His Perfect Bride (The Brides of Paradise Ranch - Spicy Version Book 1) (10 page)

The laugh bubbled up through Franklin’s gut like a spring breaking free of ice in the winter. He tried to stop it, tried to show some respect, but before he could clamp down, ripples of mirth spread up through is chest, hitting his throat with a deep chuckle that caused a smile—a real smile—to crack through onto his lips. His heart expanded in time to the knock of the ball against Harvey’s bat.

His reaction didn’t go unnoticed. Corva froze, watching him with wide eyes. Her cheeks glowed pink, and a spark flared to life in her eyes that caught his breath in his chest.

He needed to kiss her. The wild thought struck him, banishing every other thought from his mind. He needed more than that. He needed to hold her in his arms, feel her under him, alive with passion. She was so close that one small movement would bring her into his arms. He leaned closer, lips itching to meet hers. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Just a few inches, and—

“Ohh!”

“Oof!”

“Cheating, cheating!”

The crowd behind them went wild. Freddy and his friends, and several other men and women shot to their feet, shaking their fists.

Franklin gasped and straightened, searching this way and that, as if someone had poured ice water over him then disappeared. A second later, he focused on the action playing out on the diamond.

Billy Martin, their second-baseman, was down, writhing on the ground, clutching his shin, knee bent. Harvey stood on third, laughing up a storm, while the Bears players and fans cheered and shouted. Mason and Travis and half the rest of the Hawks sprinted to second base, where Billy had fallen.

“What happened?” Franklin’s heart was ready to beat clean out of his chest for a thousand different reasons.

“Harvey kicked him in the shin as he rounded second,” Freddy yelled, shaking his fist at the Bears. “Lousy cheaters!”

“Is he going to be all right?” Corva clasped one hand to her heart. The other gripped Franklin’s hand. He hadn’t noticed her take it, but he wasn’t about to let go.

They strained forward, waiting to see what would happen. Mason and Cody lifted Billy to his feet, but they had to carry him to the bench. Closer to home plate, several Hawks fans and Howard Haskell himself were arguing with Rev. Pickering, but judging by the helpless gesture the reverend kept making, he hadn’t seen a thing.

“Excuse me, excuse me, out of the way.” Dr. Meyers brushed people aside as he hurried down through the benches to meet Billy, who was laid on the grass behind the Hawk’s team bench.

“Keep playing,” Vivian screamed from the other side of the field. “Are you men or mice?”

“Play ball,” Melinda echoed, just as shrill.

Mason stood as soon as Dr. Meyers bent to examine Billy, and twisted back to the field. “Mike, come in and play second base. Travis, you and Gideon will have to cover the outfield.” He turned back to gesture to Cody. “Come on. There’s nothing we can do for Billy but win the game.”

As big of a thrill as almost kissing Corva had been—although with the light of reason dawning, it would have been scandalous to kiss her in front of most of the town—Franklin’s attention was now firmly on the game.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asked Dr. Meyers.

Dean Meyers shook his head. “Ted Harvey is all muscle. I don’t think it’s broken, but it is bruised. And there’s a good chance Billy pulled a tendon when he fell.”

Billy let out a string of expletives that had Corva slapping a hand to her mouth. “What about the game?” she asked a moment later.

Dean shook his head. “Billy won’t be going back in.”

The agony of knowing the game hung in the balance and the Hawks were suddenly short one man was enough to make Franklin want to march over to third base and punch Ted Harvey in the face. At least Mason was able to rally the team to catch the next Bear batsman out for three outs, but at the end of six innings, the score now stood at Hawks 3, Bears 4.

The seventh inning flew by with no runs scored on either side. It wasn’t until the eighth that Billy’s injury became a serious problem.

“I’ve got Mike on second and Gideon on first with one out.” Mason worked through the problem, pacing in front of the bench. “Billy is up, but—”

“He’s not able to play,” Dr. Meyers finished for him.

“And we’re short one player.” Mason nodded. “Knowing the Bears, they won’t let us bat out of order, not even for this.”

“You’re not short a player.” Corva sat straighter. All eyes turned to her. “You’ve got Franklin.”

They all stopped what they were doing. Mason stopped pacing, Billy stopped rubbing his shin, and the rest of the team on the bench turned to Corva and Franklin with varying degrees of shock and discomfort.

“I’m not an option,” Franklin whispered, cursing his crushed legs and the braggart’s pride that had destroyed them all those years ago.

“But you’re on the team,” Corva argued. “You’re sitting with the team too. You’re a player.”

“I can’t play,” he snapped, each word torture.

“You can’t
run
,” Corva corrected him.

“Come on,” Frisk shouted from behind home plate, where he was playing the position of catcher. “We haven’t got all day. Field a player or forfeit.”

“You’d love that,” Mason growled so that only those nearby could hear.

Corva stood and turned to face Franklin. “You can hit. I can run.”

Shock reverberated through Franklin. He reached for his cane and pushed himself to stand, if only so he wasn’t the only one sitting at such a crucial moment.

“Don’t your rules say that a man’s wife counts as the same as him?” Corva argued on.

“That’s in case of substitutions,” Billy grunted from the grass, where he still sat.

Corva whipped from him to Mason. “Is that what the rules say? Substitutions? Or do they say that they just count as the same player? Because Franklin could bat and I could run.”

Mason gaped at her, then scratched his head, then stared into space for a few seconds. He snapped himself out of whatever thoughts he’d had and launched into motion. “It’s the only option we’ve got right now.”

He marched over to where several bats were leaning against the end of the bench, selected one, then strode back and handed it to Corva.

Franklin met Corva’s eyes, so stunned by the turn of events that his head spun. Lucky for them all, he was also too stunned to protest. He tossed his cane aside and took the bat from Corva. Using it as a cane—along with the support of Corva’s arm as she looped it through his—they lurched forward toward home plate.

“We’ve got a substitution,” Mason called out, marching ahead of them so that he reached the plate, Frisk, and Rev. Pickering before Franklin and Corva could. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Haskell will be playing in place of Billy.”

As soon as the crowd caught on to what was happening, the fans on the Hawk’s side burst into wild applause and near insane levels of cheering, while the Bears fans—Vivian, Melinda, and Bebe leading—roared in protest. Franklin could barely hear the exchange going on at the plate until they reached it.

“—within the rules,” Rev. Pickering finished whatever he’d been saying with a shrug. “They have every right to play.”

Frisk cursed and spit and towered above Franklin and Corva as they found their way into position around home plate, but in the end, as Mason backed off and Rev. Pickering resumed his spot, he growled, “You won’t last an inning anyhow.”

The crowd continued to buzz and bristle as Franklin worked out the best way to set himself into batting position on broken legs and braces. His balance was completely off, and it’d been years since he swung a bat at more than just shadows. The first ball came whizzing past, and after the thump of leather hitting leather in Frisk’s catcher’s mitt, Rev. Pickering shouted, “Strike!”

A nauseous wave of impending humiliation washed over Franklin. He closed his eyes, adjusted his grip on the bat, and swallowed hard. Everyone in town was watching him, looking at him, his braces, his foolishness. Every one of them was likely muttering behind their hands about how much of an idiot he had been to get himself crippled all those years ago, and how he was a fool to think he could compete with the other men now.

The ball whistled past him a second time before he could even take a swing. Frisk swayed to the side, and Rev. Pickering called, “Ball one!”

Cold sweat broke out down Franklin’s back. That was a lucky pitch, too lucky. He had to focus, play the game.

His eyes met Corva’s for a fraction of a second. She stood with her fists clutched in her skirts—raised to expose her ankles—ready to run. She may have been a woman—a woman who had been through hardship that most people couldn’t begin to imagine—but she was ready, poised, strong. She would run to California and back if he hit the ball hard enough.

He narrowed his eyes at the pitcher, his heart swelling in his chest at the thought of Corva running. Every muscle and sinew in his body pulled tight. The Bears pitcher wound up, then threw the ball. Franklin swung for all he was worth.

Crack! The intense satisfaction of the ball hitting the bat poured through Franklin’s arms, shoulders, and back with a relief that was close to orgasmic. The ball flew hard, just over the head and outstretched arms of the Bears shortstop. It sailed on, smacking against the ground in left field and zipping through the grass.

“Run,” he shouted, though Corva had already taken off.

The crowd exploded in a frenzy of encouragement as Corva bolted for first base. She was absolutely right—she
could
run. He’d never seen a woman run so fast. Her skirts rippled in her wake, and strands of hair flew out of their careful style. Franklin’s heart stood still as the Bears left fielder scooped up the ball and threw it. Corva’s eyes were glued to the base as she dashed the last few yards. She might have been fast, but she wasn’t fast enough. Five yards, four yards, three yards…the ball was sailing faster. The Bears first-baseman reached out to catch it…

…and missed.

The crowd went wild as the throw overshot the base, spinning into the Hawk’s team area.

“Run, run,” Franklin shouted in elation, waving his arms at Corva to hurry on.

He was taken by surprise as Mike zoomed past him, earning the run that evened up the score. Gideon easily made it to third, but paused to watch—along with everyone else—as Corva sped toward second. The Bears first baseman had recovered the ball and hurled it toward second, but Corva landed—safe and sound—well before the second baseman caught it.

The crowd erupted with joy. Even the Bears fans were on their feet in awe. Franklin would have jumped up and down if he could have. He’d never felt so happy or so proud in his life. He didn’t realize he was laughing and shouting until Mason came up and thumped him on the back in congratulations…and to prompt him to move out of the way so Cody could take his turn at bat.

He was completely incapable of sitting down after his and Corva’s miraculous turn at bat, though. As Cody stepped up to the plate, Franklin stood just to the side of the bench where Billy and Dr. Meyers sat, Billy’s injury forgotten. Cody was good, one of the best players on the team. The Bears were riled up, though. Cody took his position at home plate, took a practice swing, and the pitcher threw the ball with a furious grunt.

It was a bad move on the part of the pitcher. Cody smacked the ball far out into left field. It sailed close to the boundary as Cody dropped his bat and sprinted, Gideon launched toward home, and Corva picked up her skirts and made a dash for third.

The Hawk’s fans went wild with cheers as Gideon crossed home plate, moving the score to 5-4 in their favor, but they didn’t stop there. Not to be outdone, Corva rounded third and kept on running, her face a mask of concentration. The Bears left fielder caught up with the ball and hurled it toward home.

Franklin’s heart stopped and time seemed to slow down as Corva raced the ball, barreling toward home plate. It seemed impossible. Frisk pivoted into position, glove open to catch the ball. He wasn’t going to miss the way the first-baseman had, but still Corva ran on. The energy from the crowd was enough to ignite the diamond, Corva’s face was red with effort and concentration, but the ball zipped on. Finally, as if sensing it was all or nothing, Corva extended her arms and leapt toward home plate, skirts flying behind her. She skidded across the dirt as Frisk caught the ball and thrust it down.

It seemed to take a lifetime until Rev. Pickering called, “Safe!”

Pandemonium ensued. The game wasn’t over, but the Hawks all exploded into cheers and shouts, leaving their positions to run toward Corva at home plate. Mason shot past Franklin, and in spite of all limitations, Franklin limped and staggered along with the team. He moved too fast and lost his balance, stumbling forward, but strong arms caught him and set him on his feet, pushing him on.

Mason and Gideon were lifting Corva to her feet as Franklin reached home plate. She was covered in dust from head to toe, spitting dirt even as she laughed to the point of tears. Ignoring everyone else, Franklin swept her into his arms, planting a solid kiss on her lips. She felt so right, so perfect in his arms. His body flared to life with need that rushed from his groin to his heart, in spite of the crowd around them. No one mattered but Corva, his wife. He didn’t even mind the taste of dirt or the mess it made of his clothes as she flung her arms around him in return, kissing him back and sending his senses reeling. They’d done it. They were a team. They’d made each other brilliant.