Holm, Stef Ann (44 page)

"Poker?"
The implication hit Alex with stunning force. "Where were you, Cap?"

"The
Blue Flame Saloon."

He
tried hard to contain his expression of surprise. "How come?"

"Because
I felt like drinking a beer." Cap's reply was matter of fact.

Before
he thought, Alex said, "But you don't drink beer."

"I
know that." Captain's features grew set "But something in my mind
said a cold one would hit the spot."

"So
you went into the saloon."

"I
did. I ordered a beer and I played some poker. All I had to do was see those
cards in my hand and I knew how you arranged them to win. I didn't lose a
single game. That's how come that guy hit me. He accused me of cheating."
Cap shoved his handkerchief into his pants pocket. "Have you ever thought
about the nice sound cards make when they're being dealt?"

"No,
Cap, I haven't" But he remembered hearing about somebody else who always
said that very same thing many years ago. He pointedly looked away from Cap,
unable to meet him fully in the eyes.

"Well,
they do. I could sit and listen to the sound of shuffling cards all night. And
I would have if that guy hadn't hit me."

Keeping
still, Alex said, "I don't know why you'd ask to play, Cap."

"I
wanted to win all that money."

Alex's
chin lifted. "Why? I would have given you some."

"I
couldn't have taken your money, Alex. When a man wants to buy a woman a
present, he doesn't go borrowing the money from somebody else."

"What
woman?"

"I
noticed Hildegarde fancies the bottle of that Violette France perfume they sell
at the mercantile. It's from Paris." An expression of wonder appeared on
Cap's face. "Do you think it's really from Paris?"

Without
weighing the question, Alex replied, "I don't know."

Thoughts
flashed through Alex's mind. He wanted Captain to get well, and tonight was
another step toward his reawakening. Beer and cards and a fight. This was all
Alex should have desired—Cap returning to his former self. It should have been
all he needed. But he wanted to reach out and grasp Camille and her love as
well.

Hell.
Alex
wanted too much. He wanted everything.

He
was dreaming. It wasn't going to happen. He couldn't get around the fact that
Captain was his first responsibility, and Captain needed to go to Silas Denton
to fully recover.

"Hey,
Alex?"

"Yeah,
Cap?"

"I
won six dollars and some change."

"That's
good." Alex fingered the matches in his pocket, the pack of smokes he
couldn't go for with Captain around. "But next time, don't get hit after
you win it."

"No,
I don't think I'll be playing poker anymore. It's dangerous."

As
they walked away, Alex couldn't help looking over his shoulder for a parting
glimpse of the house. The bedroom light had been turned down and the inside
grew dark and quiet. Camille remained hidden to him, much like the feelings for
her in his heart.

But
as Alex's thoughts returned to the present and his gaze followed Camille as she
walked to her desk in the clubhouse, he wondered just how much a heart could
betray before it was found out. Would there come a time when she'd look at him
and know he was lying about his feelings for her?

She
slid her chair out, but she didn't sit in it right away. She looked at the men
who should have scattered behind the dressing curtain as soon as she'd come in.
Her frown wasn't for their lack of modesty. It was the fact they'd been
scratching it up— trying to be discreet about it, but failing for the most
part.

"I
thought we've had this discussion before." She stared at Specs with
disappointment. "I see they've finally corrupted you."

Specs
firmly shook his head. "No, ma'am. Somebody has corrupted the
jockstraps."

"What?"

"Somebody
sprinkled itching powder on them," Alex explained, bringing Camille's head
around. He liked her eyes on him, even if they weren't filled with shy
invitation. "Charlie found a new box on your desk. The White Stockings
must have put them there knowing we wouldn't question using them."

"Those
White Stockings are some dirty bas—" Mox started to say one word and
sliced it short, rephrasing. "—dirty-dealing dogs. We have to go get
them."

Immediately,
every player hushed and turned to Camille, certain, no doubt, that she would
reprimand them. But their manager surprised them when she raised a brow and
said, "Get them. Just don't get caught"

The
men broke out in a cheer.

Alex
watched as Camille sat back in her chair and studied her notebook. When she looked
up, their eyes met, and for a second they seemed to lock together, cocooned by
the din of cheers and voices. Alex wanted to touch her, pull her close. But
before he could move, she looked away and gained the team's attention.

"Each
day, we're improving in the rankings," she said. "The Senators lost
yesterday, so we're number sixth in the league now."

Another
chorus of cheers rose, in spite of the scratching.

Specs
was the one who reminded them, "We can't go out there and get them if
we're itching. I won't do it. It's embarrassing." Specs shoved his glasses
higher on the bridge of his nose.

"Your
bad gloving is embarrassing," Yank mumbled beneath his breath while
turning away from Camille.

"Shut
up, Yank." Specs sat back down and crossed his legs.

"Let's
not argue among ourselves," Camille said calmly, her hand lifting to toy
with a honey-blond curl that had slipped from its pin. She wore no hat, which
was totally unlike her. No gloves, either. Alex caught the subtle fragrance of
her perfume. The sweet smell hit him hard; his chest tightened, as if a
physical blow had connected with him. And in truth, his body felt like he'd
been knocked around.

He
hadn't slept worth a damn for a week. He was smoking too much, and if he
thought he could function as a player the morning after, he would have been
drinking at night.

"I
say we call out the White Stockings," Duke suggested, "and bring the
matter to the official in charge of the game. What do you think, Miss
Kennison?"

Camille
read the face of the tiny watch pinned to her bodice. "I think we have to
be on the field, ready to play, in thirty minutes." She tapped her
notebook and gazed at the men in contemplation. They stood as still as they
were able to, given the problem.

They
looked at her, waiting for her to advise them on what to do. Alex was just as
curious about the situation as the others, only he thought about what it really
meant. It was a revelation—seeing twelve men who had resisted her for months
now hanging on her opinions. No longer did the players underestimate her value
to the team. She was a viable part of the Keystones, an intelligent woman.

And
a woman Alex was in love with.

Camille
opened her pocketbook and withdrew a key. "Go over to my house. Use my
shower bath, and hurry up about it. There are towels in the cedar chest in the
first bedroom. It would seem your uniforms are all right. It's what's
underneath that's the problem. So obviously, don't put on the same... you know.
When you're done, get back to the field and we'll show the White Stockings they
can't stop us with itching powder."

Affirming
nods went around the room. She handed Specs the key, and the players quickly
filed out of the clubhouse, leaving Camille and Alex alone.

Without
a look in his direction, she opened the notebook before her and selected a pen
from the inkstand on the desk. She began to write, although he doubted she gave
any thought to the strokes of her pen. From where he stood, the slants and
crossed letters looked like chicken scratches. All she was doing was avoiding him.
Knowing her, she'd had the lineup ready last night. There was nothing to do but
face him.

And
from the way she sat stiffly in her chair, that was the last thing she wanted
to do.

He
understood her hurt, and he regretted being the cause of it. He'd thought that
if he were as honest as he could be about making love to her, there would be no
emotional attachment. But he'd been wrong. He felt a connection to her like
none he'd ever had with a woman. And walking away from her had to be the most
painful thing he could ever think about doing, much less follow through with.

Silence
stretched out between them.

With
her profile to him, she kept her head bent And ignored him. Her lashes seemed
longer to him. Her pink lips fuller and softer. Her smooth skin turned to a
golden hue as the sunlight filtering through the window touched her face, a
face that had both delicacy and strength in its structure.

"You
think the White Stockings got into the clubhouse?" was about the only
thing he could say without breaking down and taking her into his arms and
kissing her.

The
pen quill stilled. "Actually, I'm not sure."

Her
answer surprised him. He would have called the White Stockings bums. "Then
who do you think?"

Not
turning toward him, she spoke to the open notebook. "I'll let you and the
others know when I figure it out for certain."

The
curtness in her tone fell over him with the bite of a double-edged razor. He
almost wished she'd slap him. He'd taken a slap a time or two, and at least a
man knew where he stood with a palm imprint on his cheek.

"Camille,
I never meant—"

"I
really don't want to talk about personal things between us." She abruptly
rose to her feet, grabbing her notebook and pen in the process. For the first
time since the players had departed, she looked at him. "You were frank
with me last week, and I appreciate your honesty."

Honesty.
The
way she said it sounded so honorable, like he'd done her a favor, when in
reality, he'd cheated her with their casual encounter.

"There's
no point in going over what was already made clear," she continued.
"We can't let one night interfere with our professional relationship. The
season isn't over and we have to move ahead." She looked down a moment,
then back at him, her clear blue eyes direct. "I knew what I was doing,
and I already said I wasn't sorry. I'm still not." She walked past him,
careful not to come close enough to chance brushing against him. "You
taught me what I wanted to know about sex. Now there's no more to be said on
the subject."

Then
she was out the door.

Not
long after, the day went from bad to worse.

The
team was back from their showers and Alex stood on the pitcher's mound trying
to stay focused on the batter's stance. Frank Isbell was up to the plate. He'd
been hitting deadly line drives throughout the game, nearly killing Alex with a
ball in the eighth as it sizzled its way over the left field markers.

Alex
went through the windup in his mind, closing his eyes a moment and seeing
himself on the pitcher's box. It was a mental thing he did to work through the
motions.
Anticipate
and
think
—two of the greatest words in
baseball. When he opened his eyes, his attention was drawn for a brief moment
to Captain, who sat in the last row of the bleachers. That was a first. Cap
always took a front-row spot. But Hildegarde Plunkett sat beside him, and their
smiles at one another had nothing to do with the fact that the Keystones were
leading by three.

Alex
put every ounce of strength from his body into his arm and lifted one leg high,
then released the ball with the speed of a bullet. The umpire called a strike,
and Frank would have stayed at the plate if it weren't for the fact that
Noodles didn't gulp the ball in his glove. It rolled behind him after short
contact with the leather. The catcher struggled after it, but by the time he
threw to first, Frank had taken his base on the wild pitch.

Calling
time, Alex waved Noodles up to the box. The catcher went to him and shoved the
cage up his forehead. Sweat poured into his eyes.

"I
know what you're going to say, Alex, but a white butterfly flew right in front
of my face just when that ball came over the plate." Wiping his brow with
the back of his hand, he gulped. "You know what that means."

The
muscles in Alex's neck went taut as he tried to swallow. He wasn't about to be
sucked in, despite the fact that old fears pulled at his nerves. "It means
bullshit, Noodles. Absolute bullshit."

"Yeah,
but—"

"Get
back behind the plate so we can win this one and go home."

Noodles
slid the cage in place over his cheeks and resumed his crouch. With his right
hand up, glove open wide, he nodded at Alex.

The
next batter took the first two pitches as strikes. The third he foul-tipped
toward the grandstands. Way high and deep. The blur of white sailed back to the
top riser.

Alex
watched as Captain stood and caught the ball bare-handed. The motion was so
automatic, it seemed to have been prearranged. Cap looked at the ball, tested
it in his palm by rolling it around, then gazed out at the field.