by Karen Young
“Yeah.”
It was sensitive territory they were treading, Buck thought. The best thing would be to quit now, but there was something about the way Jack looked. His concern for Claire was genuine. “Her parents sent her off to that boarding school to separate you two. Did you know that?”
Jack laughed bitterly. “It worked. Out of sight, out of mind. I never got a postcard from her, let alone a phone call.”
“She was only sixteen, Jack. She didn’t stand a chance of holding out against powerful parents like the Schofields. You remember Bert Schofield. He was a mean SOB.”
“So when she comes home, she goes right out and gets married?”
“If I recall,” Buck said quietly, “you weren’t anywhere around. You’d joined the army.”
“If you recall, I didn’t have a helluva lot of other choices.”
No, but Jack had made the best of the choices he had, Buck thought, which was more than could be said about Claire. “You wouldn’t still be carrying a torch for Pearce’s wife, would you?”
“I got over it.”
“Uh-huh.” Buck studied the pattern of the ugly tile on the floor for about a minute before looking up to study the face of his friend. “I’ll just say this, Jack. Claire’s pretty fragile right now. Anne and I discussed it after having dinner with the family last weekend. The fact that you’re aware of her problems concerns me. And it’s none of my damn business. But she’s pretty vulnerable and if you made a pass—” He put up a hand when Jack opened his mouth to object. “Hear me out. If you made a pass, she’d probably fall in your hands like a ripe peach.”
“I wouldn’t do that. You know I wouldn’t do it, Buck.” He paused. “But you and Anne could help. Nobody else in her life will.”
“Did that just come to you out of the blue?”
“If you hadn’t come in soon,” Jack said, “I planned to give you a call. And before you refuse, there’s her daughter to consider. Think of Paige.”
Buck rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “The first step is for Claire to admit she’s got a problem. I’m not sure it’s totally a drinking problem, but I’d be out of line suggesting what else I think it is.” Pearce was Claire’s problem, but he could hardly say that to Jack. “Are we clear?”
“We’re clear.”
At the door, he added, “I hope I didn’t offend you. Last thing I’d do, Jack. For what it’s worth.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He was halfway down the hall before he stopped and turned around. Leaning heavily on the cane, he made it back to Jack’s office and found him standing exactly where he’d left him.
Jack looked at him. “What?”
“I’ll take a few of those flyers. You just might be the man.”
Shit. Buck stood on the sidewalk outside the police department with a stack of Jack Breedlove’s flyers in his hand and scowled at a mud-spattered pickup rattling around the square. First Ty and his daddy, then Beatrice’s family’s land, then Belle Pointe’s cotton crop and now Claire’s problems. Getting involved deeper every day, Whitaker, he told himself with disgust. This was not the way to stay detached so he could be out of here as soon as he made things right with Anne. What he ought to do was hole up at the lodge and not come out, no matter what or who acted as if they needed him. Damn.
The pickup suddenly stopped with a squeal of tires. With his elbow hanging out, the driver grinned broadly. He was a carbon copy of Daniel, the young cop behind the desk at the police station. “Buck! Hey, man, my brother called me. I got my baseball bat here in the truck. Would you autograph it? I even brought my own Sharpie.”
Buck laughed shortly. “Bring it on.”
Fifteen
Anne had begun using the town library accessing Web sites dedicated to helping people find their birth parents. It had been two weeks so far and she hadn’t had much luck. Without a single clue, it was proving difficult to locate a woman who wished to keep her pregnancy a secret. She was aware of the risks of showing up in some woman’s present life, and she promised herself she would back off when and if it meant hurting someone.
Caught up in her thoughts, she took no particular notice of a car parked in front of the Spectator building until she realized Buck was behind the wheel. Her heart did a little dance at the sight of him climbing out of the driver’s seat, his hair all windblown and his smile half-cocked. He wore faded jeans and a dark green golf shirt, which made him look a little too appealing and a lot too welcome. But she struggled to keep her feelings off her face, and watched him walk toward her without his cane.
While she was still gauging his gait, he walked right up to her and, in front of anybody on the street in Tallulah who might be looking, kissed her. It wasn’t a quick hello kiss, but a slow, sensual, possessive greeting. “Hey, sugar,” he said, letting his eyes roam her face. “You ready to take a spin in your new car?”
“It’s a convertible,” she said, when she finally managed to look at it.
“Nothing but the coolest for my honey,” he said, gazing fondly at the car, not her.
“You said you’d rent the same car I have in St. Louis.”
“No, I said I’d rent the same brand—a Mercedes—and I did.” He dangled the keys in front of her nose, his eyes dancing. “Want to go for a spin?”
“I was just about to catch a ride home with Dad.”
“I called your office, trying to reach you. Where were you?”
“Oh…around.”
“Uh-huh.” With their marriage on the rocks, he seemed hesitant about pushing her for a precise explanation. “Instead of a ride home with your dad, wouldn’t you rather test drive your new wheels?” He put his arm around her shoulders and urged her toward the car. “You’re gonna love this automobile, sweetheart.” Because it was a neat car, she decided not to object that he hadn’t consulted her on the model.
He made a big production of settling her behind the wheel and handing over the keys. While she checked the controls, he got in on the other side and sat sprawled against the passenger door, facing her. “Buckle up, sugar.”
She glanced over at him. “You, too. I don’t have to remind you what happened the last time you ‘forgot,’ do I?”
“But I was stupid and ticked off and you aren’t either one.” He did as she ordered anyway while she backed out.
“Where to?” she asked, merging with the traffic on the square.
“The lodge,” he told her. “Two reasons. I had to leave my SUV there while I delivered the Mercedes to you, so I won’t have wheels until somebody—” he winked at her “—drives me out there to pick it up. I’ll need it to drive to Belle Pointe.” When her eyebrows rose in question, he grinned. “A couple weeks on the job and Ma hasn’t fired me yet.”
“And the second reason?”
“You’ve never been to the lodge.”
“Very slick, Whitaker. But don’t get any ideas.”
“I always get ideas when I’m with my wife.”
“Aren’t you farmers supposed to work from daylight to dark?” She glanced at the clock on the dash. “You have a couple of hours before the sun sets.”
“That’s just the point. You need to watch the sunset at the lodge. As for Belle Pointe, not to worry, Oscar has things under control…provided Ma doesn’t butt in.”
“It’s not only Belle Pointe affairs that she sticks her nose into,” Anne replied. “After reading my article about Pearce, she came to see me to express disapproval and to tell me to stop digging around in the Spectator archives. She warned me that facts taken out of context could sabotage Pearce’s campaign.”
All traces of his good humor vanished. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
She gave him more details of Victoria’s visit. “She was dead serious, Buck, which tells me she thinks I may find something embarrassing to Pearce.”
“Or to herself,” Buck muttered.
“All she accomplished,” Anne said grimly, “was to increase my curiosity. Until then, I’d been sort of cas
ually interested in Tallulah and Belle Pointe, but now I’m wondering what she doesn’t want me to find.”
“Yeah,” he said, frowning as he pointed left at an upcoming crossing.
She turned as he indicated and headed due west on a road that led directly to the Mississippi River. After a while, following his directions, she assumed they were close to the Whitaker lodge. Another turn and sure enough, there it was nestled in a grove of native hardwood trees. Built of river cypress and weathered to a silvery hue, it was a West Indies style structure with a wraparound porch her father would call a gallery from which she guessed the view of the river must be stunning. She caught her breath, wishing she was out of the car to get the full effect of the house, the grounds, the trees, the quiet setting.
“It’s beautiful, Buck,” she breathed. “No wonder you wanted to stay here.”
“I knew you’d like it,” he said, his eyes on her, not the lodge. “And I’d like staying here a lot more if you were with me.”
She turned from the picturesque scene and looked into his eyes. He’d taken several opportunities to touch her and kiss her since showing up on her doorstep three weeks ago and, in this beautiful setting, he must surely have seduction in mind. But he surprised her by simply reaching for her seat belt, not her body. “Park under that oak tree,” he said. “I’ll give you a tour.”
After she got out, he caught up with her as she rounded the front of the convertible, casually lacing his fingers with hers and falling into step beside her on the crushed gravel path leading to the house.
She stopped at the foot of the porch steps. “Wow, with your knee, how have you managed to climb these steps?”
“Painfully. Twenty-six of those suckers. But it’s quiet out here and nobody knocks on the door asking for my autograph.”
Once they were inside, he gave her the tour and they wound up in the kitchen. She refused a drink, but volunteered to make iced tea.
“Iced tea?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“It’s a Southern thing I’ve come to appreciate,” she told him. “Have you bought any groceries besides beer, peanuts and nachos?” Left on his own, that was usually what he survived on back in St. Louis.
With a flourish, he threw open the pantry door and presented her with a box of tea bags. Knowing he never drank tea, hot or iced, she made a quick inventory of the shelves, then looked at him suspiciously. “Assorted teas, whole wheat pasta—my God!—oatmeal? Have you had a brain transplant? You’ve never tasted oatmeal in your life.”
“I bought all the stuff you like hoping we’d wind up right where we are.”
“In the kitchen?” she asked, smiling. “You surprise me.”
His expression was wry as he leaned against the old-fashioned oak table. “Careful, sugar. I’m a man who’s been deprived of my wife’s company for a long time. You keep on lookin’ at me like that and I might think of another way to use this old table. That kiss outside your daddy’s building a while ago was supposed to whet your appetite.”
And it did, but she couldn’t afford to let him know it. Out here on the river, utterly isolated from anything except the power of her attraction to Buck, she was in more trouble than if she was caught in the hazardous undertow of the mighty Mississippi. While she still could escape, she moved toward the kitchen door. “Forget the iced tea. I’ll just have bottled water.”
While he rummaged in the refrigerator to get it, she asked, “Where’s your exercise room? I didn’t see anything on the tour.”
He loosened the cap on the bottle and handed it to her. “What kind of exercise did you have in mind?” He grinned at the look she gave him and spread his hands, boyishly innocent. “Okay, I’ll behave, but I can’t promise for how long. First chance I get, sweetheart, I’m jumping your bones. Fair warning.”
With his fingers again laced with hers, he led her through the lodge to a room that was outfitted with every conceivable physical therapy gizmo. She withdrew her hand and moved to examine an elaborate machine with a confusing array of weights and pulleys. Buck focused obsessively on a goal and it appeared he had everything needed to overcome his injury and be back on the mound next season.
“Is it working, Buck?” she asked, studying his sleek, six-pack abs in the golf shirt. He looked fit, better than he’d been since the season ended last year.
“I guess. Yeah, it’s working. I tossed the cane yesterday.” Avoiding her gaze, he gripped two tough elastic cords, stretched them to maximum length, then held to a count of ten before repeating the exercise. After performing the exercise a few times effortlessly, he dropped the cords with a clatter and looked at her. “What would you say if told you that since I got here I occasionally dream about something besides being out on the mound pitching?”
In the act of drinking from the bottle, she paused. “I would be surprised.”
“Yeah, and I’m not talking about making love to you. I’ll never stop dreaming about that.” He moved to the window and looked out. Since they were at the rear of the lodge, the view was not of the river, but of woods, quiet and dark. Green. Peaceful. “The accident and the trouble in our marriage made me rethink a lot of things, such as, what to do with the rest of my life.”
She took a seat on a stool. “Then that makes two of us.”
“I don’t have much to be proud of when I look in the mirror lately. Wrecking the Porsche, nearly killing myself and you, too, was just the last in a long list of dumb things. Add to that Casey Carlton dying in my house and I have trouble looking in the mirror. Casey was good, Anne, a natural. Another season and he would have been starting pitcher, not me.”
“I think I know where you’re going with this, Buck, but—”
“No. I need to say this. Maybe if I’d spoken up about the steroid shit going on, he would be alive today. Guys juiced up on that stuff can turn real mean real fast and some of them had been giving Case a hard time since he was signed. I could have stopped it that night with a word. Instead, I went inside and got another beer.” He reached up and adjusted the blinds against the setting sun. “Next thing I knew, the kid was floating facedown in my pool.”
“You weren’t the only person who could have done something that night, but didn’t, Buck. There’s plenty of blame to go around.”
“It was my responsibility. The kid drowned in my pool, at my house. It’ll be on my conscience ’til the day I die.”
“I didn’t realize you felt so guilty.”
“When I drive around here in Tallulah and see they’ve named a street after me or a ball field at the high school, stuff like that, I want to rip the signs down and tell them there are guys right here in Tallulah who are a lot more worthy of those honors than me.”
“They’re proud of you. It’s perfectly appropriate to name a street and a ball field after a hometown hero. If they knew how tough it really is to be where you are and do what you do, they would probably name the town after you.” She screwed the cap on the bottle of water. “Bucksville instead of Tallulah, how does that sound?”
“Pretty awful. Besides, I don’t feel like a hero.”
“Depends on how you define hero.” She bent and set the bottle on the floor beside her. “You heard what my dad said when we had lunch at Daddy Gee’s. You’ve been very successful in a highly competitive field. It takes courage to go out on that mound in front of thousands of fans knowing what the stakes are.”
He stood looking at her for a long minute, then left the window and moved to a bench press opposite her. Throwing a leg over, he straddled it. “I had two goals in mind when I followed you back here to Tallulah. I’d work on winning my wife back and I’d get in shape to play baseball. I didn’t count on being drawn into the stuff I left behind years ago. Now, not only am I reconnected with my family—and finding them as screwed up as when I left—but I’m actually working at Belle Pointe where I see them every day.”
“Did you actually think you could just sit around and do nothing for several months?”
“I
didn’t think beyond getting here,” he said.
She realized he was serious. Buck had more energy than two men put together. His motor was always running. In St. Louis, when he wasn’t playing baseball, he was on the golf course. He played tennis, poker, hung out with his buddies, tinkered with his cars, kept up with the competition and made a lot of personal appearances to promote the Jacks. What he thought to do in Tallulah to fill up the hours when he wasn’t engaged in physical therapy, she didn’t know. Even if he thought to hang out with her—after talking her into it—it still would not have filled up all his days and nights.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that things had changed at Belle Pointe since I left,” he said, making brief eye contact with her. “And I didn’t like what had happened when I wasn’t looking. First they grab a thousand acres from the estate of a man who was my father’s friend. And then I find they fired Ty’s daddy for daring to speak out about disgusting wage cuts. And this is a man who worked hard for the Whitakers for a lot of years, Anne.” He looked down at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. “Once I thought I could walk away from Belle Pointe and nobody would be hurt when I knew—I knew!—Pearce would only do the right thing if it didn’t cost him in any way.”
“Is it Pearce who’s to blame for everything?” she asked. “Isn’t your mother the guiding force at Belle Pointe?”
“I don’t know which one to blame, maybe both. And I don’t think it really matters so long as things change,” Buck said, now rubbing a spot between his eyes as if to ease a dull ache. “My dad’s got to be turning over in his grave. He was passionate about the land, about Belle Pointe. He knew its history from the journals kept by a string of Whitakers before him and he revered his birthright. I remember him sitting in his study meticulously recording facts and figures. Computers hold all that information now, but there’s no computer program as meaningful as those journals.”
“Where are they now?” Anne asked, her gaze following him as he rose and moved to the windows again. The Spectator archives were interesting, but her heart beat faster at the thought of reading a hundred and fifty years of journal entries by Buck’s ancestors.