Fair Play

by Deeanne Gist

  Oh, my. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She grabbed two fistfuls of her skirt.

  He pulled back, looking at her with a touch of surprise. “Are you nervous?”

  She spun her skirt around her fists. “No.”

  He took a step back, his hands resting against her waist. “You are nervous.”

  “No, no. I’m not.” She lifted her shoulders. “I’m just, um . . .“ She bit her lip. “Nervous.”

  Chuckling, he wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head beneath his chin. “Ah, Billy girl. There’s nothing to be nervous about. This is the most natural thing in the world.”

  Humming some song she’d never heard before, he took her right hand in his and held it out to the side, but kept his other around her waist. Then, he turned her about their itty-bitty room in tiny, slow dance steps.

  She didn’t know he could dance. She didn’t know he could sing. Little by little, she began to relax against him.

  He nuzzled her head. Kissed her hair. And continued to hum. By the end of the song, he’d backed her up against the wall opposite the berth and bracketed her with both arms.

  She slid her hands up and down his jacket, then slipped the buttons free and pushed it from his shoulders.

  Keeping his body close to hers, he lowered his arms, caught his jacket as it slid off, tossed it on a chair, then bracketed her again.

  Returning her hands to his chest, she undid his waistcoat. It went the same way as his jacket.

  He bracketed her again.

  She removed his collar and dropped it on the chair. Resting her hands against his shirt, she familiarized herself with the landscape of his shoulders and chest. His sides and the area just beneath his upraised arms. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted no barrier between her palms and his skin.

  She pushed buttons through the holes of his shirt until she reached the band of his trousers. She tried to pull the rest of his shirt out, but it wouldn’t come.

  Reaching down, he released his buckle and the fly of his trousers, then returned his arm to the wall.

  Her movements became more frantic. More hurried. Pulling the shirttail, she undid the rest of the buttons and shoved the shirt over his shoulders. He’d barely freed his arms when she grabbed his undershirt and slid it up, but the sight of him was too much of a temptation. She placed her hands against his chest, running them across it, down his torso, then back up again.

  He whipped off the undershirt, then spun her around.

  Resting her forehead against the wall, she reveled in the feel of his large hands working her buttons. When they were free, she pushed away from the wall and rested her body against his while he whisked the bodice down her arms, exposing her blouse.

  Those buttons ran down the front, but instead of turning her around, he undid them while she rested against him. When her waistband stopped him, he propped her up, untied it and her petticoats, then held her arms while they dropped to the floor revealing corset, chemise, and pantalets.

  Groaning, he whirled her around and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him, trying to get closer, closer.

  His hands were everywhere. Her hairpins fell to the floor, releasing an avalanche of curls.

  Tunneling her fingers into his thick, gorgeous hair, she pushed his head back.

  His eyes were dark. His breathing as labored as hers.

  “I’m not nervous anymore,” she whispered.

  Scooping her up, he bent his legs, then lifted her above him with his powerful arms and tossed her onto the berth. She gave a squeal of surprise, then scooted out of the way as he yanked off his boots, doused the light, shucked his trousers, and swung himself onto the bed.

  Good heavens.

  It was her last cognizant thought, for the wonders of the marriage bed began their song of glory.

  CHILDREN SWINGING IN PARK43

  “Designed and landscaped by the same men who did the World’s Fair, the park’s sixty acres burst with June foliage and sweeping lawns.”

  EPILOGUE

  Chicago

  Fourteen Years Later

  To the accompaniment of a stirring brass band, hundreds of kindergarten children from Chicago’s tenement districts entered Ogden Park in grand march order. Irish kept time with Italians. Swedes partnered with Russians. Whites held hands with blacks. Delegates from all across the country cheered and waved their flags. The closing ceremonies for the first annual convention of the Playground Association of America were well under way.

  Designed and landscaped by the same men who did the World’s Fair, the park’s sixty acres burst with June foliage and sweeping lawns. Hunter stood beside a sparkling lagoon and waved as Derry approached.

  A few months after moving to Texas back in ’93, they’d received word from Miss Addams that Derry’s entire family had been lost to cholera. That week Billy and Hunter made it official. Derry Maximo Molinari became Derry Joseph Scott. He’d been calling them Mother and Pa ever since.

  Lacking only an inch to catch up with Hunter’s six-two frame, Derry wore denims, a Stetson, and a pair of armadillo boots. “Mother and the others are waiting inside. They said they’re ready for some lunch.”

  “We’d better hop-to, then.”

  The two of them headed toward a redbrick recreation building on the opposite end of the park that housed gymnasiums, bathrooms, reading rooms, club rooms, a library, and a restaurant.

  A Toronto delegate hailed Derry. “A great festival you and the association have put together, Scott, eh? Now that I know how to go about it, I plan to get to work straightaway. You just wait. At next year’s convention I’ll be telling you about a half dozen new playgrounds we’ll have opened.”

  Clapping him on the shoulder, Derry encouraged the man, then continued on. They walked around a heated baseball game between boys from two different wards. Onlookers stood on opposite sides of the diamond cheering their teams.

  Reaching over, Hunter gave Derry’s neck a quick squeeze of affection. “How was work this week?”

  Derry filled him in on the case he was researching for the downtown law firm he was with. The boy had long since given up his aspirations to be a Ranger. And it was no wonder. Having experienced the impact a bad attorney could have on someone’s life, he’d enrolled in the University of Chicago to study law.

  A swelling of pride filled Hunter. In addition to the degree, Derry had had a longing to have a playground within a mile of every child in Chicago’s slums. So he joined up with like-minded men from Chicago, Boston, New York, and Washington, D.C., and became a member of the Playground Association of America.

  “Scott!”

  Hunter glanced at the swimming pool. Men and boys of all sizes and shapes wearing municipal free bathing costumes splashed in the clear, clean water.

  “Scott!” someone shouted again. Then he realized they were calling for Derry.

  Scanning the frolickers, Derry spotted one of Harvard’s professors and tugged the rim of his Stetson. “Dr. Sargent.”

  The man waded to the edge of the pool; his startlingly white shoulders and arms held a reddish tint. “I think we ought to start considering not how to increase the number of playgrounds, but how to hold the ground we’ve already gained and develop a plan that will ensure their longevity.”

  “Let’s bring that up at the next meeting.”

  “Come on, son.” Giving the Harvard man a polite smile, Hunter commandeered Derry’s arm. “Your mother’s waiting.”

  They skirted girls from Hamilton Park who’d strapped wooden shoes to their feet and circled in a thunderous dance. They chuckled at the screams from boys flying down a tall slide. Then they gave up any attempt at conversation while Scots in colorful kilts blew into bagpipes as eighty girls did the Inverness reel.

  After a satisfying lunch and several hours of play, the Scotts joined the assembly inside the field house’s auditorium for the final addresses. Placing an arm on Billy’s seatback, Hunter ran a finger up and down her sleeve. Fourteen yea
rs and five babies had made some changes, but his love and passion for her had grown to even greater heights. He ran an appreciative gaze over her form. She was all frocked up in one of her city dresses. This one had blue polka dots with a row of blue bows along the hem.

  “You look mighty pretty today,” he whispered.

  Smiling softly, she leaned into him.

  With a thumb in his mouth, little Joey slid off his seat, pushed Derry’s long legs aside, and crawled up onto Billy’s lap. Tucking him against her, she combed her hands through his hair.

  Their other Joey would have celebrated his fourteenth birthday last month. Not a day went by that he didn’t think of the little fellow. Wondering what he looked like. What he did for fun. What kind of foods he hated to eat. What kind of things he did with his dad.

  Hunter and Billy had subscribed to the Chicago Tribune, keeping a close eye on the paper for any mention of the Yorks. And though the real estate magnate was one of the richest men in Chicago, nothing had been written about his son. At least, not yet. But when he came of age, Hunter figured they’d be able to follow Robert Jr.’s successes and failures and cheer him on from afar.

  Bending his head forward, he took a gander at the rest of the kids taking up the seats beside Derry. Josie and Jacqueline played scratch cradle with a loop of string. Bessie had curled up on her seat and was using Derry’s leg as a cushion. Heywood’s eyes drooped and his head bobbed once. He immediately lifted it, only to start the whole process over a few seconds later.

  Hunter placed a soft kiss on Billy’s temple. “You sure do make good-looking babies, Dr. Scott.”

  She made a shushing expression with her mouth.

  He winked, then looked at the printed program. Once Mr. Joseph Lee of Boston—the undisputed leader of the Playground Movement—wound up his speech, then Hunter would close things out. At the bottom of the page, an acknowledgment had been made to him and Billy, defining them as the creators of Chicago’s very first playground. It credited them for providing the spark that ignited citizens to establish the Chicago Playground Association. He shook his head.

  “What?” she whispered, looking on the program to see what had caused his consternation.

  He pointed to her name. “Never in all my days have I seen a girl with so many boy names.”

  She glanced at the neatly typeset Dr. Billy Jack Scott and smiled.

  “I think it quite significant,” Mr. Lee said from the lectern, “that President Roosevelt urged all of us to come to this first annual convention of the Playground Association of America so we could, and I quote, ‘gain inspiration and see the magnificent system that Chicago has erected—one of the most notable civic achievements of any American city.’ So it is with great honor that I introduce you to the man responsible for starting this whole thing by building Chicago’s very first playground. Please welcome Mr. Hunter Scott.”

  A round of applause became a standing ovation. Mr. Lee signaled for Hunter to come up.

  Joining the man onstage, Hunter thanked him, and took a place behind the lectern. “Thank you, Mr. Lee. I believe that was the easiest Boston speech I ever listened to. As a man born and bred in Texas, I’m proud to say that I could spell nearly every word.”

  A rumble of laughter passed among the assembly.

  He thanked Hull House and those who had picked up the torch after he and Billy had left. He praised those who’d gone above and beyond everyone’s expectations. Then he reminded the assembly of why they were here. “If you come from a place without a single playground or a single donation, I want to remind you that the playground movement in the great city of Chicago dates only from the nineties. We started with a vacant lot, a pile of paving blocks, and a very special swing.”

  Smiling, Billy nuzzled Joey’s head.

  “But my pa always told me, ‘Son, there’s never a horse that couldn’t be rode. Never a cowboy that couldn’t be throwed.’ So I say to you, if you work hard and keep climbing back up on that bronco, you, too, can have a playground within a mile’s walk of every city dweller.”

  Applause accompanied hundreds of waving handkerchiefs.

  “In closing, I encourage you to pin to your walls at home the words my wife has pinned to ours: Venimus, vidimus, vicimus!” He raised his fist in the air. “We came. We saw. We conquered!”

  All in attendance, from the smallest child to the leader of the brass band, came to their feet. After the fervor died down, the crowd began to gather their belongings and head back from whence they came.

  An hour later the playground was devoid of all festival participants. Derry and his brothers and sisters helped gather up the last of the sacks, ropes, potatoes, and balls. A dark cloud rolled in offering welcome relief from the heat.

  “We’re going to put this stuff in the recreation hall,” Derry said. “Then I’ll swap the ribbons on the maypole for ropes. After that, I thought I’d take you and the kids over to the soda fountain across the street.”

  The tired expressions of before vanished. Jumping up and down, the children begged Hunter to agree.

  “That sounds good.” He glanced at the streamers fluttering from the maypole, then handed Derry a few bills from his pocket. “Why don’t y’all go on ahead. I’ll do the ribbons and ropes for you.”

  Derry glanced at him. “You sure you can climb all the way up there?”

  Hunter lifted a brow.

  Derry grinned. “Never mind. All right. That’d be great, Pa. Thanks. You coming with us, Mother?”

  “No, I’ll stay here with your pa and meet up with you when he’s done.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s go, everybody.” Derry headed to the rec center, the little ones crowding about him, all talking at once.

  With little effort, Hunter shimmied up the maypole and replaced the ribbons with ropes, loosened a spinning mechanism, and turned the maypole into a giant stride.

  Rolling the ribbons into one big ball, Billy looked around. “I really enjoyed myself this week. It sure brings back some memories, doesn’t it?”

  The breeze took on a cooling edge and the smell of rain. A tendril curling down her back lifted and swirled.

  “It sure does.” He took the streamers from her arms and wrapped them about the bottom of the pole. “I don’t know about you, Mrs. Scott, but I haven’t been on a swing in a mighty long time.” He held out his hand. “What do you say?”

  Eyes brightening, she took his hand. “I’ve been secretly wanting to all day.”

  As soon as she settled in, he began to push her, generating a breeze in the late afternoon air. The scent of cut wood clung to the swings. The creak of the rope kept time like a slow-ticking clock.

  She gave herself over to the ride, her head back, her feet out, laughter trickling over her shoulder. The wind whipped her blue polka-dot skirt, teasing him with glimpses of petticoat and booted ankles. For the first time in years he thought about the day he’d caught her crawling through that cellar window. He couldn’t help but smile at the pleasure she’d brought him then and all the days since.

  When he had her going pretty good, he grabbed the ropes and jumped on, his feet straddling her hips.

  She squealed, then laughed. He swiveled the seat with the force of his legs, propelling the swing higher. When he’d gone as high as he dared, he stopped driving and simply enjoyed the feel of her and the freedom of flying through the air.

  Finally, they slowed. She dragged her feet on the ground. When the swing came to a stop, she slid off and turned to look at him. “That was fun. I haven’t ridden double since we were at the Hull House Playground.”

  A jagged streak of lightning tore across the sky behind her, followed by a distant bark of thunder. Their ride had mussed her hair, leaving a dark blond lock trailing over her shoulder and down her back.

  He slid down to the seat and planted his feet on the ground. “Come here.”

  After a quick glance around, she took his proffered hand, sat on his knee, then straightened the collar on his shirt. “Do you
ever regret giving up your Rangering, Hunter?”

  The question surprised him and he had to think a moment before answering. “I really don’t. I love being sheriff and knowing all the folks in town. Which kids belong to which parents. What their lives at home are like. Who’s running with what crowd. As a Ranger, I would have only known that Bobby Wyatt had gone on a drunken spree and shot up the Magruders’ prize hog. I wouldn’t have known his dad beat his ma, or that he’d lost his brother in a drowning accident two months before his gal left town with Magruder’s son. I’m not excusing Bobby, I’m just saying it helps to know that stuff. And I, of course, enjoy being home so much.”

  “Do you?”

  “You know I do. If I’d been a Ranger, I would have missed all those evenings with you and the kids. Watching them grow. Teaching them to ride. Teaching them to shoot. Picking them up when they fell.” He sighed. “So many memories we’ve had and so many still to come. But most of all, we wouldn’t have had Derry, and I can’t imagine our life without him. He’s so, so . . .” He shook his head, unable to put into words the feelings he had for that boy. “I don’t regret it at all. Not even for a minute. What about you? And, be honest now, do you ever regret leaving the city behind and becoming a country doctor?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “I really thought I would. At the time we left, the knowledge and understanding of the medical field were exploding—still are. And my favorite place to be was right in the middle of it.”

  He picked up a curl and held it to his nose. Apples, peaches, and summer berries.

  She smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt. “Those first few years were hard. The women were much worse than the men. So belittling and judgmental.”

  “Until you saved the life of the preacher’s wife and their unborn baby. You’ve certainly never had a shortage of patients since then.”

  “No.” She smiled. “I still can’t believe she visited every home in the county. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall. I don’t know what she said to them to change their minds, but whatever it was, I’m very grateful to her.”