by Honey
Each time he put his hand on the latch of that gate so he could follow her, the realities of his life prevented him from opening it, from walking up the path to her door, taking her into his arms, and telling her that he—
But there was no point to buying into the dream that he could have a life with this woman. That he could live in a house with her, be her husband, be the father of her children. That he could have a family of his own and live happily ever after. He'd only be pretending, deluding himself and Camille.
Because his obligation was to Captain. Always. Or until Captain was well, which could take months, years. He had no right to ask Camille to wait.
There were days when he believed Cap was getting better, days when hope wound through his soul. But last night hope had been snatched away so quickly, and so cruelly, that he wished he had never felt hope at all.
He'd gone to her house, and this time, his fingers had snagged the lock on the gate and flicked it open. He hadn't thought about it; he'd just done it. He had gone halfway up the walkway when Captain's voice called out to him.
"Alex..." His tone was shaky, giving Alex pause. He looked up at the house, and as much as he wanted to keep walking to those steps, he couldn't. He knew that tone in Cap's voice.
He turned away and went out the gate. It quietly fell back into place, the way it had been—the way he should have left it to begin with.
"I've been looking for you, Alex." The dark night washed over Captain. All but a quarter moon was in the sky—but it was enough for Alex to see his face just as Cap said the obvious. "A guy bit me in the mouth."
Alex's muscles went taut. Shock quickly yielded to anger as Alex viewed the blood smeared on Cap's swollen lips. Cap had tried to stop the flow; he held onto a bloodied handkerchief and raised the cloth to his mouth once more to press at the cut in his swollen lower lip. The offender's fist had really packed a wallop.
Alex's nostrils flared with fury. "Who hit you?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?" He felt his temper rise. "Did he jump you?"
"No... we were sitting down. He looked right at me and—bam!—gave me one in the chops."
"Have you seen the guy in town? Think hard. Where can I find him?" Violence coiled in Alex, like a deadly snake ready to strike. Whoever had hit Cap was going to be damned sorry.
Captain looked at the blood on the handkerchief. "I know where you can find him, but you're going to be mad at me."
"I won't get mad," Alex assured Cap, his words tightly spoken.
"He's at Dr. Porter's office getting his chops sewed up." His eyes rose to meet Alex's. Disquiet marked his brows and the corners of his mouth, as if he were troubled by his actions. "I hit him, Alex. A good one. You know I never hit people, but something got into me tonight and I felt like he had it coming. So after he belted me, I said, 'Damn sorry about this' and sent him some knuckles right back." Moonlight caught in his eyes. "But I lied. I wasn't sorry about it. Are you sure you're not mad?"
Alex wasn't sure what his response was—more like surprise that Cap had slugged a guy. But he wasn't angry with him for doing it. "I'm not mad."
"I worried that you'd be mad at me." Cap lowered his gaze in apparent confusion. "I shouldn't have hit him back. I don't know why I did." Then his voice faded to a hush. "You said that new medicine was supposed to make me feel better. Well, I don't feel like myself anymore. Sometimes I think I'm somebody else thinking things and doing things." His eyes moved upward, glittering with emotion. "It scares me.
Captain stood before him with quiet power in his body and an innate pride to his stance. It scares me. It was a confession Alex had never expected to hear from him. He wished he could give him an answer that would be reassuring. But Alex didn't have answers.
The chirp of crickets played, their songs of summer surrounding the men.
Alex ran his fingertips over his mouth in thought "What happened to make this guy hit you in the first place?"
Cap's strong white teeth flashed in the darkness, with a vague hint of a smile. And a wince from the cut "I kicked his ass at poker."
"Poker?" The implication hit Alex with stunning force. "Where were you, Cap?"
"The Blue Flame Saloon."
He tried hard to contain his expression of surprise. "How come?"
"Because I felt like drinking a beer." Cap's reply was matter of fact.
Before he thought, Alex said, "But you don't drink beer."
"I know that." Captain's features grew set "But something in my mind said a cold one would hit the spot."
"So you went into the saloon."
"I did. I ordered a beer and I played some poker. All I had to do was see those cards in my hand and I knew how you arranged them to win. I didn't lose a single game. That's how come that guy hit me. He accused me of cheating." Cap shoved his handkerchief into his pants pocket. "Have you ever thought about the nice sound cards make when they're being dealt?"
"No, Cap, I haven't" But he remembered hearing about somebody else who always said that very same thing many years ago. He pointedly looked away from Cap, unable to meet him fully in the eyes.
"Well, they do. I could sit and listen to the sound of shuffling cards all night. And I would have if that guy hadn't hit me."
Keeping still, Alex said, "I don't know why you'd ask to play, Cap."
"I wanted to win all that money."
Alex's chin lifted. "Why? I would have given you some."
"I couldn't have taken your money, Alex. When a man wants to buy a woman a present, he doesn't go borrowing the money from somebody else."
"What woman?"
"I noticed Hildegarde fancies the bottle of that Violette France perfume they sell at the mercantile. It's from Paris." An expression of wonder appeared on Cap's face. "Do you think it's really from Paris?"
Without weighing the question, Alex replied, "I don't know."
Thoughts flashed through Alex's mind. He wanted Captain to get well, and tonight was another step toward his reawakening. Beer and cards and a fight. This was all Alex should have desired—Cap returning to his former self. It should have been all he needed. But he wanted to reach out and grasp Camille and her love as well.
Hell. Alex wanted too much. He wanted everything.
He was dreaming. It wasn't going to happen. He couldn't get around the fact that Captain was his first responsibility, and Captain needed to go to Silas Denton to fully recover.
"Hey, Alex?"
"Yeah, Cap?"
"I won six dollars and some change."
"That's good." Alex fingered the matches in his pocket, the pack of smokes he couldn't go for with Captain around. "But next time, don't get hit after you win it."
"No, I don't think I'll be playing poker anymore. It's dangerous."
As they walked away, Alex couldn't help looking over his shoulder for a parting glimpse of the house. The bedroom light had been turned down and the inside grew dark and quiet. Camille remained hidden to him, much like the feelings for her in his heart.
But as Alex's thoughts returned to the present and his gaze followed Camille as she walked to her desk in the clubhouse, he wondered just how much a heart could betray before it was found out. Would there come a time when she'd look at him and know he was lying about his feelings for her?
She slid her chair out, but she didn't sit in it right away. She looked at the men who should have scattered behind the dressing curtain as soon as she'd come in. Her frown wasn't for their lack of modesty. It was the fact they'd been scratching it up— trying to be discreet about it, but failing for the most part.
"I thought we've had this discussion before." She stared at Specs with disappointment. "I see they've finally corrupted you."
Specs firmly shook his head. "No, ma'am. Somebody has corrupted the jockstraps."
"What?"
"Somebody sprinkled itching powder on them," Alex explained, bringing Camille's head around. He liked her eyes on him, even if they weren't fil
led with shy invitation. "Charlie found a new box on your desk. The White Stockings must have put them there knowing we wouldn't question using them."
"Those White Stockings are some dirty bas—" Mox started to say one word and sliced it short, rephrasing. "—dirty-dealing dogs. We have to go get them."
Immediately, every player hushed and turned to Camille, certain, no doubt, that she would reprimand them. But their manager surprised them when she raised a brow and said, "Get them. Just don't get caught"
The men broke out in a cheer.
Alex watched as Camille sat back in her chair and studied her notebook. When she looked up, their eyes met, and for a second they seemed to lock together, cocooned by the din of cheers and voices. Alex wanted to touch her, pull her close. But before he could move, she looked away and gained the team's attention.
"Each day, we're improving in the rankings," she said. "The Senators lost yesterday, so we're number sixth in the league now."
Another chorus of cheers rose, in spite of the scratching.
Specs was the one who reminded them, "We can't go out there and get them if we're itching. I won't do it. It's embarrassing." Specs shoved his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.
"Your bad gloving is embarrassing," Yank mumbled beneath his breath while turning away from Camille.
"Shut up, Yank." Specs sat back down and crossed his legs.
"Let's not argue among ourselves," Camille said calmly, her hand lifting to toy with a honey-blond curl that had slipped from its pin. She wore no hat, which was totally unlike her. No gloves, either. Alex caught the subtle fragrance of her perfume. The sweet smell hit him hard; his chest tightened, as if a physical blow had connected with him. And in truth, his body felt like he'd been knocked around.
He hadn't slept worth a damn for a week. He was smoking too much, and if he thought he could function as a player the morning after, he would have been drinking at night.
"I say we call out the White Stockings," Duke suggested, "and bring the matter to the official in charge of the game. What do you think, Miss Kennison?"
Camille read the face of the tiny watch pinned to her bodice. "I think we have to be on the field, ready to play, in thirty minutes." She tapped her notebook and gazed at the men in contemplation. They stood as still as they were able to, given the problem.
They looked at her, waiting for her to advise them on what to do. Alex was just as curious about the situation as the others, only he thought about what it really meant. It was a revelation—seeing twelve men who had resisted her for months now hanging on her opinions. No longer did the players underestimate her value to the team. She was a viable part of the Keystones, an intelligent woman.
And a woman Alex was in love with.
Camille opened her pocketbook and withdrew a key. "Go over to my house. Use my shower bath, and hurry up about it. There are towels in the cedar chest in the first bedroom. It would seem your uniforms are all right. It's what's underneath that's the problem. So obviously, don't put on the same... you know. When you're done, get back to the field and we'll show the White Stockings they can't stop us with itching powder."
Affirming nods went around the room. She handed Specs the key, and the players quickly filed out of the clubhouse, leaving Camille and Alex alone.
Without a look in his direction, she opened the notebook before her and selected a pen from the inkstand on the desk. She began to write, although he doubted she gave any thought to the strokes of her pen. From where he stood, the slants and crossed letters looked like chicken scratches. All she was doing was avoiding him. Knowing her, she'd had the lineup ready last night. There was nothing to do but face him.
And from the way she sat stiffly in her chair, that was the last thing she wanted to do.
He understood her hurt, and he regretted being the cause of it. He'd thought that if he were as honest as he could be about making love to her, there would be no emotional attachment. But he'd been wrong. He felt a connection to her like none he'd ever had with a woman. And walking away from her had to be the most painful thing he could ever think about doing, much less follow through with.
Silence stretched out between them.
With her profile to him, she kept her head bent And ignored him. Her lashes seemed longer to him. Her pink lips fuller and softer. Her smooth skin turned to a golden hue as the sunlight filtering through the window touched her face, a face that had both delicacy and strength in its structure.
"You think the White Stockings got into the clubhouse?" was about the only thing he could say without breaking down and taking her into his arms and kissing her.
The pen quill stilled. "Actually, I'm not sure."
Her answer surprised him. He would have called the White Stockings bums. "Then who do you think?"
Not turning toward him, she spoke to the open notebook. "I'll let you and the others know when I figure it out for certain."
The curtness in her tone fell over him with the bite of a double-edged razor. He almost wished she'd slap him. He'd taken a slap a time or two, and at least a man knew where he stood with a palm imprint on his cheek.
"Camille, I never meant—"
"I really don't want to talk about personal things between us." She abruptly rose to her feet, grabbing her notebook and pen in the process. For the first time since the players had departed, she looked at him. "You were frank with me last week, and I appreciate your honesty."
Honesty. The way she said it sounded so honorable, like he'd done her a favor, when in reality, he'd cheated her with their casual encounter.
"There's no point in going over what was already made clear," she continued. "We can't let one night interfere with our professional relationship. The season isn't over and we have to move ahead." She looked down a moment, then back at him, her clear blue eyes direct. "I knew what I was doing, and I already said I wasn't sorry. I'm still not." She walked past him, careful not to come close enough to chance brushing against him. "You taught me what I wanted to know about sex. Now there's no more to be said on the subject."
Then she was out the door.
Not long after, the day went from bad to worse.
The team was back from their showers and Alex stood on the pitcher's mound trying to stay focused on the batter's stance. Frank Isbell was up to the plate. He'd been hitting deadly line drives throughout the game, nearly killing Alex with a ball in the eighth as it sizzled its way over the left field markers.
Alex went through the windup in his mind, closing his eyes a moment and seeing himself on the pitcher's box. It was a mental thing he did to work through the motions. Anticipate and think—two of the greatest words in baseball. When he opened his eyes, his attention was drawn for a brief moment to Captain, who sat in the last row of the bleachers. That was a first. Cap always took a front-row spot. But Hildegarde Plunkett sat beside him, and their smiles at one another had nothing to do with the fact that the Keystones were leading by three.
Alex put every ounce of strength from his body into his arm and lifted one leg high, then released the ball with the speed of a bullet. The umpire called a strike, and Frank would have stayed at the plate if it weren't for the fact that Noodles didn't gulp the ball in his glove. It rolled behind him after short contact with the leather. The catcher struggled after it, but by the time he threw to first, Frank had taken his base on the wild pitch.
Calling time, Alex waved Noodles up to the box. The catcher went to him and shoved the cage up his forehead. Sweat poured into his eyes.
"I know what you're going to say, Alex, but a white butterfly flew right in front of my face just when that ball came over the plate." Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he gulped. "You know what that means."
The muscles in Alex's neck went taut as he tried to swallow. He wasn't about to be sucked in, despite the fact that old fears pulled at his nerves. "It means bullshit, Noodles. Absolute bullshit."
"Yeah, but—"
"Get back behind the plate so we can
win this one and go home."
Noodles slid the cage in place over his cheeks and resumed his crouch. With his right hand up, glove open wide, he nodded at Alex.
The next batter took the first two pitches as strikes. The third he foul-tipped toward the grandstands. Way high and deep. The blur of white sailed back to the top riser.
Alex watched as Captain stood and caught the ball bare-handed. The motion was so automatic, it seemed to have been prearranged. Cap looked at the ball, tested it in his palm by rolling it around, then gazed out at the field.
Remaining motionless, Alex was thankful he could pull down the bill of his cap to conceal his eyes. He turned away, kicked the dirt beneath the toe of his shoe, and acted as if he were waiting for the game to pick back up. The catch Cap had made had been one of instinct. One of memory. The rush of emotions that claimed Alex made his throat ache.
The umpire hollered for the ball to come back in play. Then as if Cap had done it a thousand times, he fired off the ball like a rifle shot directly to Alex. Alex stopped the ball in his glove, the hard impact sizzling through the leather into his hand like an imprint. It was with great effort, that he tipped his cap to Captain and gave him a smile. But Cap didn't smile. His expression was bemused, full of thought and wonder. As if he didn't know quite what to make of his actions.
"Holy cripes," Cupid said from first base.
From behind Alex, Specs spoke from the shortstop position. "Did I see what I think I just saw?"
"We could use a guy who throws like him," Bones called out as he stood on second base.
Shutting out their comments, Alex tunneled his mind in on the game and pitched out the inning. The Keystones went on to win it 7-4. Whether or not the White Stockings were the guilty parties in the itching powder incident, the prank had fueled the home team's aggression. Each man had hit at least a single, Deacon and Duke got three-baggers; Jimmy, Yank, and Cub doubled. Alex powered a home run early on for the Keystones to take the lead. Defense had been the best it had ever been, with a masterful six-four-three play in the bottom of the fifth, thanks to Camille's ragtime tempo influence.