Chapter Four
Abby Ruth sat on slightly sticky bleachers overlooking the Little League field. She’d forgotten the pleasure of watching fall ball—cooler temperatures, the scent of burnt popcorn and the ping of sunflower seeds as they hit the metal below her feet. Only now, the seeds came in new flavors like jalapeño, ranch and barbecue. She popped a handful of pickle-flavored ones into her mouth, and her eyes crossed from the sharp dill flavor dancing on her tongue.
Good…but they triggered an all-over body shiver.
The volunteer coaches, Deputy Barnes and Sheriff Teague Castro—Tadpole to her—were shouting encouragement to the boys. Teague’s family had lived next door to Abby Ruth and her daughter Jenny back in Houston. That snaggletoothed little daredevil sure had grown into a handsome man. Over six feet tall with a muscular build, dark hair and a still-mischievous smile.
Damn, she loved that boy like he was her own son.
And he would’ve been her son-in-law if not for the nasty breakup between Jenny and him years ago. Those two should’ve settled their differences and pumped out a couple of ankle biters by now.
Abby Ruth’s grandson Grayson was a hoot and a half, but she never would’ve guessed Jenny would marry into old Boston money and give birth to a kid who was as likely to wear starched khakis and a bow tie as he was jeans and cowboy boots.
Damned shame, that.
On the field, Teague’s four-foot-nothing pitcher winged one perfectly over the plate. Nice, but too nice. Hit the strike zone right on, and the kid in the batter’s box took advantage, whacking the crap outta the ball.
Snappy shortstop jumped straight up, and the ball smacked into his glove as though they both had magnets attached to them. Third out.
In celebration, Abby Ruth tucked her fingers into her mouth and let out a whistle that could probably be heard a county over.
Teague had always been a lucky one.
Except when it came to Jenny.
His team galloped into the dugout, the field dust following them in rust-colored clouds.
Teague’s first two batters made it on base, one with a fly ball between centerfield and right field, the other with a grounder the second baseman blew.
The third batter to the plate was a skinny little runt with “Broussard” embroidered across his bony shoulders.
Abby Ruth stopped mid-clap. Hell’s bells, that had to be Angelina’s kid. Too much lanky pinch-faced likeness to be otherwise. The fact that the team’s uniforms were emblazoned with “Broussard B&B” told her all she needed to know about that situation.
And she’d thought Teague was lucky? More like a poor bastard.
Abby Ruth leaned over and tapped the shoulder of the man sitting on the bench below her. “Doesn’t the batter’s momma come to the games?”
“Always over there.” He hitched his head to the right, indicating where Angelina had set up a folding chair between the stands and the announcer’s box. But she wasn’t sitting. Instead, her entire body was plastered against the fence, probably pressing hash marks from the chain link into her face.
When the third batter approached the box, Angelina yelled, “You can do it, Booger. Hit it out of the park.”
Booger? That kid was going to need a therapy fund.
Sure enough, the boy’s shoulders hunched toward his ears, so high they skimmed his batting helmet.
First pitch was a nice one, but he was too wound-up to get a swing off in time.
Second one came in tight, and he shied away, stepping out of the box.
Third one was outside, and he reached for it. Swung so hard that he lost his balance, turned a circle and ended up on his knees in the dust.
“That happen a lot?” Abby Ruth asked the man.
“Every single time he’s at bat.”
Poor Teague and poor kid.
The boy plodded back to the dugout, and Teague stepped out of the third-base coach’s box to give him a consolation pat on the back. The sympathetic gesture only made the kid’s head hang lower. Obviously, the Broussard boy needed help.
Teague was a patient sort and likely worked with the kid every chance he had. But with a she-wolf momma like Angelina hovering, Teague probably wasn’t able to make much headway. Problem was, both Teague and Angelina had skin in the game.
Abby Ruth, however, did not.
She scooted down the bench toward the dugout. While Teague’s other assistant, a high school-aged kid, was helping the next batter with his helmet, Abby Ruth stage-whispered, “Psst. Hey, Broussard. C’mere.”
Kid turned around, and his face could’ve made even the most hardhearted person shed a tear. Bottom lip turned down like a rodeo clown’s. Dark eyebrows low over his eyes. And a tiny trail of snot below his nose that said he’d already been crying.
He wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve. “What d’you want?”
“You want to learn how to hit that ball?”
He shuffled a couple of steps closer. “Yeah, but I don’t know you. Mom says even in a small town like Summer Shoals there’s stranger danger. Kids get nabbed by scary folks all the time.”
Hell, she’d better stuff a twenty in the kid’s bat bag for that therapy fund.
“Do I look like a kid nabber?”
His shrewd gaze ranged over her, from the top of her choppy gray hair to the roach-killer toes of her custom cowboy boots. “You look like a cowgirl.”
“I’ve ridden a…horse…a time or two.”
“What’s a cowgirl know about baseball?”
“I know just about all there is to know about sports,” she bragged. “I even know Red Jensen.”
The kids eyes lit up. “He was the best hitter in the history of pro baseball! You really know him?”
This kid was too easily impressed. Putty in her hands. He probably should be worried about kid nabbers. She edged off the bleachers to the ground. “Nolan Ryan too.”
That brought him a little closer. “For reals?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” She grabbed his elbow and hustled him out of the dugout and toward the batting cages flanking another field.
“Hey, hey,” he squawked. “I still don’t know you.”
“I’m Abby Ruth, Coach Teague’s aunt.” Wasn’t technically true, but she’d known Teague since he was knee-high to a flea. “So I’m not really a stranger.”
She urged him under the batting cage net. “You practice batting much?”
“All the time,” he said miserably. “My mom helps me.”
Lord have mercy on them all. “Sometimes, if you practice wrong, then it means you can’t play right. Stand over here, and I’ll show you the proper stance.” She rotated his shoulders and turned his back toward her.
He said, “I’ll have to tell someone if you touch my privates.”
She wanted to laugh, but baseball was serious business and this kid needed help with a capital H. “Last time I checked, the only thing you need to do with your privates while playing baseball is stuff a cup down your sliding shorts.”
“Just sayin’.”
“Elbows up and shoulders down. Feet apart so you’re balanced.” Abby Ruth worked with him until he looked perfect. “Great. Remember that.”
“This is boring,” he whined. “I want to hit home runs.”
“You dang well can’t hit a home run when you’re not even hitting the ball. Stick with me, and I promise you’ll be connecting with the ball in no time.”
A few minutes later, a cheer went up from the crowd, and Abby Ruth glanced over at the scoreboard to find Teague’s team had lost by two. If this kid could hit, it might’ve ended up differently. What was done, was done. But the future—it was wide open.
“Give me that stance again,” she told him, “and a swing this time.”
The Broussard kid raised his bat and assumed the position. He glanced her way for reassurance and she gave him a nod.
He slashed the bat in a wobbly swing.
“Okay, when you swing, your head is swiveling aro
und like an owl.” She dug a penny from the pocket of her jeans and placed it on the ground near the corner of the cage’s home plate. “I want you to keep your eye on this.”
“But what about watching the ball—”
“Booger!” Angelina rushed inside the batting cage.
Abby Ruth was three-quarters tempted to aim a fastball at her head, but that probably wouldn’t encourage her to be fair during Summer Haven’s inspection.
“What in the world are you doing over here with this woman?” Her glare would’ve petrified a lesser gal, but it just warmed the cockles of Abby Ruth’s heart. Whatever the hell cockles were.
“She’s teaching me how to bat,” the kid said.
“Wh—why would you need that?” Angelina snatched the bat from her son’s hand, then wrestled his helmet off his head. “I already taught you.”
Not very well, sugar.
“But…but Abby Ruth knows—”
“We do not call adults by just their first names, young man.”
Abby Ruth couldn’t fault her for that. Too many parents let their kids run around willy-nilly these days saying stuff like “yeah” instead of “yes, ma’am.” Manners could make you or break you in this world.
“Miz Abby Ruth said she can teach me so good that I might be able to hit a home run.”
“First off, it’s well, not good,” Angelina told her son. “Second, Ms. Abby Ruth is not your coach. And you directly disobeyed my rule about going off with a stranger.”
“She’s Coach Teague’s aunt.”
Angelina whirled around, fixed her stare on Abby Ruth. “You’re no more Teague Castro’s aunt than…than…”
“Than you know how to teach a boy how to play baseball?”
“I don’t think Lillian knows what kind of person she has staying at her home. I fully intend to let her know.” Angelina’s face went as purple as if she’d fallen face first into a barrel of crushed grapes. Probably the reason that last Cabernet Abby Ruth had sampled had been so sour. It’d had Angelina Broussard’s face in it. “And don’t think you can keep me from telling her.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to just hold that nice little thought until Lillian gets back. She’s on vacation.” Abby Ruth imposed an iron control over her face rather than let loose the sneer she wanted to direct at Angelina. That woman had no chance in hell of telling Lillian Summer Fairview anything for a long time, but if she found out that Lil wasn’t really just traveling…well, that would be a problem.
Deputy Barnes hustled into the batting cage and threw his body between Angelina and Abby Ruth, using his arms to put some distance between them. As tall as Abby Ruth was, Barnes still had a few inches on her. She liked a tall man, but this one had better get his hind parts out of this fight before she sent him running off with a boot to the butt.
Angelina grabbed her son by the shirt and shook her fist toward Deputy Barnes. “And you better be careful where your loyalties lie too.” Angelina dragged the kid out from under the protective netting and turned back to Abby Ruth. “You think you’re something else, being from Texas and all that. You think you can just run around doing all of Lillian Summer Fairview’s bidding for her. You’re just a big blow of hot air. A…a…Texas tornado.”
“Why, thank you,” Abby Ruth said with a wide grin that only seemed to spin Angelina up.
The woman made a sound that was a cross between a growl and an oink. “Teague Castro serves as sheriff at the pleasure of the Bartell County voters, of which you are not! So don’t be so sure he’ll always be in your corner in a fight. If you haven’t noticed, this county is in the great state of Georgia. Your Texas street cred doesn’t mean a thing around here.”
Abby Ruth had to give it to the woman, she had a quick wit about her. Something she could almost admire if Angelina wasn’t a massive boil on her backside.
Chapter Five
From the corner of his eye, Teague glanced over the team mom’s shoulder to see Abby Ruth—Aunt Bibi to him—and Angelina Broussard still going after it. When he’d ordered Barnes to head over there and break up that catfight, he probably should’ve given his deputy a warning too.
Because honestly, he might as well have handed a lamb over to two lions with tapeworms. He loved Abby Ruth as much as he loved his own momma, but that woman could test the patience of Job.
Because he was so busy watching the ruckus in the batting cage, he hadn’t heard a word the mom was saying to him.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at her for a half-second. “But there’s a situation in the batting cage needing my attention.”
She followed his line of sight and immediately stepped aside. “I’d say there is.”
Most people around these parts didn’t know Abby Ruth all that well yet. But Angelina’s reputation as a troublemaker was solid. Give Aunt Bibi a couple more months and all of Bartell County would know exactly who she was too.
County residents would be throwing those two women together and placing bigger bets than Teague had confiscated at illegal cockfights.
He hustled over in time to hear Angelina screech, “I should file a complaint.”
If she did, it would surely mess up the takeout pizza, ESPN and six-pack of Terrapin Hopsecutioner IPA he had on tap for tonight. He was officially off duty, but he couldn’t, in all good conscience, haul these two women in and then leave his deputies to deal with them.
Abby Ruth stood in the middle of the batting cage, chin a million miles in the air and elbows stuck out aggressively. “You just go ahead and do whatever you think you have to. But it won’t change the fact your boy—” she speared the kid with a look, “—what’s your real name, anyway?”
“Benjamin.”
“That Ben here couldn’t hit a beach ball thrown at the speed of a turtle fart.”
Shit. She was right, but did she have to say it aloud? Kids could be scarred by that kind of thing.
Instead, Ben was doubled over with a terminal case of the giggles. “Did you hear that, she said turtle fart. And she’s an old lady. Old ladies ain’t supposed to talk that way.”
“Aren’t,” Angelina snapped.
Abby Ruth came in right behind her with, “And I’m not an old lady.”
If he didn’t jump in pronto, this little spat would blow up faster than a handful of bottle rockets. “Ladies.” He slid between them in case one decided to go for the other’s throat. “I’m sure there’s just been a mis—”
“I want to press charges,” Angelina said. “She kidnapped my son.”
This was proof. God had some kind of grudge against him. His momma would say it was because he’d slept through Sunday school too many times when he was a kid. “Angelina—” he sidled up and took her arm, trying to pull her off the battlefield, “—it’s not really kidnapping if she didn’t take him anywhere. Besides, she was only trying to help.”
Her lips flattened, so tightly pursed that she looked a little like a platypus. “Teaching my child values and skills is a parent’s job—mine. She has no right to interfere.”
Teague had tried working with Ben every chance he had, but it wasn’t nearly enough with fifteen kids on the team. He’d even—gently—mentioned to Angelina that she might consider a finding Ben a private batting coach.
Apparently, she’d hired herself.
“I think if you both drop it now, we can put all this behind us.” He pitched his voice low, the same tone he used on the out-of-control drunks they sometimes hauled in on the weekends. Hell, he’d been known to croon a lullaby or two to settle them down.
Somehow, he didn’t think “Rock-a-bye, Baby” would work on these two.
Angelina’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Have you noticed all the trouble in Summer Shoals since this woman—” she jabbed a finger in Abby Ruth’s direction, “—hit town?”
“Sugar,” Abby Ruth drawled, “that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”
Trouble did follow Abby Ruth Cady like a pack of dogs chasing after a meat
y bone. Hell, it chased her? Sometimes it seemed she pursued trouble as easily as her dually tires could crush a beer can.
“Seriously, Teague,” Angelina huffed. “Have you checked into her past? Do you know anything about her background?”
He’d bet he knew a few things about Abby Ruth even her daughter Jenny didn’t have a clue about. In fact, a few years ago he’d gotten his hands on a secret that, if revealed, could put a rift a mile wide in their mother-daughter relationship. Not that he’d ever do anything with that sensitive information. “Look, she’s outrageous. And more often than not, she acts before she thinks.” He paused, raising a hand to keep Abby Ruth silenced. “But her heart’s in the right place. She didn’t mean any harm and Ben doesn’t look the worse for the wear.”
“Humph.” Angelina tossed another glare toward Abby Ruth. “Don’t think I won’t remember all this come election and historical preservation inspection time.”
The only way to describe Angelina’s departure was all-out Southern female flounce.
Turning toward Abby Ruth, Teague pulled off his coach’s cap and rubbed the back of his sweaty neck.
Abby Ruth cocked her hip and braced her hands on her hips. “That woman could give a headache to a wheelbarrow full of BC Powder.” She whacked Teague on the back. “You up for a beer, Tadpole?”
“Dammit, Aunt Bibi, you can’t just go around doing whatever the heck you please. Summer Shoals is a small town. You may not like Angelina, but she does have influence. I wouldn’t underestimate her.” He slid his sunglasses down to pin Abby Ruth with what he hoped came across as an I’m-a-full-fledged-adult-and-a-cop-to-boot stare. “I asked you to come to town to check into what was happening at Summer Haven. Not stir up more trouble.”
“What are you saying?” Abby Ruth limboed under the batting cage netting. “That it’s time for me to move on?” She strode forward with the aggression he normally admired. When it wasn’t aimed at him. The toes of her boots bumped his tennis shoes. “Think you don’t need ole Abby Ruth anymore after I narced on Maggie and Sera about that Social Security hullabaloo a few months ago?”
Collard Greens and Catfishing Page 3