Chance of Loving You

by Terri Blackstock

She glared at him, then nodded slowly, and her gaze went to his forehead. “That’s where you got hurt. What were you doing exactly?”

  He felt himself blushing. “Boulder problems.”

  “Oh yeah. Climbing up the face of a cliff without a rope.” She pointed to her head with one of her fingers, still ensconced under the afghan. “I’d say you had boulder problems.”

  He laughed and she giggled. Under the blanket of late-night silence, it felt soothing, even hopeful.

  “I’ve never been so afraid as when you ran up, blood running down your face.” Her smile vanished. “You were almost killed.”

  Ross remembered her small scream, the way she put her hand right over his wound, and the expression of sheer fear on her face, a look still buried in his heart.

  He leaned back, lifted his hair. “Still have the battle scars.”

  She shook her head but lowered the afghan, and he saw she was smiling. “I thought we’d have to call in the National Rescue Service for your mother.”

  “Good thing you had that first-aid kit.”

  What she didn’t know was that he’d wanted to impress her. To show her that, while Scotty might be the leader of the pack, smart and intelligent, Ross had the guts to live life on the edge. He’d wanted her to see him as older, bolder, braver.

  And in the end, he had proven he was the family clown. Suddenly, he just wanted to flee back to the lake and find a nice, deep hole and hide.

  “You looked like such a tough guy. I think Scotty was jealous.”

  “Yeah, well, it would have been the only time.”

  She frowned at him. “Hardly. Scotty was always amazed at your ability to think on your feet. You saved us that trip—we would still be roaming the Canadian forest if you hadn’t figured out how to spot the portages.”

  “It just took a little bit of patience and study.”

  “No, it just took you.” Her gaze felt like it could swallow him. She’d drawn up her legs and now put them on the floor, looked over her shoulder, then leaned close.

  “But, Ross . . . who are you now?”

  He opened his mouth—whether to answer, she didn’t know because a crash sounded in the lodge kitchen.

  Her heart jumped into her throat. “What was that?”

  Ross had already started for the source.

  Abigail scrambled out of the afghan and ran after him. “Ross, be careful!”

  She dodged the back swing of the hanging door and scooted in two steps behind him, nearly running up his spine when he stopped.

  She peeked over his shoulder. “Oh no!”

  The freezer door stood half-open, water dripping off the bottom. The supply of Sojourners’ fish collected for the Deep Haven contest lay spilled across the kitchen floor. “Who would do this?”

  She grabbed a towel and began to scoop up the prizes, holding her breath as she stacked them back into a now-soggy cardboard box. Her mind reeled as Ross poked his head out of the back door, looking for suspects, and called, “Anyone out there?”

  Only the campus heartbreaker.

  She couldn’t help the habitual cynicism.

  “Are they all there?” Ross squatted beside her, and she felt painfully aware of his closeness, the smoky, woodsy scent in his clothes. What was he doing in the lodge so late when everyone else had left? The question rose like the redolence of foul play. Would he really keep her busy her while someone sabotaged her catch?

  “I think so.” She should know better than to let him, even for a moment, whittle her down with sweet memories. They couldn’t rewind time. She knew what he thought of her. Even if he apologized for his words, deep in his heart he believed that she was a woman who could count her friends on one hand, known for her ability to keep the library lights burning.

  Could she help it if she had a degree to earn? Especially after Ross’s cruel words, it seemed she’d morphed into the very person he’d proclaimed. Was she the only one who noticed that she didn’t have her sister’s beauty or Ross’s magnetism? Her assets rested between her ears, and she didn’t intend to waste them. Still, she had to admit that his words speared her soul. She felt . . . prickly. Unattractive. And deep inside, she wondered if God could really use a person who spent all her time conjugating verbs. Even so, she had her future carefully mapped out—assistant professor to senior professor and eventually an overseas teaching assignment. By that time Ross would have a large, energetic following as an inner-city youth evangelist.

  Their future was about as likely as she was to haul in a fifty-pound muskie on her feeble crank baits and fifteen-pound test line.

  Still, it had comforted her to sit in the moon-bathed lodge and listen to him enjoy their past. As if he too missed it.

  She shook herself free of that thought and put frost into her voice. “Are you trying to sabotage me?”

  “What?” He finished loading the fish, then shoved the box into the cooler and closed the door. He turned, and the hurt on his face made her ache to her toes. She turned away, but he touched her chin and forced her to look at him. “Sabotage?”

  She stepped away from his grasp. “I know you’d do anything to win.”

  “No. I wouldn’t. I thought you knew me better than that.”

  She shook her head. “I used to. But—I don’t think I know you at all.” She stomped out to the fire, grabbed her afghan, and dragged it to the kitchen. She not only didn’t know him; she didn’t trust him.

  “What are you doing?”

  Abigail wound the afghan around her shoulders and slouched down, her back to the fridge. “Standing guard.”

  His laugher made tears edge her eyes. Oh, sure, now she was the funny, weird girl saving her fish. The campus crackpot.

  Well, at least she didn’t pretend to be someone she wasn’t.

  He crouched at her feet. “Abby, I’m not out to steal your fish. No matter how much I want to win.” He was fighting a smile, and it made her want to wallop him.

  “I’m staying here.”

  “No, you’re not.” Without warning, he scooped her up and marched her out to the fireplace. “If you want to keep an eye on me, you’ll do it in here where it’s warm.” He plopped her onto the sofa.

  She sat up, fury burning her stomach. How dare he?

  He flopped down in the opposite chair. His expression told her that her words had wounded as he stared into the fire. She sat there, pulse roaring, and saw the Ross she’d loved and missed. The Ross without his adoring fans; the humble, quiet Ross.

  The Ross who made her feel special. Cherished. One in a million.

  “I’m sorry, Abigail.” He leaned back, closed his eyes. “I know that I’ll never be Scotty, but please, give me some credit.”

  Never be Scotty? But she didn’t want Scotty. She wanted Ross.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He opened one eye. “Nothing. Don’t worry. Tomorrow’s the last day of the contest. After that I’ll be out of your life forever. You’ll never have to set eyes on me again.”

  Her throat burned. Then, without another word, she got up and stalked out before she burst into tears.

  IF ROSS WANTED to win the fishing contest, he’d have to net the big one. The muskellunge. The New Lifers had reeled in the daily limit in each category, and while none of their catch would qualify as the “mother of all fish,” they had some decent weights. A muskie would seal their entry.

  Ross sat in his boat, the early morning sun hot on his neck, and fiddled with a cinch knot. The grizzled voice of the old geezer he’d seen again this morning played in his mind. When he’d mentioned his prey—muskie—the man’s eyes lit up.

  “Find the edge of the milfoil, when there is a transition to sand, then use that black-and-silver crappie-looking spinner you got in your box.”

  The fact that Ross found it an hour later had him wondering just how much the phantom angler knew about his gear.

  He cast, let his line fall ten feet down, praying it didn’t snag on weeds, and began playing it. Withou
t Bucko in the prow, his thoughts tangled in last night’s events.

  He wasn’t Scotty. Never had that truth so twisted like a six-inch buck knife. Abigail would have never accused Scotty of stealing her fish.

  Then again, Scotty would have never taken the New Lifers fishing. He would have sold candy bars or launched a telemarketing campaign. Scotty relished order, not fun. Perhaps that’s what made him a star leader whose light still hadn’t dimmed.

  A loon called forlornly, picking up Ross’s mood. As he’d led singing last night, he’d watched the final pages of his life turning. There was no dishonor in driving delivery trucks; it just felt like defeat after his dreams of doing something with eternal significance. But unlike Scotty, he didn’t have the brainpower to match his dreams.

  He should have been the one to hit the tree. The bitter thought made him shudder. He missed Scotty so much that at times it felt like an open wound. And his attempts to fill the guy’s shoes felt like homage. Or grief therapy. Whatever.

  If only he knew who God wanted him to be. Abby’s words churned in his soul. Who are you now?

  Answer: Ross Springer, Greek flunky, senior dropout.

  Wouldn’t Abigail Cushman, PhD, be impressed when she heard that?

  Ross’s throat burned when he looked into the bruised sky. Who am I, God? I’m not Scotty or Abby, but I want to be used by You. Show me how, please.

  Dark clouds tumbled overhead, mirroring the tumult in his soul. Well, maybe he could land a whopper. His final hurrah.

  Ross flicked his line back to cast and knew he’d done it wrong the second he snapped his wrist. He released the spinner too soon; the line played out behind him and hooked his shoulder blade.

  He gulped in a breath, blinking back the sting. Oh, super. He’d landed . . . himself.

  What a hero.

  He reeled in the slack and attempted to reach the wound but only managed to lodge the hook deeper. Pain shot through the top of his head.

  He could return to camp, but oh, wouldn’t that be fun?

  Or . . . he heard a motor. Shading his eyes, he made out a lone fisherman trolling along the weedy shoreline. He squinted and his heart fell. Abigail. Up early. Of course.

  God certainly had a sense of humor.

  Well, she already thought him a fool, didn’t she? And she did have the golden touch when it came to outdoor mishaps.

  He started his outboard and headed toward eternal humiliation.

  According to every book Abigail had read, muskie liked deep, weedy areas, “prop wash,” and fat cisco spinners. After inventorying her insignificant entry, she had one hope of bringing home a prize—landing the alligator-jawed progeny of the freshwater.

  She’d slept little and wasn’t surprised when Laurie groaned and turned over on her lumpy mattress, shrugging Abigail away. Well, she hadn’t seriously thought the Sojourners would stick with her to the bitter end, had she?

  She refused to acknowledge the truth. Nor the fact that most of her group had plans to go hiking today with a New Life contingency. So much for recruiting new members.

  Tugging on her line with one hand and manning the outboard with the other, she mentally cast her day into God’s hands. She’d missed her morning quiet time, but the words from the psalm—was it 25?—Ross read last night lingered in her mind. “O Lord, I give my life to you. I trust in you, my God! Do not let me be disgraced, or let my enemies rejoice in my defeat.”

  Abigail closed her eyes. Lord, the New Lifers aren’t exactly my enemies, but I do feel disgraced. What did I do wrong? Please help me be the leader You want me to be. Help the Sojourners to grow. And please, Lord, help me catch a fish.

  The memory of the paltry Sojourner catch made her shudder. How could she have accused Ross of thievery? The hurt in his eyes dug a hole in her chest. I’ll never be Scotty . . .

  She gasped, even as her line gave a tug. Never be Scotty. But he wanted to be. With a painful whoosh she understood. She’d seen fear in his eyes. Could it be that he wanted to be Scotty because he really believed the campus rumors that she’d been in love with his big brother? Was he afraid he’d never measure up to Scotty in her eyes?

  How could he believe that after she’d spent the better part of her life cheering him on?

  Maybe because she’d never contradicted the rumors.

  Oh, Ross. She didn’t want a man who had to be smarter, faster, braver than her. A man who made her feel second best. She wanted Ross—the man who made her believe his world started and stopped on her smile. That he could do anything with her on his side.

  Someone with a 4.0 grade point average should have seen the truth in his red-rimmed eyes, his raw accusation. She felt as sensitive as a north shore agate.

  Her line jerked again and she slowed, turned.

  But in her wake she saw not a muskie but Ross, waving as his boat sped toward her. She blinked back her tears and gave a feeble wave. What did he want?

  He looked devastatingly handsome with his windblown burnt-gold hair, those brown eyes, a wry smile. He reached out and grabbed her boat. Swallowed. The expression on his face snatched the breath right out of her chest. “Abby, can you help me?”

  He angled his shoulder at her. She winced. A hook, one of those wicked-looking crank baits with the fuzzy ends, dug into his shoulder blade. She smiled, feeling strangely giddy. “Come here, hero. I’ll unhook you.”

  He tied his boat to hers and climbed over, maneuvering like a man in pain.

  “How did you do this?” She examined his wound. Her class in basic fishing had included a lesson in hook removal. SOP said to push it through the skin on the other side, clip the barb, and slide it out.

  He reddened. “Bad cast.”

  “I guess.” Pushing one of the tri-hooks through the meat to the other side looked like an agonizing journey. “I think I can use this new technique they taught me.” She didn’t add that she’d mutilated a pig’s foot in the process. But the last two times the hook had slid out nicely. “Give me a second.”

  “You have all day. I’m not going anywhere.”

  She didn’t comment. The way he sat in her boat without his masses . . . well, it raised an impulse to hold him hostage. To scroll back time and enjoy the friendship of their youth. Rifling through her tackle box, she found some line and clipped off a long piece. Tying it at the base of the hook’s J, she hoped to apply leverage and slide it out. “Wanna bite on some leather?”

  “Oh, very funny. Just . . . do it.”

  “Hold very, very still.” She wound the leverage line around her finger and angled it down, pushing the base of the hook into his flesh. He grunted. She closed her pliers around the eye and, moving fast, twisted the hook out of his shoulder.

  An awful, gut-churning sound came out from between his gritted teeth.

  “I got it!”

  “Yeah, I think you might have taken out all the muscle in my shoulder too. Ouch, Abs, that hurt.” But he was grinning, and his eyes shone.

  She put her hand over his bleeding wound. “You should get back to camp and bandage that up.”

  But he wasn’t listening. “Abby, your line!”

  She whirled and grabbed her pole just as it toppled over the edge into the water. “I got something!”

  She jumped to her feet, yanked on the line, and set her hook. “Ross, grab the net!”

  She heard him laughing. He leaned over the side as if hoping to spot her catch. Meanwhile, the fish fought her, ripping the reel from her fingers. The line zipped out as she tried to stop it.

  “Help!”

  Ross seized the rod, stopped the spill of line. “It’s still hooked.” He reeled, making meager process. “Abby girl, I think this is a homer!”

  Standing there, gripped in the adrenaline, memories assaulting her without mercy, she couldn’t help it. She kissed him on the cheek. The impulsiveness of her act made her blink, but when he turned, a surprised grin on his face, she grinned back.

  “Get the net, Babe,” he said in a sweetly rough
ened voice. “You’re going to have a trophy tonight.”

  ABBY HAD LANDED her trophy fish. Ross grinned as she muscled her twenty-plus-pound muskie to the lodge, along with her beautiful stringer of prize northern. The woman had outfished, outsmiled, and outjoked him, and suddenly he didn’t care that his shoulder felt like pulverized flesh or that his ego had been mulched along with it.

  A perfect day. Every nerve sizzled with the pure joy of rekindling their friendship. As if sitting in a motorboat in the middle of Trout Lake had given their relationship safe haven. Abby emerged from her don’t-get-near-me shell and spent the day teasing him, laughing at his jokes, igniting hope deep in his heart.

  “I’ve missed you, Abby,” he’d said at one point in the early afternoon, after she’d whipped up a gourmet shore lunch. The woman had a virtual tackle box full of surprises. He’d told her so, and she’d blushed, a color that only made her downright delicious.

  Oh, how he’d wanted to unravel the meaning behind that blush and the reason she’d run out last night after he apologized for not being the man she wanted. But he feared destroying this magical day with their brutal history.

  Seeing her standing on the porch, knowing that after today she’d go on to her perfectly outlined, intellectual life, and he to his blue-collar job, made him ache.

  “Twenty-seven pounds, eight ounces, forty-three inches,” Dan announced. “Caught on a fifteen-pound test line?”

  Abby nodded, glowing past the tan on her face.

  Ross whooped along with the rest of the New Lifers and Sojourners.

  They put her muskie on ice and added her catch to the totals, which, unfortunately, still left the Sojourners woefully below the weights of the New Lifers. But was the New Lifers’ catch enough to land the grand prize in the Deep Haven fish-off?

  The campfire crackled and shot sparks into the night. Noah Standing Bear, back from his Minneapolis errand, stood in the front of the group looking like a road warrior in a black T-shirt and jeans. Ross noticed Anne Lundstrom, the camp’s EMT, sitting on the bench. The woman carried an aura of wisdom and strength in her hazel eyes. He supposed after last summer’s incredible save, she’d always be among his unsung heroes.