by Karen Young
Eleven
Buck had had a busy morning. Up at daylight with a couple of errands in front of him—both done now—he was back to the lodge for a session with Ty, only a little late. Eyeing the twenty-six steps as if they were coiled snakes, he leaned on his cane and started up. Only then did he spot his PT waiting on the porch. “Don’t jump me about being late,” he growled at Ty. “I’ve been doing something you’ll approve of…for once.”
Ty was a fierce taskmaster. He had put Buck through some torturous sessions since taking over his rehabilitation. The good news was that his knee was vastly improved. The bad news was that Ty didn’t show any signs of letting up on him.
With a couple of long strides, Ty was at ground level. With his big arm, he caught Buck beneath a shoulder and hoisted him to the top of the steps as if he weighed no more than Paige. “Like what am I going to approve of?” he asked when they were inside.
“For one thing, I’ve been to see your daddy.” Buck dropped his cane into the holder at the door and made his way toward the workout room. “I wanted to hear from him exactly what happened at Belle Pointe. Turned out to be worse than you told me.”
“Pearce plays hardball.”
“Maybe. But I’ve got a plan.” He smiled, showing a lot of teeth.
“Oh, man, you used to get that look when you were winding up ready to cream somebody at home plate.”
Buck peeled off his jacket and tossed it toward a contraption that Ty claimed would work a miracle on his body, but up to now had only worked to put him in a state of extreme pain and suffering. “I’ve found a replacement for Will Wainwright.”
Ty was watching him suspiciously. “And it is…”
“Oscar Pittman.”
A loud laugh burst out of Ty. “Oh, that’s precious. That’s too much.”
Buck grinned. “I figure your daddy is the perfect man to manage Belle Pointe.”
For a minute, both men enjoyed the moment, chuckling, shaking their heads, grinning like two kids caught out in some fabulously creative prank and getting away with it.
Ty sobered first. “There’s just one problem I see with your plan, man. Or maybe two problems. Pearce and Ms. Victoria.”
“They’re over a barrel, big-time, both of them. Even if Pearce wanted to, which he doesn’t, he can’t take time away from his campaign and his practice to farm cotton. And my mother is not up to the job physically. So they’ve got to have a manager.” He grinned. “Oscar is the man for the job.”
“You think you have enough power to make it happen?”
Buck’s face set stubbornly. “I’m going to make it happen. It was a low-down, dirty trick and I mean to make it right.”
Ty stood studying Buck for a moment, nodding. “Okay.” He slapped him on the butt. “Now, get over there on that table. You’ve just done the only thing that saves your ass from a severe punishment by being late for your session this morning, buddy.”
Buck grunted and swore under his breath, but he did as ordered and braced for the force of Ty’s strong fingers on his thigh muscle. “Anybody else would show a little appreciation,” he complained. “Like letting me off the hook today.”
“I let you off the hook yesterday,” Ty replied.
“It was Sunday!”
“God rested and so do I,” Ty said and dug into a tender spot at Buck’s kneecap.”
“Ow!” Closing his eyes, Buck tried zoning into another sphere, a trick he’d developed over the years to help him cope with pain from injuries.
“Relax,” Ty said. “Think about your pretty wife.”
Buck laughed in spite of himself. “Then we can forget relaxing.” But Anne was on his mind almost always now anyway. “We were together last night,” he told Ty.
“Hmm.” Ty gently rotated Buck’s knee. “In that case, I would expect to see an improvement in your disposition.”
Buck gritted his teeth against pain. “Do you have sex on the brain? I meant we had dinner.”
“Progress at last.”
“At Belle Pointe.”
“La-de-da.”
“You won’t believe my wife’s parting shot as I left her at the door.”
“Was it before or after you propositioned her?”
Buck laughed. “Actually, I did proposition her and it almost worked. But as if she hadn’t already tied me in knots, she tossed out a suggestion that I should rethink my decision about helping out at Belle Pointe this season.”
“Smart lady.” Ty applied pressure to increase range of motion in the knee.
Buck, in pain and sweating profusely, looked up into Ty’s face. “And you say that because…”
“Because I happen to agree.” He tossed a towel at Buck. “Plus, it’s something you know is right and, face it, you want to do it, but you’re just too damn stubborn to admit it.”
“I must have overlooked that part in your résumé that says you’re a freakin’ shrink,” Buck muttered with his face buried in the towel.
“Consider this. You’re stuck here and you’re bored. Instead of wasting time, you could do some good.”
“I’m reinstating Otis. That’ll do plenty good.”
Ty gave him a telling look. “Your mama will be forced to accept Pop to replace Wainwright, but you could make the transition a lot smoother. You know she’s going to ride hard on him, interfering, questioning his decisions, giving him grief wherever and whenever she can. Since rehiring him wasn’t her idea, she’ll almost make him wish he was back at Wal-Mart greeting customers.” He had the grace to smile. “Almost, but not quite.”
Buck sat up on the table. “Otis is tough. He can handle it.”
Ty sighed. “Yeah, he can, but admit it, Buck. Deep down, wouldn’t you like to be out there slogging around in that Delta mud? Instead of looking at these four walls, wouldn’t you like watching those little green stubs pop out of the ground and start growing? Wouldn’t you like to make a few changes now, this season, before it’s too late?”
“Any bright ideas I come up with, I’ll suggest to Otis and let him take the heat.”
Shaking his head, Ty wouldn’t quit. “In spite of the fact that you’re a superstar in St. Louis, I’ll bet you haven’t been able to resist keeping up with new ideas in all the stuff that cotton farmers not stuck in the twentieth century are trying but that they ignore at Belle Pointe. Stuff you trained for and got a degree in. So here’s a chance to play around with it a little.”
“I take it back,” Buck said, giving him a sour look, “you’re not a shrink, you’re a freakin’ salesman!” He slung the towel around his neck and reached for a bottle of water, then sat for a minute considering. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. Hell, I’ve been tempted, but—”
“But you might like it well enough that you fear losing your focus on rehabilitating that knee, right? And losing focus could mean you won’t be ready when ball practice begins next season. And if you aren’t ready, your career’s over. Where would you be without baseball?”
Hearing his fears spelled out with naked clarity made Buck’s blood run cold. But he played it light. “Next you’ll be making plans for me to start coaching Little League right here in Tallulah,” he said dryly.
“Not a bad idea,” Ty said, putting out a hand to hoist Buck to his feet. “’Specially when one of the kids would be mine.”
Or mine. The thought startled Buck, coming like a sneak steal at second base behind his back. He must be picking up on Anne’s obsession about having kids, which didn’t make a lot of sense after the fiasco of that dinner last night. The nuttiness of his family should have shored up his resolve to keep from bringing more little Whitakers into the world, not putting images of Little Leaguers in his head.
“Don’t we have work to do?” he growled and, for once, didn’t put up any resistance for the rest of the workout.
On Wednesday, Anne waited at the entrance to Daddy Gee’s, a popular diner on the square, when Buck cruised by in his SUV. Spotting her, he swerved
quickly to the curb, zoomed his window down and gave her his best smile. “Hey, a beautiful lady and right here at high noon. How about lunch? My treat.”
“I already have a date.”
In the act of climbing out of the SUV, his smile froze. “With who?”
“Whom. I’m meeting Beatrice and possibly Dad,” she told him. Even with the help of a cane, he moved with surprising grace and was beside her in a few strides. “Looks like your knee is a lot better,” she observed.
“Ty’s a miracle worker. He’ll have me running a five-minute mile in a few more sessions…if he doesn’t kill me first.” He glanced at a news box and began to fish coins out of his pocket. “I haven’t had a chance to read the Spectator yet. This is the issue featuring your first articles, isn’t it?”
“Hot off the press,” she said, wondering if he’d still be smiling once he read her profile on his brother. But that would be later. Beyond her shoulder, Buck spotted Franklin and Beatrice approaching, all smiles.
“Hey, folks, I was just trying to wheedle an invitation to join y’all for lunch.”
“Buck.” Beatrice’s face lit up. “I’ve been wondering when we’d see you. How’s that knee coming along?”
“Can’t complain,” he lied, jigging the cane. “At least not in public.” Without looking at it, he tucked the folded news-paper under one arm and shook hands with Franklin. “I was just trying to talk my wife into having lunch with me, but she tells me she’s already spoken for.” He turned his whiskey-gold gaze on Anne. “I’m hoping she’ll take pity and remember I’m doing my own cooking now and breakfast was—hmm, what was it? Oh, yeah, nothing. If I have to cook it, I skip it.”
Anne, watching, rolled her eyes at his blatant effort to charm the Marshes. But a part of her admitted that she wasn’t entirely immune to Buck’s charm.
“Hey, does Daddy Gee still make the best fried green tomatoes in the world?” he asked.
Beatrice laughed. “Certainly the best in Mississippi.”
“Considering we haven’t had a chance to catch up since you’ve been back in Tallulah, we’re willing to share,” Franklin said. He seemed to realize belatedly that Anne might not be willing. Hastily, he added, “Of course, it’s up to Anne…”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she said, sending Buck a sparkling look. “Are we going to stand out here all day?”
By the time they’d ordered, Buck had them all laughing. He had a full arsenal of charm and knew how to use it. Even Anne had to admit that his inside baseball stories were funny. Her heart gave a little jump when he turned to her. “So, have you been busy uncovering Whitaker secrets in the archives?”
“I don’t know if they’re secrets or not, but I have uncovered a few interesting facts.” She peeled the paper covering from a drinking straw and stuck it in a glass of sweet tea. “And I don’t think they’ll make you proud.”
Holding her gaze, Buck frowned. “How so?”
“Were you aware that a thousand acres of Belle Pointe land used to belong to Beatrice’s family?”
She expected a guilty look, but Buck’s reaction was plain confusion. “No, I wasn’t.” He glanced at Beatrice, who was suddenly busy twiddling with her napkin. “What about that, Beady? It had to be way before the Civil War because that’s when Buchanan Whitaker first bought the land.” His grin included Franklin and Anne. “That would be my great-great grandfather and namesake.”
“Yes, what about it?” Anne asked, looking at her stepmother expectantly.
Beatrice sighed. “It was a long time ago, dear.”
“But not as long ago as the Civil War,” Anne said. When she realized Beatrice didn’t intend to explain, she gave a huff of impatience and turned back to Buck. “It was in 1989. The land belonged to Harvey Jones. Somehow, he fell behind on his taxes and John Whitaker loaned him money to pay them. As luck would have it, both of them died that year within weeks of each other, which meant the Whitakers then held a mortgage on the land. They quickly swooped in and fore-closed on land that should have gone to my stepmother as Harvey Jones’s heir. So, instead of farming a total of four thousand acres of cotton, as they did before 1989, they then had five thousand.”
Buck looked at Beatrice. “Is this true?”
“Of course it’s true,” Anne said, while Beatrice obviously struggled to come up with a tactful reply. “You don’t have to try and pretty it up. It was a flat-out, old-fashioned land grab.” She was shaking her head. “What I can’t understand is how it could happen. Beatrice, was Harvey Jones your father or your grandfather?”
“Wait a minute,” Buck said. Reaching across the table, he caught Anne’s hand. “Calm down and give me a chance to ask some questions, will you?”
With a shrug, she spread her hands. “Go ahead.”
“No, let me tell it, and then if you have questions, I’ll try to answer,” Beatrice said. She touched her napkin to her lips. “Anne has the facts straight basically. What isn’t visible in a dry newspaper account is my father’s stubbornness and stiff-necked pride. In his old age, his health failed and, rather than ask for help, he let the taxes go unpaid for several years and ignored the county’s demands for repayment. Soon, the penalty and interest had reached a level that he couldn’t pay.” She shrugged. “And John Whitaker did float him a loan. They were friends.”
“He had family,” Anne said in distress. “You and a slew of relatives right here in this county. Nobody was destitute. Why didn’t one of them loan him money?”
“They could have—probably would have—but Harvey Jones was too proud to ask.” Beatrice cleared her throat, giving Franklin a quick look. “As for asking for help from me, he would have refused it even if I had known about his situation, which I didn’t. My father and I were…estranged.”
There had to be a good reason for bad blood between Beatrice and her father and Anne wished she could ask. The more she learned about her stepmother, the more fascinated she became. Someday, Anne vowed, she would ask.
“This is all news to me,” Buck said, pushing his half-finished meal aside. “My dad died in 1989, so it had to be only a matter of months later that this happened. Maybe you think I’m making excuses and it sounds pretty lame, I guess, but I don’t believe Dad would have condoned a land grab. It’s way late, but on behalf of the Whitakers, I apologize.”
Beatrice touched his hand. “It was a perfectly legal transaction. An apology is absolutely unnecessary, Buck.”
“It is, Beady. After Dad died, I pretty much turned my back on everything pertaining to Belle Pointe. But it’s one thing to distance myself from my family and another altogether to ignore my responsibility as part-owner.” He reached for a glass of water. “I’m here now and as soon as my knee is stronger, I’m going to be looking at a lot of things. ’Course, Pearce may not even notice. He’s never considered me much of a threat.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Franklin said. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I think if you stay around long enough you’ll find your older brother is quite envious of you in a number of areas.”
Buck gave a disbelieving snort. “Such as?”
“Your celebrity, for one thing. Why else would he aspire to political office if he didn’t crave the limelight? For years, he’s watched you in the public spotlight as a pro athlete. That’s a life that many men can only fantasize about.”
“Pearce never played any sport!” Buck argued. “He has two left feet. Hand him a baseball bat in the dark and he wouldn’t know what it was.”
“We’re not talking logic here,” Franklin said gently. “It’s plain, old-fashioned sibling rivalry.”
“It’s plain, old-fashioned bull—” He stopped abruptly.
Franklin leaned forward to make his point. “Deep down, Pearce knows your achievements are a result of your own hard work, whereas, by sticking close to home, he’s had the advantages of the Whitaker name to assist him in a variety of ways. In short, you’re a big fish in a very big pond.” He smiled as Buck actually blushed. “An
d Pearce is a big fish in a very small pond.”
“Just one more thing about the transfer of that land from the Joneses to the Whitakers,” Beatrice said with a soft smile. “It’s funny the way things work out. In spite of the fact that the house, along with the land, could have been lost to me, Franklin bought it.” She smiled. “Some women marry for money, but Franklin wonders if I married him for his house.”
“In other words, what goes around comes around?” Anne wasn’t even close to seeing anything funny about it. “Sorry, but I don’t see it that way. I—”
She broke off as Pearce Whitaker suddenly appeared at the table, clearly furious, but smiling tightly for the benefit of the diners who recognized him. “Here you are, Anne. Buck. Since I’m family…” he said it with a sneer, “you won’t mind if I join you.”
“We were just finishing up, Pearce,” Buck said in a dead-calm voice.
Ignoring him, Pearce gave Franklin and Beatrice a curt nod. “This won’t take but a minute and it’ll save me a visit to the Spectator.” With that, he jerked a chair out and sat down.
His smile at Anne was lethal. “What the hell are you trying to do to me?” he hissed, slapping the current issue of the Spectator on the tabletop.
“I assume you’re talking about the profile I wrote,” Anne said.
He bared his teeth. “This isn’t a profile, my dear sister-in-law, it’s a hit piece.”
“A hit piece?” Buck unfolded his copy of the Spectator and began looking for Anne’s byline.
“It’s on page three,” Pearce told him helpfully. “I guess I should be grateful it’s not on page one. How did that happen, by the way?” he asked Anne. “Then the whole world would have seen it instead of the limited number in Tallulah who can read.”
It was just such remarks as that that had influenced Anne’s profile of Pearce. “What is it that you object to in the article?” she asked.
“What the hell don’t I object to,” he snarled. “You led me to believe this was going to be a personality piece, an unbiased look at who I am, what I stand for, the good I want to do for voters. And instead I open the paper this morning and find I’m juxtaposed alongside my opponent and you portray Breedlove as God’s gift to the voters and you throw out a bunch of lies about me.”