.” Bad idea, Walker. Don’t draw this out. Eat and leave before your common sense goes any further underground.
But she couldn’t obey her own conscience. Instead she walked to the edge of the crib, gripped its metal bars and motioned for Colton to join her. “The view’s great if you get high enough.”
She started climbing, metal rattling with each movement, Colton at her side. They stopped three-fourths of the way up, feet propped in between bars, fingers curled around metal at eye level.
And the view was just as she remembered—a patchwork of farmland stretching like a never-ending quilt. Over to the west, a blacktop road cut through shadowed fields, the pale colors of sunset tinging everything with blue.
“There’s the depot over there.” She pointed. “Couple miles south is Hanson’s Apple Orchard. Best cider you’ll ever taste.”
“I like this. My own personal tour guide of Maple Valley. What else do I need to see while I’m here?”
“Well, we’ve already talked about all the antique stores. Oh, there’s this huge green house on the west side of Maple Valley. It’s the coolest house in town. Has this circle driveway and all these lilac bushes on one side, a little balcony off the attic. I don’t think anyone’s lived in it for years, but I love to drive past it. The whole place just seems magical to me. Sounds silly, but I love it.”
“What’s the inside like?”
“No idea. Never been inside.”
“It’s one of your favorite spots in town and you’ve never been inside?”
“Like I said, silly, I guess.” She pointed to a cluster of trees. “Over there’s the ravine behind Dad’s house. You should walk down there sometime. There’s this creek with a bridge. It’s where Dad took Mom on their first date. Mom was new in town, and she didn’t go to prom, so Dad turned that little bridge into their own dance floor. Decorated it with lights and everything.” She stopped. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“I don’t mind the rambling. I like hearing about your family.”
Because he doesn’t have one of his own. A chilly wind reached through the corncrib’s bars to scrape over her cheeks. “Colt, I . . .” The confession dangled for a moment before she released it. “I read about your family. Your parents, the accident.”
He looked away, breeze sifting through his hair. “Research. I get it. You’re writing my book. You need the facts.”
The cold of the metal bars turned her fingers icy. “Do you . . . remember it?”
She saw the tightening of his jaw before she even finished the question. His eyes turned stormy.
“Let’s eat.”
“But—”
The clanging of metal interrupted her as Colton began his descent. She’d wrecked things.
She started her own downward climb, riffling for words to erase her last question. Or would it be better to keep pressing? After all, like he said, she was writing his book—his story. This was a vital part of his story, wasn’t it? Maybe it would be good—
Her thoughts cut off as her foot came down on something sharp, her squeal slicing in sync with the pang. Colton was at her side in a second, gaping along with her as she held her foot up, nail and board sticking out from the bottom of her shoe.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve got a nail in my foot.”
“Right, dumb question.”
She steadied herself with one hand against the corncrib’s wall while Colton bent over. “It’s not in very deep. Just pull it out.” She was shocked more than hurt. Thank goodness for her tennis shoes.
“You sure?”
“Well, I’m not sure what the advantage would be in keeping it in there.”
Colton’s expression hovered between amusement and uncertainty, but he bent once more and without warning yanked the nail from her shoe. He helped her sit down then, pulled off her shoe, her sock, and inspected the bottom of her foot. His fingers tapped over her skin, soft, gentle. So much more affecting than that nail had been.
She gulped in a breath of air. “It hardly hurts.”
“And it�
��s not bleeding very much. Now see, if you’d been wearing a sundress and flimsy shoes, this could’ve been much worse.” He tied her sock around the wound and then, before she could protest, stuck one arm under her knees and the other under her back.
“What are you—”
He hoisted her up. “We need to get you to the ER.”
“It’s not that bad, Colt.”
She could feel his breath on her forehead. “You’re the one who was talking about tetanus earlier. You need to get a shot.”
“You don’t have to carry me.”
He ignored her and kept walking, arms snug around her, the warmth of his chest heating through her. And he thought she’d blushed earlier.
“I ruined our picnic.” First her prying questions. Now this.
“You didn’t ruin a thing.” He dipped into the ditch, then climbed up to the road, stopping at the car. “Hey.”
That one word came out raspy and serious, and she lifted her head to meet his eyes. The stormy gray had disappeared, leaving an oceany blue green. “Yeah?”
“Does it really bother you when I call you Rosie?”
Not even a tiny a bit. “You paid a hundred and twenty bucks for a meal you still haven’t gotten to eat. You climbed up a corncrib. You told me I look like my mom. You just carried me to the car. You can call me anything you want, Colton Greene.”
7
Colton had three minutes to make an impression that may or may not pave the way for his future career as a TV sports analyst.
A career he hadn’t realized was on the horizon until Ian’s frenzied phone call.
He laced his fingers together to keep himself from fidgeting as activity buzzed around him. A lone cameraman fiddling with a lens. A lawn away, Iowa State University’s Jack Trice Stadium rattling with the sound of fans filling the bleachers for the ISU vs. Iowa game. A heady wind carrying the aroma of tailgaters’ barbeques.
And a woman with a press badge whisking past him, but not before brushing his cheeks with some kind of powder. Ian hadn’t told him this gig required makeup.
“How far away are you from Ames and how quickly can you get there?”
