by Honey
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Camille Kennison is the most beautiful woman in Harmony, Montana, but she seems destined to end up a spinster. Although she's received marriage proposals, no man has stirred her heart or her passion. She thinks she's struck out forever. Until Alex Cordova arrives in town.
A darkly handsome former baseball star, Alex swore he'd never play ball again, but circumstances have arisen and he needs money. So when Camille offers him a contract with her father's team, he has little choice but to wear a uniform again.
Soon Camille is managing the bungling team, and Alex would rather make a play for the pretty honey than pitch baseballs. He hopes to win her over, but a secret tragedy in his past could throw them both a curveball...unless they learn that truth paves the path to their field of dreams.
"YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL, CAMILLE. SO BEAUTIFUL, YOU MAKE ME ACHE."
Alex spoke in a low tone, kissing her softly. Against the curve of her lips, his murmur filled her ears. "But if I don't do this"—he began to slip a button back into place—"you'll have to fire me. And then I'll miss your telling me I stink as a ballplayer." Then he slowly put the front of her dress back together while she sat in stunned silence.
When she was in order, he kissed her once more. Just a peck that said he was sorry, or so he hoped she'd take it. Damn but if her eyes didn't begin to moisten.
He didn't carry a handkerchief, so he grabbed an embroidered white napkin from the counter. She took it. "I think you're all cried out for tonight, honey. But for what it's worth, if I were that Lady Prussia woman, I would have voted for you."
She dabbed the corners of her eyes with the tea towel, its edge colorfully embroidered with songbirds. "Lady Prussia is a white cake."
"Yeah, well." He meant to brush the comment off, but then he paused and said, "It is?"
"Yes." Then out of left field, she asked, "Would you like a piece?"
Alex stood motionless, Camille still sitting on the counter in front of him, her hair a river of gold about her shoulders. His chest hurt as if he'd been slugged in the ribs. Would he like a piece?
He reached up and caught her beneath her arms and lowered her gently onto her feet. "Sure."
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
A Sonnet Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 2000 by Stef Ann Holm
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-671-01942-2
First Sonnet Books printing February 2000
SONNET BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.
Cover photo © Robert Holmes/Corbis
Printed in the U.S.A.
To Caroline Tolley, an editor I've had the pleasure of working with for nearly a decade now. You still get my Editor of the Year Award sans the torched marshmallow trophy and taped applause.
To Lauren McKenna, Paolo Pepe, and Amy Pierpont, for their efforts on my behalf.
And to everyone at Pocket Books who has helped get my books on the shelves for the past ten years.
I am most grateful.
Prologue
Baltimore Park
Baltimore, Maryland
The day was hot. Sweltering.
But the fans didn't seem to mind. They crowded the grandstands that surrounded the playing field. Men in shirtsleeves, women in white blouses tucked into long broadcloth skirts, their voices a low buzz of excitement as Alex Cordova considered his next pitch.
Most people thought he was the greatest player in baseball. Definitely the best pitcher the Baltimore Orioles had ever had.
He was elevated on the pitcher's mound, his broad shoulders blocking a portion of blinding summer sun. His hard-muscled chest gave way to lean hips and legs that were long and as strong as steel. Built of sheer brute strength, his body could stop a solid punch.
Men looked on with grudging admiration and dreams of glory. Women dreamed of more than that—a glance their way, a look or a kiss. But Alex stood silently, concentrating, his dark eyes narrowed on the batter.
Everyone was sure it would be a hard slider. Even Joe McGill, the Giants' catcher, as he waited at the plate, his bat held in ready tenseness.
Alex glanced over his left shoulder, then turned to Joe and exploded with a pitch that was up and in. Quick thinking made Joe drop to his belly. Dust choked the inside of his nose as he lifted his head. That son of a bitch could have clipped him if he hadn't moved fast.
Vaulting from the ground in a cloud of dirt and curses, he hurled his bat and charged Alex, who was already coming at him.
Joe was blindly aware both dugouts emptied in his wake and took the field in a hot-blooded dukeout. His fight with Cordova had to be broken up by the umpire, who threatened fines and ejections to get both sides to return to their benches. The game continued as Joe resumed the batter's box.
His chest heaving, his mouth tight, he glared at the pitcher with a hostility that was returned.
Alex wound up for the next pitch, his eyes hooded beneath the bill of his cap as he nodded, shook his head, then released the ball. Joe chased it and lobbed a fly right at the Orioles' center fielder to end the inning.
The side retired and Alex was first at bat for Baltimore.
Joe McGill crouched behind him from his place as catcher. His thighs burned from the beating his body had taken in the brawl. It was a hell of a thing to have his joints ache and quiver. He was twenty-five but he felt fifty-five.
From last week's game against the Cincinnati Reds, he sported black and blue marks imprinted by seventeen foul tips, a bruise on his hip the size of a melon where a thrown bat had struck, and two spike marks on his shins. Yet he considered himself lucky.
But he would have been luckier if Cordova hadn't slammed a fist in his gut. Because of that throbbing pain, he leaned forward to irritate Cordova, his knee brushing against the jersey covering the back of Cordova's calf. Joe rode him, just the way Cordova hated it, while the man took a few practice swings.
"It was a fair pitch, McGill, not a beanball," Alex said with a cold edge. "You went down because you couldn't hit it and you didn't want a strike called."
"That's a load of clams," Joe bit out, adjusting the headband on his catcher's mask. The cheek pads settled tightly against his sweat-slicked face. He socked his fist into the pocket of his mitt, looking at the Giants' pitcher, Amos Rusie.
Rusie had the face of a mortician. You could never read the guy. But Joe was the best. He could read him. It was his job to decipher what the man was thinking, how he was feeling on any given day out at the pitcher's box.
Today Rusie was feeling like fastballs. The trouble was, Cordova liked to hit fastballs. But he couldn't find leather on a spitter. So Joe gave Rusie the signs for a spitball, down and out.
Rusie nodded.
Alex took his stance, gripping the bat with his large hands apart.
Through the wire cage of his catcher's mask, Joe taunted, "Try and hit this one, busher."
Calling a player busher was about as insulting as telling him his mama was ugly.
A low grunt came from Alex.
Joe spit. The brown tobacco juice landed on Alex's shoe heel. But before Alex could slam him, he prompted, "Heads up, busher, the ball's coming at you."
Rusie grooved one right down the middle
of the strike zone. He threw so hard, Joe had to line his mitt with lead to lessen the impact. Behind him, the umpire made the call.
"Sttttttttttrike one!"
Joe rocked back on his heels and threw a bullet, knee high, right over the base and back to Rusie. "I'm having a picnic at the plate, busher. You aren't even making me work."
"You throw like an old woman," Alex responded.
The next pitch came in, and Alex missed it.
"Sttttttttttrike two!"
Joe caught the lopsided ball; he coiled his arm and delivered it back to Rusie. "One more to go, busher, and your ass will be back warming the bench." He moved closer, kneeing in hard and tight against Alex's right leg.
Gazing down, Alex said, "You'll see me when I cross home plate." His confident smile opened the crack on his lower lip, and he winced. Joe took satisfaction from it; he'd belted him one on the mouth.
"You won't make it to home plate. I'll mow you off, just like shooting a blackbird off a bush—busher."
Bunching his muscles, Alex swung. The bat crashed against the ball for a foul tip. The ball made a hard hop and shot into Joe's knee with the force of a hammer. Red-hot arrows darted up his leg, and he violently swore as he staggered on his feet.
He wanted a piece of Cordova, but he couldn't come to blows over a foul tipped ball. Any catcher who couldn't shake it off had no right to be in the game.
So he limped back to the plate, adjusted his mask, and squatted back down. He had to refocus. Remind himself he was the best catcher the New York Giants had ever signed. He was batting .320, had the highest earned run average in the league, and had perfected double steals. Women chased him, and he got free drinks in saloons. Everybody liked him.
As for Alex Cordova...
Some of his teammates and most of the league resented him because he was so damn good. With that greatness came arrogance. For the past two years, the Sporting News had rarely written about him in a flattering light—even when he was pitching flawless games and hitting home runs.
And all this "Grizz" crap. What was that about? Cordova had spent the '95 winter out West somewhere and had come back telling reporters he was a grizzly bear, fearless and untouchable. Now he called himself Alex "the Grizz" Cordova. Joe didn't need a handle to play ball. Just plain Joe McGill got the job done.
Rousing cheers from the fans brought him out of his reverie, reminding him that not everyone resented the Orioles' pitcher. Perspiration blurred his vision. He squeezed his eyes closed, and when he opened them, he could have sworn he saw a white butterfly wavering on the motionless air. He blinked, then squinted. It was gone.
A chill gripped him. He was superstitious. Most every ballplayer was. A white butterfly meant calamity. A yellow or red one would have been a lot friendlier sight.
"Boo." Heavy sarcasm weighted Alex's voice.
The ribbing drove Joe's fury, making him ride Alex. He pushed in close, too close, but he wanted to make Cordova sweat. Needed the umpire to call him out. Then Joe was going to tackle Alex and ram his knuckles into his smug jaw. He didn't give a good night if he got bounced out of the game.
Joe gave Rusie the signal to throw another spitball, down and out.
Rusie nodded, but the ball that came Joe's way was hard and fast.
He began to straighten his legs, shoving his shoulder against Alex to glove the ball. It was an outside pitch Alex shouldn't have gone after. But he did, putting his body into the motion of the bat as he swung.
Then Joe's world went black.
Chapter 1
Three years later
Harmony, Montana
Men were drawn to Camille Kennison like bees were to honeysuckle blossoms.
While she walked to her father's hardware store, gentlemen doffed their hats and wished her a pleasant day. She always gave them a smile. But where most women would be flattered by the attention, for Camille it became a chore to say "Good afternoon" so often.
She liked men, of course. But she noticed the way they looked at her. They were more interested in her appearance than in what she had to say. As her father so often reminded her, pretty women were never thought of as smart conversationalists. And throughout her life, Camille had been told she was a regal beauty.
Men saw only that she was a statuesque woman with honey-blond hair, had a gracefully curved figure, and an oval face with skin like fine ivory. Dozens of times, she'd been told her mouth was lush and kiss-able, its color a deep blush like that of dew-washed roses. And if she were honest with herself, she'd have to admit that she'd been kissed by dozens of men. Chastely. Demurely. Certainly not passionately. No man had ever ignited that in her, so she didn't believe sexual delirium existed except in fiction tomes and poetry.
However... Alex Cordova sorely tested her theory. With his shoulder-length black hair and full, sensual lips, he could look at her as if she were brainless and she probably wouldn't care.
Alex Cordova was deliriously appealing.
The man was an enigma. Nobody knew much of anything about him now that he didn't play baseball, and that made people curious. Women couldn't keep their eyes off him when he came into town. Herself included.
Shifting a lunch pail from one hand to the other, she opened the store's door and walked across the sawdust floor. A smoky kerosene odor hovered in the air. The interior was poorly lit, but James Kennison kept things neat and tidy. She skirted three stacks of zinc washtubs. Piled on big tables were slop jars, cuspidors, dishpans, sadirons, washbasins, coffee grinders, and household necessities.
Camille's father stood at the counter in conversation with Dr. Teeter, who could talk up a week's worth of Sundays all in one day. The dentist had an ingrained need to show off his mouthful of white teeth. He never missed an opportunity to talk and grin and laugh. She didn't know why he felt he had to use himself as an advertisement. Being the only drill-and-fill man in town, he wouldn't have lacked for customers even if his teeth had been less than perfect.
Her father interjected "Is that so?" in the appropriate places while Dr. Teeter droned on, but Camille suspected he listened only out of obligation to his customer. Wearing a cashmere suit, and with string apron tied around his slim waist, her father dressed the part of a successful businessman. And he was. He worked hard to turn a profit while establishing his good name in the community.
"I brought you lunch, Daddy." A trace of Camille's Louisiana accent always came out when she addressed her father. The slight emphasis she put on the last syllable of da-Dee made it sound faintly Southern.
He barely noticed her, saying without a word of thanks, "Put it over there, Camille."
She slipped behind the counter and set the lunch pail next to the cash register. The clasp of her pocket-book easily opened beneath her gloved fingers. She took out the tiny notepad and flipped the cover over. On the pristine paper, she'd written everything she needed to get her garden started this year.
Early May had been unseasonably wet, so she hadn't been able to plant her beds. But she could console herself with the fact that everyone else would have a late start, too. She'd still have the opportunity to cultivate the best flower and vegetable beds in Harmony. It was imperative that she did so, because this was the year she planned to run for president of the Harmony Garden Club.
She had a fairly good shot at it, too. Last year, Mrs. Calhoon held the esteemed position. The year before, Mrs. Plunkett—for a record three terms. Both ladies had made competent leaders, but they weren't willing to try new things. During the past few years, younger women had started to join the club, and it was time for a younger woman to run it. Camille had a host of ideas that were a bit unconventional. Modern fertilizers and up-to-date pruning methods. She planned to show the club ladies exactly what open-minded thinking could do for one's garden.
Camille had barely taken a step toward the Burpee seed display when Dr. Teeter's comment stopped her short.
"It's a shame about yesterday's game," he said, lounging next to the counter's edge. "If it weren
't for bad fielding, we could have won."
Her gaze darted to her father, and she held her breath. These days, there were two subjects you didn't bring up with him: baseball and Ned Butler.
Daddy's hardware store owned and had sponsored the local baseball team for ten years. Kennison's Keystones had never caused any fanfare on the field. But since they'd been accepted for membership into the American League this year, her father had high hopes for the officially renamed Harmony Keystones.
Only those hopes had been diagnosed with a bad case of eczema. Dr. Porter said that Ned Butler, the manager of the Keystones, had a condition brought about by exhaustion of the nervous system. It had gone haywire dealing with James Kennison day in and day out.
Ned had begun to itch during spring training. Then, three weeks ago on opening day after the Keystones had been trounced by the Detroit Tigers 9-0, he collapsed with a skin rash the likes of which the townspeople of Harmony had never seen. Per doctor's orders, Ned wasn't supposed to become excited, be exposed to undue or sudden transitions from heat to cold, exercise excessively, breathe impure air, or wear improper clothing.
In short, he was confined indefinitely to a sickroom while Mrs. Butler painted glycerine on him to alleviate his itching.
Ned Butler was the tenth manager the Keystones had had in as many years. Her father had been in Ned's way from the moment Ned stepped off the train to the moment he dropped flat on his keister after that Detroit game. Daddy could be a tad anxious when things didn't go well. And they weren't. The Keystones had lost twelve of the last twelve games they'd played this season.
Her father existed in a constant state of irritation that was getting harder and harder to live with. Camille had considered growing and selling potted plants, decorating flower containers to go with them. She would earn only a modest amount, but it would be enough to allow her to pay for a room at the boardinghouse and to gain a bit of independence. Not to mention distance from her father's volatile moods.
"Bad fielding!" Contempt sparked her father's words as he wielded a feather duster. "It was a lot more than bad fielding. Charlie Delahanty and Specs Ryan slammed into each other chasing a fly ball in the fifth inning." He vigorously brushed off the case beside him, then took out the dangerous-looking knives it housed and swished the duster over the shelves. "Doc Nash overthrowing to first base in the seventh." White feathers scattered in the air as if chickens were taking a dust bath. "And that bonehead play at home plate with Cub LaRoque and the wild pitch in the ninth."