by Cathy Bryant
Little Bo came to stand beside him, his eyes full of admiration. Andy held up a fist, and Bo bumped it with his, releasing a contagious giggle. His lips turned up in a grin that melted Andy’s heart. He’d made the right call.
An inscrutable expression covered Trish’s face. What was in those troubled brown eyes of hers? Apprehension? Appreciation? A mixture of both?
Half an hour later, Andy clutched the team roster and followed Trish and Little Bo outside.
“Let me see.” Trish snatched the paper from his hand and scanned the list. Her eyebrows rose.
“What?”
“Congratulations, you have some of the biggest troublemakers in town on your team.” She practically crowed the words, then handed the list back to him, the May breeze trying to tug it from his grasp.
“Ah, c’mon, they can’t be that bad. They’re little kids.”
She turned and made her way down the sidewalk. “Take my word for it.” She kept walking, but called back over her shoulder. “And if you think they’re bad, wait until you meet their parents.”
* * * * *
The following Monday afternoon, Trish attempted to corral a squirming mass of wild boys. The little guys’ laughter and excited chatter ricocheted off the concrete floor, sweat already pouring from them in the afternoon heat. She waved a hand in front of her face to stir up a slight breeze in the midst of writhing boy bodies and blew out a breath that fluttered her bangs. Why had she volunteered to help with the team?
Andy entered the dugout, his hair curling up around the edge of his Texas Rangers baseball cap. “Hey, guys, pipe down!” His firm, but kind tone caught their attention, and they quieted, except one.
The Clark boy—the one responsible for Bo’s trouble at school—continued to prattle away. Trish pressed her lips together and made a move toward the kid to silence him.
“Hey, young man, what’s your name?” Andy’s voice rang out behind her, and she shifted so she could view them both.
The kid wore a cocky smirk. “Brody. Why?”
“’Cause I asked you to get quiet, and you didn’t.” Andy pinned the boy with a dominating gaze, and the silence in the dugout grew more oppressive than the humid heat. Finally, he turned his focus back to the group. “That’s more like it. Everyone have a seat and listen up.” He squatted in front of them, rotating his head as he spoke, looking each boy in the eyes. “Guys, the main thing we’re here to do is have a good time, but I also want to teach you a few things about baseball. We’re gonna work hard on hitting and catching and running.”
“Running? Man, I hate running.” Brody Clark’s tone dripped disdain.
To his credit, Andy ignored the comment, as if it weren’t worth his time to respond. “First, I’m gonna hit a few balls to you, and I want you to field them and throw them in.” He demonstrated how to hold the tip of their gloves to the ground, then turned them loose, their hoots and hollers sounding like Indian braves on the war path.
Trish looped her fingers through the chain-link fence in the dugout and relished the southerly breeze blowing through her sweat-dampened hair.
Andy tapped balls toward the boys like he’d coached his entire life, his easygoing gait and attitude the perfect line-up for a team-full of rowdies. In a matter of minutes he’d won them over, and judging by the smiling faces of the parents in the old wooden bleachers, they were also pleased.
Bo focused on every word Andy spoke, his face jubilant as Andy hit him another grounder. Lord, let this help him get past the accident and move on with his life.
“Great job, Bo!” Andy cupped his mouth to yell the words then gave him a thumbs’ up.
The joy on her son’s face merged with unadulterated admiration, and Trish’s breath clung to the inside of her throat. What if he got too attached? The anxious thoughts curdled her empty stomach. Good grief, didn’t she already have enough to fret over? Why add more? The unsettled feeling continued to nag.
Next Andy had the boys take turns at bat. “Line the bat up with the top of the T, then pull back and hit the ball, keeping your arms and the bat straight.”
Trish’s heart ached as Joey Peterson—a child with a terrible home life, as evidenced by his ragged clothing and unkempt hair—tentatively tiptoed to the batter’s box. With his bony, bird-like frame, she doubted he could even lift a bat, much less swing it. After listening to Andy’s instruction, Joey nodded, hoisted the bat to his shoulder, and swung, but only managed to smack the rubber part of the T. The ball landed in the dirt with a thud.
“Way to swing that bat, buddy. I can tell you’re gonna be a real slugger.” Andy patted his shoulder, then scooped up the ball and repositioned it. “Now you just have to make contact. Don’t take your eye off the ball when you swing, and let your arms come all the way around.” Andy pretended to hold a bat to demonstrate.
Joey tried again. Crack! The bat made contact, and the ball sailed in between first and second base. “I hit it!” Hollering at the top of his lungs, Joey bounced like a pogo stick, while the rest of the team scrambled to recover the ball.
“Atta boy, Joey!” Andy resembled a kid himself, his face crinkled in a broad grin. “Gimme five, dude.”
They slapped hands, and Joey, a new-found confidence in his step, swaggered to the field to let another boy have a turn. When Andy faced her, she quickly erased the admiration from her eyes and replaced it with cool disinterest. He already had several fans, and she had no plans to join the club.
Practice ended a half hour later. Andy huddled the team together to remind them of the next practice, then sent them on a run. “Three times around the bases before you go home.”
All the boys dashed off as fast as their pint-sized legs would carry them, except Brody, who headed for the dugout.
“Brody,” Andy called after him. “Where you going?”
“I don’t wanna run.” He turned his back and resumed his leisurely trek.
Andy broke into a lope and beat him to the entrance by a couple of steps. He bent forward, hands on his knees, to make eye contact. “Sorry, bud, but if you’re on this team, you do what I say.”
The fence rattled. “It’s time for me to get Brody home for supper.” Carla’s deep voice sounded behind her.
Trish turned.
Carla’s expression mirrored the same disrespect as Brody’s. “Surprised to see you here, Trish.”
“Why?” She tried to maintain a calm, even tone.
Carla glanced slyly toward Andy, then shifted her electric-blue eyelids to Trish. “Already in the market for a new man, huh?”
Trish’s flesh flushed ice-cold, and her fingers furled into fists.
Andy stepped up between them. “Hi, I’m Andy Tyler. You Brody’s mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice to meet you.” He cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “I’m sure you realize how important it is for Brody to follow the same rules as the rest of the team.”
Carla didn’t bat an eye, just chomped her bubble gum. “Sure, but not tonight. I already told you. I gotta get him home.”
Andy held her gaze a minute more. “Okay, but if he’s not able to run the bases by the first game, he’ll sit on the bench.”
A string of cuss words missiled out of Carla’s thickset lips as she gripped Brody’s hand and yanked him toward the parking lot.
Andy stood for a long moment, his long-lashed eyes narrowed and lips protruded. Then he clamped his mouth in a firm line and turned to face her. “She always like that?”
“Mmm-hmm. She used to cause trouble when we were in school together, and now her son has taken her place.” She swallowed her discomfort. This had to be said. “Sorry you overheard her comment about us. I assure you that’s not the case.”
Andy grabbed the metal bats and slung them into an army-green duffel bag where they clanged against each other. “Don’t worry about it. I know her type.”
“Be careful. She can stir up quite a hornet’s nest when provoked.”
He returned hi
s focus to the parking lot as Carla spun out in her old Ford pickup and sent gravel spewing. “Thanks for the warning.”
“You did a great job with the kids.” Trish blurted the words then hesitated, unsure how to continue. How could she express her gratitude without playing into Carla’s insinuation? “I’m not sure Bo would’ve played this year if not for you.”
Andy grinned, causing her heart to pound faster. “Thanks. I’m not sure I would’ve coached if not for him.”
One by one, the kids completed their laps and trotted out the gate to waiting parents. Trish checked her watch. Good. She had just enough time to get to Dad’s, fix them all some supper, then get Bo home for homework, a bath, and bed. After that, she’d work on locating the building plans Andy had requested. Little Bo galloped up, his face flushed with sweat and excitement. “That was so much fun.”
Before she could respond her cell phone buzzed. She flipped it open and moved it to her ear. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, honey. Listen, don’t worry about fixing supper for me tonight. I’m eating in Morganville.”
Morganville? Trish furrowed her eyebrows. What was he doing in Morganville? He ended the call before she had a chance to ask, and left her staring at the phone, puzzled.
“Something wrong?” Andy stood nearby, in his usual hands-on-hips pose.
“No, just a little weird. Bo and I usually eat with Dad, but he just called to say he’s eating in Morganville tonight.” What would they eat? More crackers and grilled cheese sandwiches?
“Well, I know a poor starving bachelor that would love to have you cook for him. I’ve had a hankering for steak all day.”
Her eyebrows twitched with a brief frown.
He must have noticed it, because his smile was quickly replaced with a questioning look. Did he already regret the offer?
She pressed her lips together. “Sorry, but I’m fresh out of steak.”
“Well, I can remedy that.” Without allowing her time to protest, he sauntered to the parking lot, bat bags in tow, Little Bo on his heels like a lovesick puppy following his master.
But Bo was her puppy. A sigh ripped from her throat, and she trudged after them. How was she supposed to deal with this?
Later Trish forked the meaty rib-eyes from the pot-bellied grill, the heat from the charcoal blasting her face. The aroma of fire-licked beef wafted from the plate, her salivary glands quick to respond. Not surprising considering she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Andy peered up from his perch in the breakfast nook when she entered, his arm at rest on the chair behind her son. Bo slumped over an assortment of papers. The scene twisted her insides into a knot—a knot she’d never untangle. At least homework would be done, and one less thing for her to do later. But with Bo so content and agreeable when Andy was around, how would he ever recover if and when Andy was no longer there? No matter how hard she tried to ignore it, the troubling thought niggled at her.
Bo shoved a paper under Andy’s nose.
His blue-green eyes awash in merriment, Andy snatched it away and held it up to examine it. “This is the best handwriting I’ve ever seen.”
Her son chuckled, his face a-glow. “Nuh-uh. You’re just saying that.”
Andy leaned down close. “If I had writing like this when I was in kindergarten, they probably would’ve moved me to second grade.”
Trish set the barn-red plates on the table. “Y’all ready for supper?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Andy jumped up to help. “That smell is driving me crazy.”
Bo cleared away the stack of papers. When she pushed a plate of food his way, he raised both fists in the air. “Yay! No grilled cheese sandwich!” He stabbed a bite-sized piece of steak she’d carved for him and stuffed it in his mouth.
Trish’s cheeks heated, and Andy winked. “Well now, I happen to love grilled cheese sandwiches. In fact, that’s what I’m going to ask for next time.”
Her heart lurched. Next time? Could she take any more? Already her heart could burst under the pressure. Somehow she had to let Andy know this would not be a regular occurrence.
Bo shook his head, still chewing with chubby chipmunk cheeks. “You wouldn’t like ‘em if you had to eat ‘em all the time.”
Andy must’ve read the embarrassment on her face, because he rapidly changed the subject. “We ready to bless the food?”
Trish nodded. “Would you mind saying the blessing?”
They all joined hands—joined hands!—as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if they were a family.
When the prayer ended, Andy gave her fingers a squeeze, and her pulse catapulted into overdrive. Okay, after Bo was in bed, she had to make sure he knew where she stood. That is, if she could figure it out.
As the meal wore on, her shoulder muscles unknotted, and she enjoyed the time more than she’d first thought possible. The tender steak melted in her mouth and left her rejuvenated. Conversation flowed with frequent rounds of laughter. They finished the meal, and Trish turned to Bo, battle-ready. “Time for a bath, and then bed.”
“Oh, Mom, do I have to?”
Andy gave him a look of mock surprise. “Of course you have to. Anyone who plays on my team has to be clean and asleep by nine o’clock.”
Bo grinned, and in a surprise move, rose from his chair and headed to the bathroom without a fuss.
Trish forced her mouth shut. “How’d you do that, and how much would you charge to do it every night?”
Andy shrugged, a cocky, lopsided grin sprawled across his handsome face. “You just gotta have the magic touch.”
“Well, you have it all right.” But was that a good thing? She stood to clear the table.
He joined in without a word, humming a cheery tune as he scraped dishes, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped down the table and counters.
A flurry of unease skidded along her spine. What if this—whatever this was—was only setting all of them up for major disappointment and heartbreak?
They’d just finished cleaning up when Bo plodded in wearing his Veggie Tales pajamas, Larry the Cucumber prominently displayed on his chest, and a book tucked under one arm.
Just like before Doc died. A painful lump lodged in her throat and brought a blinding sting to her eyes.
Andy’s humming halted in mid-stream, his widened eyes perusing her face. “You okay?”
Trish faced away, palms plastered to the counter. “H-he brought a book to read. He hasn’t done that since . . .”
“How do you want me to handle it?” His voice held the calm of a glassy mountain lake.
She peered over her shoulder at Bo’s expectant face. “Would you mind reading to him? He’s had trouble sleeping recently, and it might help.”
“Okay.” He sauntered over to Bo and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, bud, want me to read that book to you?”
Bo grinned wide, his eyes almost disappearing, then latched onto Andy’s hand and tugged him toward the sofa. Andy sank to the cushions and propped a pillow behind his back while Bo wiggled onto his lap.
“What reading material do we have here?”
“It’s my horse book.”
Her stomach landed at her feet. His favorite book. Would it be too much for him to handle?
Warm and relaxing, Andy’s voice soothed her soul like a gentle summer rain. A few minutes later he grew quiet and rotated his head toward her. “He’s out. Want me to carry him to bed?”
He couldn’t possibly be asleep. Trish hurried to the sofa. The sight of her son sleeping peacefully in Andy’s arms brought quick tears that flashed both hot and cold. She moved her lips to speak, but no words sounded. Instead she pointed the way and followed.
Andy laid Bo in his bed and gently covered him with a blanket, his jaw pulsing. He stood, with his gaze locked on Bo for a moment, then glanced at her, an inscrutable expression on his face. “We need to talk.” His eyes bored into hers, exposing every inch of her soul.
“Let me turn on the lamp for Bo firs
t.”
“I’ll wait in the family room.” He pivoted and strode away.
Trish closed her eyes. God, help me know what to do and what to say. I don’t understand what’s happening, and I’m scared.
A verse she’d memorized as a child flooded her thoughts. What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee. Yes, trust. That’s what she needed to do, but why did she constantly require a reminder?
Chapter 12
Andy escaped to the safe and comfortable confines of the family room and rubbed a hand across his mouth, the evening stubble on his chin making a scratchy sound. He wandered to the back window that. The meadow, now dark and fathomless like beckoning deep water, appeared both cool and menacing. Too late. He was already in way over his head.
It would be far too easy to get used to this routine of home and family. But was it the right thing to do? He raked a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. Why had he dared to test troubled waters? The undertow tugged at him now, drowning him in “what-ifs.” God, give me wisdom.
Trish’s footsteps sounded on the hard-wood floor behind him, and he turned. She didn’t smile. “Would you like a Dr. Pepper?”
“Yes, please.”
A study in casual elegance, she glided to the kitchen, sans shoes. Ballerina-like, with long limbs and a slender neck, she reminded him of a graceful swan afloat on a sea of trouble. Her hands trembled as she removed two glasses from the well-organized cabinet, filled them with ice, and opened a two-liter. The fizzy liquid hissed, then sizzled and popped as she poured it over frozen cubes.
He took the glass she offered, then trailed behind her to the mossy-green sofa. He sank down on the opposite end and searched for a way to start the conversation.
Trish perched on the edge of the cushion, as if allowing herself the option of a fast getaway. “This is awkward, Andy, but it needs to be said.” She ran a hand up one arm. “Bo is getting attached to you, and it scares me.” The murky depths of her dark eyes swam with worry.
“I’m scared, too.” Did he dare reveal his fear of giving them his heart, only to have it crushed?