Noah picked up a stick, pushed it through the coals. “You’re feeling lost?”
“I’m feeling like I’m in someone else’s body. The things I want to do, I don’t do, and the things I don’t want to do, I do.”
“That’s a pretty common problem.”
“No, I’m serious, Noah. I say these things and I think, Don’t say that. Or I see her standing there, and more than anything I want to throw myself at her feet and tell her how sorry I am.”
“Her?”
Ross looked away. Her. The only person who made him feel like he wasn’t second best. Until, of course, he discovered that he was. “That didn’t come out right.”
“I think it did.” Noah’s stick caught fire, blazed. “What are you sorry about?”
For betraying a friendship that had made him feel brilliant and wise and exactly the person he was supposed to be? “For not being Scotty.”
Yes. He was most sorry for not being the one man Abby truly wanted.
Why had Abigail ever thought she could drive a boat, find the perfect fishing hole, bait her hook, cast, and reel in a keeper? She stood outside the knot of students, listening to Noah Standing Bear outline the rules for the contest, her heart sinking into her boots.
“You’ll be fishing in teams of two or three. Each night, you can enter your largest fish for an official weigh-in. We’ll keep track of each team’s totals for each species. On Sunday, the appropriate prizes will be awarded, contributed by your school’s donors; then the total weight will be submitted to Deep Haven’s contest.”
Abigail mentally calculated the parameters. They could enter six walleye, three northern pike, six smallmouth bass, six largemouth bass, and one muskie, with a minimum size limit of forty inches. The thought of hauling in a fish that just might bite her gave her the willies.
“We’ll eat the fish you don’t enter into the contest,” Noah continued. “The rest will be marked and put on ice for validation by the Deep Haven judges.”
Fish for dinner each night? Yes, she enjoyed an occasional walleye fried in butter, but . . . Abigail exchanged a look with Laurie, glad she’d brought along granola bars.
“You’ll each be assigned a fishing boat, courtesy of Trout Lake Outfitters. You’ll have to stay on the Trout Lake chain of lakes; we don’t have ample trailers to haul you all over the Boundary Waters. At the Trout Lake landing, you’ll find a bait shop with leeches, crawlers, and minnows.”
Laurie wrinkled her nose and grimaced at Abigail.
“Weigh-in is at seven each night. If you pull in after that, your catch is ineligible.” Noah motioned to a sturdy-looking man standing behind him. “Pastor Dan Matthews from Deep Haven will be running the show. Any questions or complaints can be directed to him. I know we’re getting a late start, but you have three days to get your catches in, and the clock starts now. Happy fishing.”
A low murmur broke out as the crowd loosened.
“What now?” Laurie asked. She looked particularly “fishy” this morning in an angler’s hat complete with lures, insect repellent, and wet wipes shoved into the loops around the brim.
Abigail waved to Simon and the three other Sojourners who seemed to be gravitating toward a New Lifer’s strategy huddle. “Listen, gang, I studied the map and I think we need to break into groups. We don’t have the numbers the New Lifers do, but we have smarts.” Out of her peripheral vision she caught Ross with his usual entourage of fans, dressed to kill in a pair of Levi’s and a brown sweatshirt that turned his hair to gold. “We must be specific if we hope to win. Heather and Becky, you fish walleyes. They’re going deeper this time of year as the day gets hotter. Simon and Esther, you fish bass. You’ll find them by the reedy areas. And Laurie and I will hunt down the northern.”
Her little group gaped at her like she’d spoken Dutch.
“Did you pay any attention to Wally at SuperSports?” Abigail asked, dodging a wave of panic.
Esther nodded. “Enough to know that I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m doing. I thought we were going to come out here, sit around with a pole and a minnow, and fellowship.” Her gray eyes widened. “But you want us to catch something?”
Abigail looked at her team. “Uh, no. Actually, I want us to win.”
Heather gave an incredulous huff. “No, seriously, Abigail. We haven’t a prayer of winning. Look at those guys.”
The New Lifers did seem outfitted for combat, each armed with a small tackle box and a conventional fishing pole as they headed down the trail to the Trout Lake landing. Laughter drifted back to the horrified Sojourners.
“Don’t let them scare you. We have great equipment. Wally outfitted us for everything. We have twenty-pound rods with fifteen-pound test lines, about thirty different kinds of lures—crank baits, poppers, chuggers, plastic worms, spoons, spinners, and jigs. Plus, we actually know what we’re doing. I distinctly remember spending one evening with you all tying blood knots, surgeon’s knots, and haywire twists and an entire day of hands-on practice, digging hooks out of the foliage. Heather, you were nearly beheaded by one of Simon’s casts! Most importantly, I sent each of you a detailed map of Trout Lake, outlining how to read the water and where to find the fish. Please, please tell me that you paid attention!”
Heather gave a wry smile, but her gaze tracked the last of the New Lifers tramping up the path. “I thought . . . well, we were just going to have fun.”
Abigail’s fear took a swipe at her public-relations skills and pitched her voice high. “No fun. We’re here to fish!”
Even Laurie stared at her as if she were possessed.
Abigail turned away, weak with frustration. Oh, joy. Ross was watching her from his pickup. He’d draped a green poncho over one arm and held his fishing rod like a spear, looking every inch a forest warrior. Her heart lodged in the center of her throat. Then he smiled. The kindness in it swept tears into her eyes. Even as a child, his smile could dupe her into feeling they were in a room alone. She yanked her gaze away, angry at the feelings churning in her heart.
The Sojourners had abandoned her, heading up the trail with their tackle and fellowship. She watched them go, despair a sinker on her heart, dragging her to the bottom. Good girl, Abigail. Way to win friends and influence people.
A DAY OF ANGLING never failed to find that quiet place in Ross’s soul. The golden sun parted the water like the road to El Dorado, and Ross closed his eyes to the lap of waves against his boat, listening to the plop as fish surfaced or the echo of laughter across the lake. Deep inside, he knew that even if the New Lifers flopped, his idea was a winner.
The sun bronzed his face and heated his bones as he listened to Bucko recount the date he’d had with Melinda. At the same time, he couldn’t help dreaming of the look he’d seen on Abigail’s face this morning. Surprise. Vulnerability. He’d inadvertently stepped into a private, painful place and slipped a smile under her defenses.
And for a moment, she’d smiled back.
It had put the first blink of sunshine into his day.
The second had been the old geezer bobber-fishing near the boat landing.
“Whatcha huntin’?” The man, predictably dressed in a pair of high-top boots, loose-fitting khakis, a faded flannel shirt, and a cap with the name of a grain company, edged over to the boat and eyed Ross’s tackle.
“Anything I can get.” Ross loaded in the box of crawlers he’d picked up at the bait shop. “Walleye, maybe.”
The man chuckled. “Stay along the weed beds and fish crawlers while they’re fresh. Then, if the sun gets too hot, switch to a crank bait and send it deep. Your walleye are going be following their prey—the cisco and tullibees—and you want to be on their tail.”
Ross nodded.
“The thing about walleye is that they’re lazy fish. You gotta go where they’re hanging around waiting for a snack.”
Ross thanked him as he pushed away from shore, grateful that, although Noah’s expert had failed to show, God had provided a guide. Just mayb
e the Almighty would help Ross piece together the shambles of his college career before he began his fruitless future. He only wished he could be the man God needed to answer the calling in Ross’s heart.
Ross landed two beautiful walleyes within the hour. And the three crappies, two smallmouth bass, and a decent-size northern only improved the day.
The stringer line scraped now and again against the boat.
“Melinda told me you and Abigail have a history.” Bucko spit out a burst of sunflower seeds. They floated on the water.
“You gotta lean back and get more breath if you want good trajectory,” Ross said, cramming a fistful of seeds into his already-raw cheek.
Bucko grinned, looking like a squirrel with his wad of snacks. “Quit dodging. I see you two. You get near each other and I can smell enough fuel to power the space shuttle. I’m afraid to see what would happen with some sparks.”
Ross played with his line. “She’s an old friend of the family.”
“I’ve got one!” Bucko jerked hard, setting the hook, then stood and started reeling. “Grab the net!”
Ross watched as the big man played the line, then helped him net the catch, a pretty northern.
Bucko seemed to have forgotten his question, but Ross’s memories lingered as he waited for his own lucky strike. Abigail in braids, playing kick the can in their neighborhood, tagging him free and setting his spirit alight with those playful eyes. Of course, even then, he worshiped her. After all, she was Scotty’s age, and she’d never given a serious look in his direction.
Until junior high, when suddenly she showed up for his Little League games, even hanging around for batting practice. “Hey, Abby, betcha can’t hit it over my head!” he’d called, backing into center field. She’d delivered a shiner that swelled half his face. He never regretted it nor the sympathy in her eyes. “Don’t hold back on my account,” he teased, and when she kissed him on the forehead, he nearly cried with the rush of emotions. “You’re my home-run gal, huh?”
No, Bucko didn’t need to know that in his sixteenth summer, he dubbed her the Babe, his batting buddy and secret good-luck charm. She’d been a freshman in college, coming home on the weekends with Scotty to visit her family. And secretly him. Those were the days when he didn’t ponder her motives, just enjoyed the fact that she attended his three-season events—football, hockey, baseball—and lived for the sweet smile she gave him, whether he won or lost.
When he attended Bethel, following in Scotty’s massive footsteps, Abby was there to wave at him across campus. Yes, she usually had Scotty in tow. But by then Ross suspected he and Abby Cushman were more than friends.
Even when he’d spent two years in Mexico, up to his elbows in despair, hunger, and street kids, Abby had been on the other end of the e-mails and occasional letters to add sunshine to his often-dark world. He’d returned with hopes, dreams.
Then, that Christmas, those dreams materialized.
“She’s a beaut, huh?” Bucko asked as he held up his northern.
“More than I can ever imagine,” Ross said and spit out a wad of seeds as he swept Abby from his mind.
Abigail stood with her crew, feeling their stares peeling skin off the back of her neck. So she hadn’t made any friends today, prowling the lake like an angry coach. But after all their training, shouldn’t they take the contest seriously? Weren’t they here to win?
Abigail shut out the indictments screaming in the back of her brain and watched the weigh-in. The New Lifers, of course, more than hauled in their daily catch and were sorting out which trophies to enter in the official contest. Abigail stared at their stringer, feeling slightly ill. They had three smallmouth bass, a decent-looking largemouth, two northerns, and a beautiful walleye that Abigail was tempted to eat. The MRE she’d choked down for lunch lumped like nuclear waste in her stomach, and she’d give about a zillion dollars for a decent Caesar salad and garlic bread.
“Sojourners, are you ready to weigh in?”
Abigail stepped up to the porch, where Pastor Dan reached for her stringer. “Is this it?”
She must have given him a pitiful look because he smiled. “Not a bad-looking walleye here.”
Abigail watched as the numbers registered. She didn’t linger long at the scoreboard.
Her Sojourners had already scattered to change clothes. Abigail trudged toward the cookshack, turning over the day’s events. Yes, she’d forgotten her sunblock and burned her nose, but other than that, she’d fished to perfection. At least she thought she had. She searched for the right spot, with reeds or submerged trees, started out with a slow troll, and fished the hole when she’d had a bite. She’d picked her bait, catching the two northern on a black-and-white spoon. In the late afternoon, she’d even managed to relax. Until, of course, she saw Ross speeding across the lake, the wind parting his hair. He had his sleeves rolled up, and those muscular arms raised a memory that felt like a stab.
She’d been skunked the rest of the day.
The door to the cookshack whined as she opened it.
The Sojourner girls were at their bunk, changing into shorts and T-shirts.
“I’m starved. Do you mind if I whip us up something for supper?” Esther asked. “I don’t think I can look at a fish.”
Abigail nodded, thankful that the Ethiopian exchange student could work miracles with a couple pounds of meat. “Then after supper, I think we should strategize. I have a few ideas—”
“The New Lifers are having a baseball game after supper,” Laurie said, gathering her frizzy brown hair into a ponytail.
“Baseball?” Abigail leaned against the bed frame, feeling suddenly very, very tired.
Laurie tugged on her tennis shoes. “Yeah. Do you know how to play, Esther?”
“Even if she doesn’t, Ross said that he’d teach her. Besides, it’s just for fun.” Heather coated herself with perfume.
“Ross organized this?” Abigail sat down and pulled off her hiking boots. Even her bones ached, an ailment attributed to sitting in a metal boat all day. Oh, to have some meat on her body.
“Yeah, he caught up with me while you were weighing in.” Heather shook her head. “That man has a smile that makes me forget my own name.”
“I know,” Abigail muttered.
Laurie shot her a grin. “Come and play with us. It’ll be fun.”
Oh yeah, about as fun as pulling out my fingernails one by one.
“Yeah, sure.”
As the door closed behind them, Abigail flopped on her bed and buried her face in her pillow. The last time she’d played baseball with Ross it had been in the dead of winter, over a year ago. They’d been shoveling his driveway, and he’d lobbed her a snowball. She’d sent it shattering with her snow shovel. Which led to a snowball fight that still had the power to make her smile on her darkest day. Especially the part where he’d tackled her, held her, and let the dusky light hide them behind a snowbank.
It was there, caught in the dizzying smell of his aftershave and the intoxicating look of adoration in his eyes, that Abigail knew.
She loved the little brother of her best friend, probably since he was a punk kid chasing her around the house during kick the can. For sure since she’d blackened his eye on the baseball field and cheered number 23 through four years of football, hockey, and baseball. And now that he was back from his two-year ministry stint, tanned, all grown-up, and tall enough to hold her in his arms, she’d fallen for him hook, line, and sinker.
And Ross loved her too. She’d read it between the lines of his letters, in his lopsided smile and the way his eyes filled with her reflection. He’d even mumbled it as he leaned down and touched her lips with his. He’d been gentle, perhaps a bit afraid, but as the shadows blanketed them and his kiss became exploring and more confident, she forgot that she was three years older and decided that her heart belonged to Ross Springer.
Of course, three mere weeks later, Scotty smacked into a tree at Vail and Ross stepped into his shoes, morphing into Ross,
New Life leader, boy wonder.
She’d lost her Ross the day his big brother was lowered into the cold earth.
Baseball, indeed. Suddenly, more than anything, she yearned to remind the guy of everything they’d had . . . and lost.
BASEBALL AND FISHING. Two harmless pastimes that, in Abby Cushman’s hands, became all-out, fight-or-die battles.
“Batter up!” Ross stood at the mound of their makeshift baseball diamond in the middle of a field and tried to hide the fact that he felt thirteen again. A heady thrill rushed through him as Abby picked up a bat and sauntered toward the plate.
Home-run Abby up to bat. He wondered if he’d be able to pitch when every muscle in his body felt as tight as a fifteen-pound line playing a muskie. “Ready, batter?”
She measured her stance, balanced her weight, then lifted the bat and stared him down. It whooshed him back about a decade. She’d tied her brown, glossy hair in a ponytail and pushed up the sleeves of her blue Bethel sweatshirt. Her thin arms still rippled with strength, and her face set in a grim line.
“Come on, Abigail!” someone shouted from the sideline.
No. C’mon, Babe. My home-run gal. Pop it into the trees. He swallowed hard and forced a grin, wondering if she too remembered the day she’d given him a shiner or the night he’d tossed her a snowball pitch, and she’d decimated his heart with a kiss that still made him a little weak.
“Ready, pitch,” she called and choked up on the bat.
He wound up and sailed a slider right past her.
She jerked, then glared at him. “That took off skin, 23!”
He nearly missed the throwback. She’d called him by his number.
She planted her feet, adjusted her weight. “Gimme a fastball.”
Was she baiting him? He glanced toward the first baseman, meeting Melinda’s gaze. She was all grins.
He wound up. A beautiful curve, fast and inside.
Abby swished. Oh, did it make her mad. He could nearly see smoke spiraling from her ears as she took a practice swing. He winced, glad he wasn’t at the other end of the bat. Again, Abby was going all out to win. Only, what was she aiming for? Hoping to remind him of a sweet and precious friendship that meant more to him than it should have? He didn’t care. Abby was in his line of sight, and if she wanted a fastball, he’d deliver.
Chance of Loving You Page 21
