Holm, Stef Ann (5 page)

So
much for respectability.

Miss
Camille Kennison was going to take a walk down Elm Street.

* * * * *

Alex
had an appreciation for wood.

Most
of his life, he'd earned his living from it. In his early youth, by carving
scythe handles for cutting tobacco in Cuban fields. At nineteen, by swinging a
bat at baseballs, a professional career that had lasted six years. And now, at
twenty-eight by designing and creating furniture.

To
Alex, wood defined who he'd become, where he'd been.

He
skimmed a jack plane across the hinged top of the bride's chest he was
finishing for Grant Calhoon's daughter. The tool seemed dwarfed by his grasp
and, to an observer, would look ineffectually held by his large hand. But Alex
was always in control, passing the blade with a fluid motion over the wood's
surface.

The
wood felt warm and smooth beneath his touch. He caressed it like he would a
woman, slowly sliding his hand over the grained surface, feeling every
sensation in his fingertips. Sometimes he'd leave a slight dimple on the
finished surface—much like that of a barely discernible mole on a woman's inner
thigh. Small blemishes lent certain furniture character.

Inside
the wood shop, the mellow scent of old wax and boiled linseed oil hung in the
air. They mingled with the woodsy distinction of ash. He'd left the barn-size
doors open so the fresh smell of that particular wood wouldn't trigger
memories. But it did.

It
stirred in him the overwhelming desire to once more become a part of the
American pastime: baseball. To go home. Home to the sport he'd loved because of
its speed and grace, failure and hope, and the defining moment that overrode
every other feeling ever known: winning the game.

That
surging emotion, that passion to play that came with the arrival of spring and
ended with onset of autumn, could still grip him three years after he'd quit
But now, they were merely two seasons in a calendar of four. He no longer
allowed himself to anticipate either, because he'd sworn to never again pitch
another ball or swing another bat.

Thoughts
clouded his gaze, and he set the jack plane down. He left the bride's chest and
went to his workbench, where he placed both hands on the side rest and leaned
forward. A suffocating feeling pulled the air from his lungs.

He
couldn't afford to let baseball haunt him now. Only the present mattered.

Alex
reached for the door handle on one of the wall cabinets above the bench. Hidden
behind the boxes of cut nails and cans of varnish was an envelope. He slid it
from its niche and held on to it as if it were thin glass. He read the typeface
in the left corner.

Silas
Denton Sanatorium for Nervous Diseases

209
Niagra St., cor. Main

Buffalo,
N.Y.

Holy
Christ—a big problem weighed on him.

Money.

He
needed a lot of it. Close to four thousand.

Alex
didn't know why he felt he had to look at the envelope. By memory, he knew what
was typed on the outside and printed on the inside.

Silas
Denton was renowned for his treatment of brain disorders. His sanatorium had
pioneered innovative ways to deal with patients. Alex had no intentions of
abandoning Captain to their care. He would go with him and make sure nothing
went wrong. Because none of those blood-letting docs who'd put Cap through hell
for years in the Baltimore Hospital for the Public had made any progress.
They'd scared him senseless.

Within
a week, Alex had moved him to the State Orthopaedic Hospital and Infirmary,
hoping they'd be able to help. During the day, Alex worked as a carpenter so he
could pay for the bed and treatments Cap needed. The nights, he spent with
Captain, reteaching him everyday things like how to tie his shoe, use
silverware, and recognize the letters of the alphabet.

Although
Cap lived in relative peace, his outbursts of paranoia, terror, and desperation
made Alex fear Cap would lose what was left of his mind if he left him in the
infirmary. So he made the decision to have him released into his care. The
physicians told him he was making a severe mistake, but they gave him Cap's
medicines and told him to keep him on a specified dose and to mail them for
more when he ran out.

It
had been with unshakable belief that Cap could recover that Alex had put Cap
and himself on the first train out of Baltimore to Montana. Montana held a
special meaning for Alex, and he hoped that the spirit that had touched him
years ago would touch Cap and make him better. Only Cap wasn't getting better.
In fact, he seemed to be getting worse.

He
had his good days and his bad days. Sometimes a spark of memory from the
hospital would ignite in his head and he'd become petrified. It was growing
more and more difficult for Alex to reassure Cap that things would turn around.
What had happened yesterday at Kennison's Hardware had been the deciding factor
for Alex.

He
couldn't always be with Cap. If that woman hadn't been there—he hated to think
of what could have happened.

Alex
drew a deep breath. He didn't know her name. He'd been aware of the vague scent
of her perfume, but he hadn't really looked at her. Their eyes had briefly met,
hers brimming with genuine concern. For a moment, he tried to remember their
color. Light. Blue? Like summer skies? It really didn't matter. He wouldn't be
sticking around in Harmony. So he put the image of her face out of his head.

It
was clear Captain had to see the best doctor there was. And that was Silas
Denton. But for that to happen, Alex had to come into a large sum of money.

Tucking
the letter in its place, he closed the cupboard and went back to the bride's
chest. As he smoothed the jack plane across the wood, he went through his
options.

He
could sell the wood shop. But he'd barely make squat. Whoever bought it would
have to know what to do with it. The tools were of no value to somebody who
didn't understand wood.

He
could advertise his skills in nearby Waverly or Alder. But it would take a hell
of a long time to accumulate extra income. The bride's chest he was finishing
sold for twenty-eight dollars. He'd have to make a couple hundred of them to
come even close to the four thousand.

So
how to come up with it? Of course he knew the answer. In truth, he understood
what he would have to do—a sad irony that only Captain would understand—if only
he could.

"Mr.
Cordova?"

Alex
swung around, his body tight, his thoughts evaporating into the thin summer
air. He hadn't heard anyone approach the shop.

A
woman stood in the double-wide doorway, sunlight spilling over her. She looked
like an angel— blond, tall. She wore pale colors, the light fabric of her skirt
doing a soft dance around her ankles.

Christ.
It's her.

Alex
slowly relaxed his stance. "Who wants to know?"

She
took a few steps forward, her walk assured. He liked the way she held herself,
the way her hair looked soft tucked beneath her hat.

Then
she did something that surprised him. She extended her hand.

He
didn't readily take it. Merely stared at the white silk of her gloves. The
slenderness of her fingers. The tiny pearl buttons that ran up the inside of
her wrist. He swore he could almost see her pulse point, that muted beat of her
heart beneath her delicate skin and glove.

The
awkward moment dragged on until he grasped her outstretched hand. A jolt of
heat shot up his arm from her touch.

"Mr.
Cordova, I'm Camille Kennison. And I've got a proposition for you."

Alex
arched
a brow that had as much suggestion in it as his smile did. "I'm always
interested in a proposition from a beautiful woman."

The
forthrightness in her handshake weakened, but her confidence didn't diminish as
she slid her hand from his fingers. "Not that kind of proposition. You
see, my father owns the hardware store—"

"I
guessed as much. You have the same last name."

Turning
away, Alex began to work on the chest again. He sat on the overturned crate and
ignored her as best as he could. He had no trouble guessing the nature of her
proposal. What got his back up was that he hadn't though Kennison would stoop
so low as to have his daughter do his bidding.

"Mr.
Cordova." She moved closer to him. The sheer layer of lace on her skirt
nearly brushed his elbow. "I'm sorry about yesterday."

"Forget
about it."

"Is
Captain feeling better?" When he didn't reply, she went on. "He felt
very strongly about not having his beard shaved."

Alex
never talked about Captain's confusion. It was a private matter between him and
Cap. "Go home, Miss Kennison."

"I
can't. Not until you hear me out." She laced her fingers in front of her.
Dammit.
Even knowing what she'd say before she said it, a cold sweat broke out on
his brow. "The Harmony Keystones would like to contract you to play
baseball."

"Not
interested."

"I
know my father's asked you before, but this is different.
I'm
asking
now, and I—"

"Not
interested." His glare warned her not to push him.

Her
pale blue eyes didn't flicker in alarm. Or fear. Or show any other kind of
emotion but set determination. Because it came at the expense of wearing him
down, he grudgingly admired her fortitude.

"I
can understand your reluctance to talk with me, but I can assure you that I
don't have my father's temperament. Or that I don't use his tactics to make my
point."

A
light draft of air stirred the fine curls of wood shavings littered over the
dirt floor. He watched them as they tumbled over one another, skittering across
the tips of Camille's tan shoes. The fragrance of her perfume intruded into his
male sanctuary. Lavender. Sweet lavender.

"There
is no point to make." Alex quit using the jack plane and rubbed his thumb
over a small nub in the grain. He liked it. He'd leave it.

"Oh,
but you're wrong," she said.

The
conviction in her voice had him looking at her once more. A skein of golden
blond hair touched her ear, and he grew mesmerized by it as she spoke.

"I
have a substantial offer for you to consider. One I'm sure my father has never
brought you."

Snapping
out of the fog that held him, Alex gave her a hard stare. "I don't play baseball."

"So
you've said. But as you know, the Keystones have lost their first thirteen
games this season—"

"No,
I don't know. I don't follow the game anymore."

"Then
you aren't aware of the American League."

He
said nothing.

"They're
newly formed this year. Clean ball is their main platform. No profanity on the
playing field, and the umpires are legitimate agents of the league. Even your
old club, the Orioles, are now in the American League. Things are quite
different from the National League. The motto is 'a fair game and a good time.'
"

"I
don't give a bag of peanuts, honey."

That
got her. She seemed to stand a little taller—as if to show him she wasn't weak.
The soft-spoken Camille Kennison might not raise her voice, but she had a
thread of stubbornness that lay hidden beneath the cool white surface.

"I
do
think you'll
give a bag of peanuts
when you hear the
details." The edginess vanished, replaced by calm. "We're prepared to
pay you two thousand five hundred for this season. We can't legally offer any more.
The American League has imposed a salary cap."

The
amount didn't stick in his brain because he didn't want to remotely consider
it. But he did slant his gaze over her shapely breasts and curvy hips. He'd
never run across a woman who had the body of Venus and could walk and pin her
hat on at the same time. "How do you know so much about it?"

"My
father eats baseball, breathes baseball, thinks baseball, dreams baseball, and
incorporates baseball into every meal in our house." She gave him a glib
look. "I'd have to be deaf
not
to know."

Well,
hell. So maybe there was more to her pretty head than just a place to put her
hat.

"We
may not be able to pay more than twenty-five hundred," she repeated. She
was wasting her breath. He couldn't play baseball. Not for her father. Not for
anyone. "But we can give you a bonus of three thousand five hundred for
the exclusive use of your photograph and signature."

He
went still, his throat tightening. Swallowing, he asked, "What was
that?"

"A
bonus of three thousand five hundred dollars."

The
computation in his head was lightning quick. Six thousand. Two thousand more
than he needed.

She
had to be screwing with him. He pinned her with a dark frown, but those rosebud
lips of hers didn't twitch. They remained as lush and full as when she spoke
those his-problem-was-solved figures.