Holm, Stef Ann (48 page)

Camille
hopped to her feet and rushed the field. "What's the matter with you? Do
you need spectacles or something? The first baseman wasn't even on the bag.
He's safe!"

Mr.
Carpio pursed his fleshy lips, spit spraying from his mouth as he spoke.
"I've had about all I can take from you. Lady or no lady, you've come out
here one too many times to question my calls. You're fined two hundred big
ones."

Her
mouth dropped open; her lungs fought for air. As soon as she started giving him
a piece of her mind, she couldn't hold back. "Why don't you make it three
hundred? You don't know the difference between a ball and a strike. You've been
miscalling them all day. You couldn't flag down a wagon if it ran over you,
much less make a judgment on a small white ball flying in the air. You don't
know what you're doing you... you catfish-faced sourpuss."

"You're
out
of the game!" His fist came down in one big swoop through the
air, a sign of ejection.

"You
can't do that to me!" she cried. She was beyond being reasoned with. Tears
had begun to roll down her cheeks and she dashed them away with the back of her
hand. "It's not my fault you're blind."

Mr.
Carpio pushed his face up close to hers and yelled so loudly, her eardrums
rang. "Get out of my ballpark, lady!"

Completely
losing her composure, she hollered back, "You can't make me!"

"I'll
have the coppers take you out by force," he shot back, spittle on his
lips. "I can and I do have the authority to get my demands met!"

Before
she knew what was happening, strong hands held her beneath the arms and lifted
her off her feet. Startled, she jerked her head to the side to see Alex, who
was in the process of hauling her from the field.

As
she protested and tried to wiggle free, he only gripped her tighter. Several
more attempts to rid herself of him got her as far as littering the grass with
fruits that had flown off her hat. It was useless to fight him. He had the
unbending strength of an iron fence.

Once
in the clubhouse, he set her on her feet. She scrambled away from him to catch
her breath. She would have put the desk between them if it had been in the
middle of the room. As it was, it sat in the middle of wide open space she
didn't want to venture into. And when he took a step toward her, she halted him
with a raised hand.

"Don't
come near me, Alex."

"Camille—"

"I
don't want to talk to you. I'm upset about the game. I never lose my
temper." Devastation spun inside her. "I got thrown out by the
umpire."

"You're
not upset about the game." He moved toward her and she took a step back.
"It's more than that, and we both know it."

"Then
there's no point in saying anything."

The
words hung between them.

On
a shuddering breath, she blurted, "You're leaving me." A stabbing
hurt settled in her heart and she almost laughed at the revelation. "Is
that what 'no promises' meant? You've known all along."

His
jaw visibly tensed. "Yes."

"I
never thought you'd walk out on your contract and... leave me." She couldn't
face him any longer. She had to turn away so he couldn't see the fresh tears in
her eyes she tried desperately to keep from falling.

"I'm
taking Captain to a special doctor in Buffalo, it's true." Alex's tone was
low and pained. "Silas Denton is the best in his field. He can help
Captain remember Joe."

"Well,
good then. I think you should go," she said with some bitterness in spite
of the fact that Alex had Captain's best interests at heart. They came at the
expense of breaking hers.

She
felt Alex draw up to her back. He stood so close to her, his breath touched the
side of her neck and brought shivers across her skin. Thank goodness, he didn't
touch her. She would have broken down if he did. "Camille, I don't want to
leave you—"

A
burst of noise intruded on the clubhouse as Cub and Yank came rushing in.
"Cordova! Come on!" Cub shouted.

Yank
hollered, "You're up to bat!"

Alex
looked at them, then at her.

She
fought hard not to start crying again. "Get out there," was all she
managed.

Then
after a glance at her, he left.

It
was
up to Alex.

All
of a sudden everything had come down to this. A 1-1 score. The Keystones up at
bat with two outs. Jimmy Shugart on second and Duke Boyle on third.

Alex
stepped into the batter's box, but his gaze wasn't on the men waiting in their
places for him to hit a ball that would either end this game or bring it to
extra innings.

Indecision
sliced through Alex. Everything about the situation told him he should have
stayed with Camille. She was more important to him than winning. But he knew
what was important to her—proving to her father that she could manage a bunch
of ballplayers and make them into a winning team. So he had to do everything he
could to help her with what she wanted.

Giving
the Keystones the pennant.

"Are
you going to take a pitch, Cordova," came the needling voice of the
catcher, Lou Criger, "or are you going to stand around all day,
honeybee?"

Alex
shot his gaze over his shoulder, looking into the face behind the wire mask.
The Somerset catcher crouched low, knees ups and legs wide. He popped his fist
into his glove and gave Alex a sneer.

"What
are you waiting for, honeybee? An invitation?"

The
noise of the cheering fans amplified, rushing in on Alex. He could barely think
above the screams and shouts that roared onto the field.

In
a quick glance at the soaring stands, he saw Captain in the first row amid the
sea of hats and parasols. Though sitting, Cap stood out. Tall, wide-shouldered,
with gleaming black hair and a body that emphasized his strength. Sunlight
glimmered in Cap's gaze. He stared at Alex with an undefinable emotion in his
eyes. The way he held himself was so much like Joe.

Alex's
heart hammered in his chest. He looked away, struggling with keeping his head
clear. His grip on the bat slipped and a heavy feeling settled in his stomach.
He needed more time. He had to talk with Camille.

Turning
once more, he continued to search the crowd in the hope she'd taken a place
among them. He sought a fruited hat and a dress that was as white as snowy
clouds.

He
found neither.

"Cordova,
I'm going to call a strike on you if you don't get into the box and take a
pitch," Carpio warned Alex from his position behind the catcher.

Alex
stepped back up to the plate, stared beyond Cy on the pitching mound, and
narrowed his gaze down the diamond to the runners. Jimmy and Duke were counting
on him. The Keystones were counting on him.

Camille
was counting on him.

Lifting
the bat in his grasp and digging his feet in,

Alex
nodded to Cy. Cy came after him with a fastball, waist high, right over the
plate. Alex took a swing. And missed. The ball thudded into the catcher's
glove.

"Sttttttttttrike
one!"

Swallowing,
he took his stance once more, the catcher riding up to his leg, bumping next to
him, talking to Alex beneath his breath.

"That
was as dim as a headlamp, Cordova." Lou's laughter floated to Alex.
"You took a strike on a ball that should have ripped Cy's head off and
gone out into right center field."

The
truthful commentary had Alex gritting his teeth. He inched up on the plate so
the catcher would give him some room. But the Somerset player crept forward
with him, nudging his right leg with his shoulder.

Undulating
waves of heat radiated off the field, popping beads of sweat on Alex's brow.
The dampness of his skin made his uniform stick to him. The underarms of his
jersey were wet with perspiration. He tried to focus on the images in front of
him, but he couldn't see clearly.

And
that's when he felt her as sure as if she'd touched him. Releasing his
position, he took a step toward the stands and shielded his gaze with his hand.
He raised his eyes, searching, wanting to find Camille.

And
there she was.

Watching.
Waiting with an expression that spoke every hurt she must feel.

"Play
ball, Cordova!" Carpio shouted, drawing Alex back toward home plate. The
umpire stood with his knees bent, hands clasped behind his back, peering at the
batter's box. Reluctantly, Alex stepped into it, shifted his feet, and lifted
his arms with a grim grip on the handle of his lumber.

The
catcher butted up against him, glove out wide, waiting to catch the next
strike.

Alex
choked up on the bat, his nerves stretching thin. "Get back, you son of a
bitch," he cautioned in a low tone. "I'm liable to rip your head off
when I swing."

"Fat
chance, honeybee. I'm a lot faster than you."

Alex's
arms crooked, his shoulders swung forward. In that fraction of a second it took
him to get ready, Cy had already released the ball. Caught off guard, Alex took
a slice at it, drawing the bat too far back. The tip connected with the
catcher's shoulder, the jolt his body received knocking his mask off his face.
Lou went down in the dirt, a spurt of dust coming up as his steel muscles
collapsed. Laying beside him was the iron cage that was supposed to protect his
head, banged up—useless.

Oh
Jesus. No!

Tossing
his bat, Alex was on his knees before he thought, leaning over Lou with a chill
in his blood. Fright held him in it clutches, cold and icy. He began to shake
as old memories came at him with a speed he couldn't shake. Captain out cold on
the plate. Blood spilling from the side of his head. The umpires closing in.
Sandy Beecher hollering for help. Chaos.

Oh
sweet Jesus.

Seconds
ticked by that seemed like minutes.

Motionless,
Lou lay there, his eyes closed. Alex gently laid a palm on Lou's shoulder,
turned, and opened his mouth to call for a doctor.

"Get
away from me, Cordova."

Alex
jerked his face back to the catcher.

Lou's
eyelids had snapped open, and he struggled to sit. "I can get up myself,
you damn honeybee."

As
the catcher went to his feet and dusted himself off, Alex stumbled to his feet.
He took a deep breath and tried to relax; it was hard not to be caught in the
cobwebs of the nightmare. He heard sounds around him—the jeers from the
Somersets, the return taunts from the Keystones.

The
specifics of the taunts didn't register in Alex's head, but their meanings were
clear in the tones of the voices. Alex's troubled spirit wouldn't quiet. He
retreated a step, then another. He began to walk—to walk to the dugout, walk
out of the game. He couldn't do this. He couldn't play.

Everything
around him had fallen apart.

Reaching
the bench, he threw his cap into the dirt and didn't meet the gazes of the
Keystones who had stood and pelted him with their disbelief. They tried to
shout over one another.

"What's
the matter?"

"Go
hit the ball!"

"Are
you crazy?"

"You
can't quit!"

"Get
your bat!"

Crowding
him and hollering over each other, they told him to get back out there. Amid
all the uproar, only one voice got through to Alex.

"It
wasn't your fault."

Alex
spun around to find Captain standing in a slash of sunlight that tipped the
edge of the dugout. His expression was sober, his eyes filled with depth. And
understanding.

"It
wasn't your fault."

Alex
couldn't have heard him correctly. He thought Cap said...

"Shut
up!" Alex yelled at the Keystones harshly in a voice sharp with warning.
"What did you say, Cap?"

The
discord in the dugout faded to mumbles.

Captain
continued with quiet emphasis. "Lou was leaning into you." He lowered
his chin, shuddered, then raised his head—and Alex stared directly into the
eyes of Joe McGill. "Just like I did."

Alex
stared at Joe; his thoughts spun in a hundred different directions.
Joe
knows me. He knows what I did. He has to know who he is. And he's not telling
me I ruined his life.

"I
remember," Joe said.

Clamping
his lips together, Alex shook his head. He couldn't trust his voice.

"It's
okay, Alex." Joe went to him and comforted him with a pat on his arm.
"I'm not mad."

Hot
moisture in Alex's eyes blurred his vision as he studied Joe's face. "But
you should be."

"I
can't get mad at things I did to myself. And I don't think you should be mad at
yourself."

Joe
bent down, picked up Alex's baseball cap and handed it to him.