“Okay, homer, this one is for you.” He knew he’d just bared his heart and didn’t care. Finally. He and Abby. One-on-one. Thank You, Lord.
Fastball, down the middle, a perfect strike. Abby connected with a bone-splitting crack.
The baseball line-drived past his head and over second, hit the ground, then bounced wickedly on the uneven ground.
“Run, Abby!” He hoped the New Lifers didn’t hear him cheering his lungs out.
Abby tossed the bat and took off. She still balled her fists when she ran, still tucked her head down like a charging bull. Seeing it made him ache.
She rounded first to a screaming crowd while the New Lifers scrambled after the ball. Bucko, out in left, ran after the still-bouncing ball and leaped on it. Abby sailed past second and floored it to third.
Run home, Babe! Ross backed up toward home, his mitt high. “Bucko, over here!”
Bucko threw a hand-smacking sizzler, and Ross caught it without flinching as Abby rounded third. He whirled and bolted for home.
He heard her breath when she hit the dirt, arms out, and a second later he tagged her in a dive and roll.
Silence, heavy breaths, then—
“Safe!” Melinda yelled, abandoning first to ump at home. She grinned down at Abby. “Girlfriend, you sure can hit ’em!”
Ross sat up, breathing hard, feeling like he’d peeled off a layer of skin from his back. Abby had an ugly scrape on her chin and weed burn down her arms, but she smiled at him in triumph, lifting her chin.
Ross shook his head. “That’s my home-run gal.”
To his utter shock, her smile crumbled, and tears filled her eyes. Then, as the crowd cheered their hero, Abby jumped up and sprinted toward camp.
What an idiot. A downright fool!
Abigail ran into the cookshack and slammed the door, her heart threatening to continue the race, hop in her Honda, and floor it south.
What had she been thinking? Home-run gal. She was a glutton for punishment, marching up to the plate and toying with Ross like they were old friends.
They were old friends. As in past tense. Worn-out. Thrown away. Abigail sank to the floor. Then why did his smile feel like fire ravaging her chest?
Her shoulders shook as her emotions wrung out into her hands. She’d been possessed by some errant emotion, one that had her believing she was immune to Ross’s smile. Even worse, she’d heard him cheering as she ran the bases, and for a brief second, she’d longed for Ross to truly mean the words he’d spoken. My home-run gal.
She should abandon this farce and return to Bethel, to the safety of her off-campus apartment and her solid future wrapping her brain around Greek conjugations. She wasn’t made to be a part of Ross’s multitudes. Especially if she was going to burst into tears every time he made her feel one of a kind.
“Abby?”
His voice, soft like a breeze, filtered through the door. She stiffened. Maybe if she was very, very quiet—
“I know you’re in there. Please open the door.”
She cringed. “No. Go away.” Do your mocking out of my earshot, please.
“No. We’ve been avoiding each other for too long. I want—no, I need—to talk to you. Please.”
The pleading at the end of his voice made her traitorous heart jump to attention. Her voice too. “What do you want to say?”
“Open the door.”
And let him see her red, blotchy face? No thank you. “I guess we don’t have anything to talk about.”
“No, wait. Yes, we do. I—”
She imagined him, one hand resting against the door, rubbing his forehead on his upper arm, then touching it to the door. She even heard a faint bump. “I’m . . . Well, I just want to say I’m sorry.”
Her throat tightened.
“I know I hurt you. I was young and stupid and . . . well, hurting. I am so sorry. Can’t we just, you know, put it behind us?”
Abigail gritted her teeth, but tears leaked out. “I was hurting too.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
And with that admission, the grief returned. Scotty’s funeral. The Cushman family lined up behind the Springers, the way Karen Springer held Abigail like a daughter, the shame of knowing she never loved Scotty the way everyone wanted her to. She felt she ought to feel torn asunder, so she buried herself in studies and let the gossip swirl around her. Scotty’s girl, they called her, and she couldn’t deny it without marring Scotty’s precious memory. Instead, she claimed a table in the far side of the library, avoided Ross like the flu, and tried to find a way to tell him the truth without looking like a two-timing hussy. And then late one night when everyone hustled in after a basketball game to smuggle in some last-minute studying, she’d heard a voice that she knew better than her own.
“Hi, Abby,” he’d said softly, and she’d seen hurt in his eyes. “Tell me the truth—you were in love with Scotty, not me.” As she stood, scraping up words, he ran over her silence and delivered a one-two punch that shattered her heart. “I guess it’s true. Now that Scotty’s gone, the fun’s over. I should have known better.”
His pain, raw in his voice, took her breath away. She stood, gape-mouthed as he stalked away, muttering his final blow. “I hope you and your Greek book live happily ever after.”
“You didn’t let me explain,” she said now, still inside that painful moment.
“I’m so, so sorry, Abby. I shouldn’t have said that. I should have recognized that you were in mourning. I didn’t want to admit how much Scotty meant to you.”
Abigail frowned. “He was my best friend.”
“I know. Now I know. Then, I was . . . jealous. Confused.” She heard another thump and imagined him putting his hand on the door. Inside the cabin, dark shadows shrouded her in anonymous protection.
“But I see now how terribly I treated you. I am so sorry. Please, Abby.”
Abigail took a deep breath, feeling raw and wrung out. She wiped her face and opened the door. He stood in the darkness, his slumped shoulders betraying the pain in his voice. “It’s okay, Ross. I forgave you a long time ago.”
She heard his quick intake of breath and quickly sandbagged her heart. “But my name is Abigail. Not Abby. Not Babe and especially not your home-run gal.”
She heard him stand in silence a good five minutes before he turned and shuffled into the night.
DAY TWO. First Annual Fun and Fund-Raising Bethel Fishing Contest. And Ross already felt like a loser. He loaded his tackle into his fishing boat, acutely aware of the cold mist rising over the lake and the chill that rattled his bones. The sun hid behind the eastern clouds, preferring to dent the morning with pale light instead of a full invasion. The weather matched his mood. Dismal. He’d slept about three hours, flogged by accusations and regret.
He’d accomplished his goals. He’d apologized to Abby and had been granted forgiveness. He should feel free.
Instead, he felt bludgeoned by the unflinching truth. Abby didn’t want him. Never had. Still saw him as the kid who tried to impress her by lettering in his high school sports or trouncing her in Monopoly. The one sweet kiss they’d shared felt suddenly, cruelly like pity.
“You’re up early.”
Ross nearly jumped out of his rain poncho when an elderly man, looking like a wilderness accessory, emerged from the drizzle.
“Trying to catch the big ones,” Ross mumbled as he recognized his grizzled educator from the day before.
The man edged over to the boat and eyed Ross’s tackle. “Catch ’em walleye?”
“Uh, yeah, thanks. You gave good advice.” Ross loaded in his tackle box.
“Whatcha huntin’ today?”
“Bass, maybe.” Ross shrugged, uncaring. Being out on the water would keep him from hopping in his car and fleeing from the woman he could never have.
The man chuckled. It sounded like the low rumble of distant thunder. Or maybe it was thunder. Ross eyed the sky.
“Bass like grub worms unless the sun comes out. Then s
witch to plastic jerk bait. Most of all, look for the change in landscape, cuts in the bank, cover of any type.”
Ross nodded.
“If it gets to raining good, check out the streams heading into Bear Lake. Bass like to hide around the boulders. Most importantly, don’t give up.”
“Thanks.”
The man tipped his head and trudged up the road toward the parking lot. Ross watched him go.
Bucko emerged from the trail, lugging supplies. “Who was that?”
“A local. Gave me some fishing pointers.”
Bucko moved toward the boat and climbed in, loading his tackle. “We’d better get going. I saw Abigail and her troops behind us.”
“She’s up early.”
Bucko raised one dark eyebrow. “Yeah, well, according to Melinda, who I talked to while grabbing breakfast, Abigail spent the night crying. You know anything about that?”
Ross closed his eyes, feeling sick. “I guess I opened a few wounds last night at the baseball game.”
“Speaking of, how’s your knee?”
“Painful, but I’ll live.” He’d managed to strain his knee diving over Abby’s body.
“You were in stellar form. I have to admit, I’ve never seen you so dedicated.”
Ross pushed his boat out, climbed in, and used the oar to push it to deeper water. Through the mist, he saw Abby and her team emerge onto the landing. She stood there like some ethereal being, thin and regal, watching him float away.
Ross swallowed the regrets lining his throat as he pull-started the motor.
Abigail had a wet, wretched day. Aside from the rain that deluged her from nine to noon, she’d caught three bluegills, one tiny walleye, and a smallmouth bass that cut her when she held it down to unhook its mouth. She’d forgotten her gloves in the cookshack, along with her map of the lake.
Which meant she spent half the day fishing for northern in a prime bass location.
She caught, however, plenty of glimpses of the man she was trying to forget.
As Simon motored them back to camp, rain lashed her face and blew against her rain outfit. Cold seeped in like a bacteria, starting a shiver deep in her bones. She’d trade in all her fishing gear plus her entire set of Bible Knowledge Commentaries for a warm bath and a thick USDA prime-cut sirloin.
Instead, she looked forward to fish or perhaps granola bars or, if she threw herself at Esther’s feet, some sort of gourmet Ethiopian cuisine.
Abigail helped tie up the boat, took her catch, her tackle, and her dead minnows, and headed back to camp.
She had her head down, fighting the wind, and almost plowed over the old man sitting by the trail, bobber-fishing as if it were a bright, sunny day.
“Howdy, missy!” he said, and she jumped, nearly leaving her teeth behind.
He had bushy white eyebrows and deep-set brown eyes that glinted with humor. “You okay?”
Well, no, actually. Not only did she have a paltry catch and feel like a mangy alley cat, but she hadn’t been able to dodge Ross’s heart-tearing apology for the better part of five minutes all day. Or night, for that matter. “I’m fine, thank you,” she lied and began to move past him.
He cleared his throat. “‘Some people fish all their lives without knowing it is not really the fish they are after.’”
“Excuse me?”
He chuckled, and the sound rippled under her skin. “Henry David Thoreau. I was just wondering if you caught what you were hoping for.” He smiled kindly, then began to hum. It sounded like an old hymn.
Abigail stared at him a moment before she trudged back to camp.
The weigh-in sent her spirit into an abyss. She slogged back to the cookshack and dug out her track pants, wool socks, a sweatshirt, and a down vest. She was beginning to feel like she might get warm sometime around next Christmas when Laurie stuck her head into the cabin. “Oh, you’re back. Great. We’re having fellowship in the lodge. C’mon and get a bite to eat.”
Abigail flopped on the bunk, feeling like an overcooked noodle, but Laurie grabbed her hand and wrestled her to her feet. “You’ll feel better.”
Two cups of hot cocoa later, she had begun to feel her toes. She sat alone at one of the long lodge tables, but the sound of voices and laughter finally drew her like honey. Ambling over to an overstuffed chair in the shadows, she sat and watched Ross strumming his guitar and leading the group in worship. She could see Scotty in him, in the natural charisma that flowed from all Springer blood.
Scotty didn’t have Ross’s kindness, the way he reached out and touched someone’s shoulder or threw back his head and laughed with an accepting humor. He’d been a born leader of the New Lifers, but Abigail couldn’t help but flinch at the way he’d lead from the top down. Type A, demanding. Type B Ross had a way of weaving people into agreement with his smile and enthusiasm. And somehow, hidden in the shadows, listening to him lead the group in singing and prayer felt comforting, even soothing. She could perhaps even dream that they’d stayed friends, more than friends . . .
Abigail awoke curled in the ratty lodge armchair to the low, popping crackles of the dying fire. Moonlight spilled through the windows, the sky clear after being emptied.
As her eyes adjusted to the milky light, she made out a body standing over the fire, both arms braced against the mantel. She huddled under the afghan some kind soul had spread over her and intended to simply close her eyes and feign slumber.
Except a low groan escaped as the man buried his head in his arms.
Ross.
Her heart noticed immediately and began to hum. Well, she could either sneak out or stay huddled, hoping he didn’t spot her.
Watching him, shoulders slumped, ensconced in the posture of defeat, she had the crazy urge to go over and fold him in her arms. He looked so much like the athlete who’d nearly punched a hole in his school locker after losing state finals that it took her breath away.
And she realized why she couldn’t look at him without aching, why she burned every time she saw him surrounded by his congregation of adoring women.
He’d become Scotty. Scotty, the student council president. Scotty, the superachiever, the straight-A student, the seminary star.
The Ross she knew was quiet. He liked playing the guitar, beating her in board games. His life goal had been to become a youth counselor. This Ross was a class leader milking his good looks, his Springer smile. She didn’t know this new and improved Ross.
If she was honest, she’d admit that jealousy had settled deep in the recesses of her bruised heart. There’d been a time when he smiled for her alone, swaggered up to bat with one eye on her cheering in the stands. Now his gleam turned on for any girl on campus. Under Ross’s teasing, she’d felt beautiful, not bony and daring, not dull.
She’d dreamed that they belonged together.
Now he belonged to everyone.
As if sensing her thoughts, Ross walked over to the window, picked up his guitar, and strummed. The soft sounds grazed over the raw, wounded places in Abigail’s heart, and she emitted a sad moan.
Whoops. She clamped her hand over her mouth.
Ross turned. His gaze found hers, and in it she saw sorrow. “Oh, hi. I didn’t know you were still here.” Which implied, of course, that he’d seen her earlier. For some reason this lit a blaze down Abigail’s spine.
“Hi.”
He put down the guitar. “Been a long day. Catch much?”
She shook her head.
“Me either. Got skunked.”
“Don’t worry. A few of your other team members managed to put some fish on the boards. You’re still ahead.”
Did he flinch? As if the fact that the New Lifers were trouncing her made him feel . . . guilty?
“Are you okay?” The words spilled out before she could rein them in.
He looked out the window at the moonlight spilling over the wet ground. “Yeah. Just . . . tired.”
For some idiotic reason, her eyes filled. “Me too.”
ROSS W
ATCHED HER, a lump rising in his throat to block his airway. Sleep had disheveled her hair, and she looked like a waif wrapped up in a holey afghan, but with the moon touching her face and the texture of kindness in her eyes, she’d never looked more utterly, heart-stoppingly beautiful. It raised an errant memory that spilled out.
“Do you remember the time when we went on that canoe trip? I think I was fifteen. My dad hooked us up with that guy who dragged us to the Quetico National Forest outpost on the Minnesotan/Canadian border?”
In Abigail’s eyes, he saw her scrolling through the past to the windswept day they’d ridden in the NFS boat. Of course, she wouldn’t remember that he had longed for that day for nearly three months, couldn’t wait to spend a week paddling through the forest, identifying birds or fighting her for control of the canoe. He didn’t care that she was eighteen or he just a freshman. Only about the way the wind entwined her hair, the way she seemed to see him anew each time she looked at him. He lived for her laughter, and the fact that more often than not she stayed over even after Scotty went out, challenging him to a one-on-one basketball match or killing him in Scrabble, told him the feelings he nurtured were mutual.
“I remember you wore the same pair of fatigues the entire week,” she said, a smile tugging her mouth.
“And you forgot to hang our food pack and nearly sacrificed our rations to a bear.”
“You and Scotty chased him away,” she said, laughing. “You just had to sleep under the stars. I worried about you every night.”
“You did?”
She tucked her cute nose into the afghan.
He sat down on the sofa across from her, his pulse wild. “Do you remember when we camped at Bradley Lake? You dumped our entire bottle of water purifier in the lake?”
Chance of Loving You Page 22
