The Bridegrooms (9 page)

“One final thing.” She was no longer yelling, as by now even her softest whisper would probably strike fear into the hearts of anyone in the room. “If I catch any one of ya layin’ so much as a finger on any one of my girls, I’ll strip ya down and grind ya up for sausage. Startin’ with your feet so ya can watch the whole thing. And if you doubt me, poke yourselves into my kitchen and see how handy I am with a cleaver.”

The next sound was that of a swinging kitchen door, and Vada, who had witnessed Molly’s finesse with a knife, shuddered on behalf of those on the tail end of the threat.

“What in the blazes is all this noise?” Her father’s voice drifted from the top of the stairs.

Finally, someone who could answer her questions. Vada tugged herself away from Lisette and hurried up the stairs, thankful for the relative privacy of the stairwell. “Doc, can you please tell me what’s going on?”

As an answer, he beckoned her to follow him up the final steps and into the hallway to the first room on the left. Her room. The door was closed, but he opened it and stepped aside, allowing her to enter ahead of him.

At first it seemed little more than a scaled-down version of the scene downstairs. Just three men were in the room, each wearing the signature knicker uniform. They stood with their backs to the door, one shoulder to another, their feet at a wide stance, their heads bowed, caps in hand.

Doc cleared his throat. “Step aside, gentlemen. If you would.” Silently, the three stepped back and parted, making way for Doc to get closer to Vada’s bed. “Come see.” He beckoned and Vada stepped forward.

On any given day, her narrow bed would be covered with a lavender quilt patterned with scattered peonies. Now, lying atop her pristine bedding was a man dressed in a tattered brown suit. Someone, at least, had thought to remove his shoes, which fell short of a blessing as it forced them all to see a pale, white toe jutting through a hole in the well-worn sock. The pants were frayed at the hem, and the shirt was coarse cotton, but clean. His hands lay perfectly still at his sides, knobby wrists poking out of cuffs fastened with twine.

Her gaze followed, up to his pale neck, riddled with an angry-looking red rash, to the face framed by the pure white linen of her goose-down pillow. He had broad, soft lips topped with a thin fuzz of mustache and a narrow nose with the tiniest hook at the top. But above that nose—that was the image that caused Vada to gasp.

“Oh, dear Lord!”

The man’s eyes wore a mask of bruising. Deep purple orbs extended to the top of his cheeks, filtering nearly to the temple. And his forehead, where thick, blond hair had been slicked away with water, was equally discolored—a marbled pattern of red and purple and green, with a distinctive mark just above his left eye. Vada leaned closer.

Lace marks. Like someone had molded a baseball right into the flesh.

“What on earth?” She reached forward but kept her fingers aloft.

“Got hit with a clean line drive.” The voice behind her was rough but warm, and it held the last three words just long enough to indicate the speaker was from somewhere south of Cleveland. Maybe Texas? And he spoke with an air of admiration, although she couldn’t decipher just what was being admired.

“First home run of the season,” said the second man at which the third snorted.

“Quite a price to pay for a silly game.” Her father spoke from just behind her, and she felt his hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, Doc. Is he…?”

“He’s unconscious,” Doc said.

“Knocked clean out.”

“Dropped like a sack of hammers.”

“Poor sucker never saw it coming.”

“Unfortunately neither did my outfield.”

The ensuing laughter enraged Vada, and she spun around only to find herself inches away from a Bridegroom, according to the letters stitched across the expanse of dark gray fabric. B
RIDEGROOMS
. Faint lines crisscrossed each other creating a field of perfect squares, and the center was laced up in a pattern identical to the wound on the unconscious man’s head.

The shirt was open at the top, revealing a triangle of sun-bronzed skin. She had to take a step back to take in the breadth of him, and she lifted her gaze to look up and up and up, past a strong, clean-shaven jaw, not stopping until she found a pair of warm hazel eyes—a mischievous marble of brown and green—poised on the cusp of a wink. Never, in all the time she’d known him, had Garrison ever looked at her in quite that way.

She squelched the unwelcome flutter his gaze invited and tried to remember why she was angry. Oh yes. The man on the bed.

“How can all of you laugh? A man is dying here.” She managed to tear her eyes away from those tipped with ginger-colored lashes and looked to her father. “Isn’t he, Doc? Is he dying?”

“I don’t know.”

Her father’s words brought a quiet to the room that her outburst never could, and Vada took the opportunity to study the other men in the room. Neither stood as tall as the one directly behind her, though the three of them served to dwarf her father in their midst.

“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my daughter. Vada, this is Mr. Oliver Tebeau.”

“Most call me Patsy.” He had a face as round as a chipmunk and wore a rough woolen shirt that long ago lost its battle to be white. The word S
PIDERS
crossed his chest in a rainbow arc of square block letters interrupted by a vertical row of black buttons.

She hesitated to take his outstretched, chapped red hand, but her self-taught good manners trumped the aversion and she took it, forcing a smile as his skin chaffed against hers.

“Third base and manager for Cleveland.”

“And this is Mr. William Barnie.”

“Call me Billy.” He reached out a hand as soft and moist as Mr. Tebeau’s was rough and dry. Mr. Barnie was bald as an egg on top of his
head, with a fringe of salty blond encircling the rest of it. His eyes were pale blue, his mustache tipped with gray, and his uniform so precise—down to the crisp bow tied at the base of his throat. Probably hadn’t seen a speck of dirt in years.

“And this young man,” Mr. Barnie said, taking the burden of introductions away from her father, “is about the most powerful hitter you’re gonna see in this league. Lucky LaFortune.”

She snatched her hand away from Mr. Barnie, but not in time to conceal the most impolite snicker at the ridiculous name.

The bearer of the amusing moniker offered an odd, adorable smile that started at the center of his mouth and extended up toward his left ear, creating a half-moon of white, straight teeth.

“That ain’t but my name on the field,” he said, the accent more pronounced. “My given name’s a whole story, but you can call me Louis.” By the time he’d finished speaking, his smile was a blinding crescent in the midst of a clean-shaven, sun-kissed face. A smattering of pale freckles graced his cheeks and nose—to be expected given the red-ginger color of his close-cropped hair.

She wasn’t exactly sure when her palm landed squarely in his, but there it was, nestled in a warm, strong grip. Suddenly it seemed as if all eyes—save for the ones closed behind bruises—were staring at her.

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Tebeau. Mr. Barnie.” She turned her head to acknowledge each one. “Mr. LaFortune.”

Clearly, if she waited for him to release her, they might all have to bed down for the night on her floor. Resisting the urge to outright yank herself away, she slid her fingers from within his clasp and asked why the man hadn’t been taken to a hospital rather than her bedroom.

“Bit more privacy here,” Mr. Tebeau said. “We don’t need the press snooping around, trying to make their slugger look like some sort of killer.”

“Now, that is uncalled for.” The corners of Mr. Barnie’s mustache blustered in his outburst. “I think you are simply more concerned with maintaining this ill-gotten reputation of being a field of goody-goodies—”

“Our team has a spotless record—”

“Until a certain player of yours goes on his drunken rampages—”

“Sockalexis is ten times the player of any man in your uniform!”

“Gentlemen, please!” Her father nearly jumped out of his shoes to break up their conversation. “There is a critically injured young man here. I expect a little decorum. If you must continue this conversation, I insist you take it outside. And I don’t mean
downstairs
. I mean out of my house and down the street. And take your men with you.”

Mr. Barnie and Mr. Tebeau eyed each other uneasily, spun in slow unison, and wedged themselves through the door.

“If’n you don’t mind,
mon vieux
, I’d like to pass some time here to see if the boy wakes up.” LaFortune’s smile was gone. His eyes were cast down, and he shuffled uneasily from one foot to the other.

“Of course, son.”

Vada’s heart ached at the tenderness in her father’s voice. Maybe it was the utterance of the word
son
and the way it seemed to clutch at the top of his throat.

“I do have things to tend to downstairs. Vada?” Her father paused at the doorway, waiting for her to follow, but she still had so many questions. Now that the dueling managers had been dismissed, maybe she could get some answers.

“I’ll be right down, Doc.”

Thankfully he didn’t press the matter, only issuing her an unmistakable warning glance before pushing the door open wider before leaving.

“He a good man, your pa-pa.”

“He’s an excellent physician.” She focused on the wounded stranger.
It seemed the best way to keep her thoughts straight. “So he was hit with a ball.”

“Yes, that.”

“But he’s not a player?”

“No, ma’am. Was sittin’ in the stands. Must-a had him a good seat too. Right up front. Beg pardon…” His voice caught, and whatever words that were to follow were swallowed up in his welling emotion.

The sight of this tall, strapping, handsome man seemingly moved to tears and the plight of this helpless wounded soul made Vada swell with an overwhelming need to offer solace.

“Oh, you poor, poor man.” Vada resisted the urge to offer a comforting touch. “Are you the one who—”

“Yes, ma’am. It was my hit. A good ‘un too. Not too high. Sailin’, sailin’ until…boom!” He slammed his fist between his eyes. “
Frappe-à-tête
and I reckon he just gone down.”

His words meandered from one language to another. French, from what she remembered from school. The poor, wounded one temporarily forgotten, she tilted her head and batted her eyes.
“Vous êtes français?”

“Pas du tout.”
He puffed with pride. “Slithered out of Louisiana swampland, bayou born.”

Vada’s mind leaped to stories of ports and pirates, powerful, dangerous men. She tried to picture Lucky Lou LaFortune sporting a red head kerchief and gold earring and found it a surprisingly easy picture. After all, here he was, tall, broad shouldered, able to knock a man unconscious with the swing of a bat. Once again, she dragged her thoughts back to the matter at hand.

“Did you…
see
him fall?”

“Too busy runnin’. But I hear tell after that he just dropped.”

He was once again overcome, bringing the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle what might have become a heartfelt sob. This time, Vada did not resist.

“There, there…” She put a gentle hand on his forearm, right where he’d pushed his sleeve up to his elbow. The feeling of his skin seemed too intimate for this setting, however, with only a comatose chaperone, so she moved her hand up, resting lightly on the firm bicep.

Perhaps he too was uncomfortable with her touch, because he flexed his muscle not once but twice. The feel of it was thrilling. Too thrilling, and she took her hand away after the fourth. “I’m sure there was nothing you could have done.”

“Maybe he couldn’t. But
I
could.”

Startled, she spun around, but nobody was behind her. Nobody in the open doorway either.

“I shoulda caught that ball. Didn’t even call it.”

The muffled voice came from behind the open door. Vada moved it aside to see yet another young man in a Spiders uniform—himself a rumpled mass against the wall. Long, dark hair fell into a red-blotched face. He’d been crying for some time apparently, and he was crying now, though he attempted to stem his tears with balled fists thrust into his eyes.

“Ah, see here
bougre
.” Lou walked over and crouched down to come nearer to speaking with him face to face. “You don’ know you coulda caught that ball.”

“I didn’t even try,” the Spider said. “Didn’t even put my glove up. Didn’t even
see
it. I was too busy looking at her.”

“Who?” Lou asked.

“Vad-aaa!” Lisette’s singsong voice announced herself. “Papa says for you to come downstairs!” She skipped into the room wearing a
naughty grin that grew more mischievous as she looked between Vada and LaFortune.

At Lisette’s entrance, the young Spider scrambled up the wall, bringing himself to his full height, which put him just to Vada’s shoulder. The poor boy looked terrified as he worked to smooth the hair from his face and plunk the cap back on his head. His eyes, dark brown pools of leftover tears, drank in the vision of Vada’s youngest sister.

“Actually, Papa says
both
of you should come downstairs and let the guy have some quiet.”

“What—” The Spider cleared his throat and tried again at a lower octave. “What about me?”

Lisette looked at him, her eyes trailing from cap to toe, as if deciding whether or not to squash him. “What about you?”

“Should I stay here? Or go downstairs with you?”

Lisette shrugged. “I hardly think it matters.”

She flounced out of the room. The Spider, none the worse for the slight, trailed behind her.

Vada followed suit, assuming Mr. LaFortune was in tow, but a gentle sound brought her up short. She didn’t recognize the tune, or the words, but the essence was unmistakable.

She turned to see Mr. LaFortune sitting square on his haunches, his hands gripping his cap loosely between his knees. He leaned close to the wounded man’s ear—as close as his posture would allow—and half whispered, half sang: