Holm, Stef Ann (45 page)

Remaining
motionless, Alex was thankful he could pull down the bill of his cap to conceal
his eyes. He turned away, kicked the dirt beneath the toe of his shoe, and
acted as if he were waiting for the game to pick back up. The catch Cap had
made had been one of instinct. One of memory. The rush of emotions that claimed
Alex made his throat ache.

The
umpire hollered for the ball to come back in play. Then as if Cap had done it a
thousand times, he fired off the ball like a rifle shot directly to Alex. Alex
stopped the ball in his glove, the hard impact sizzling through the leather
into his hand like an imprint. It was with great effort, that he tipped his cap
to Captain and gave him a smile. But Cap didn't smile. His expression was
bemused, full of thought and wonder. As if he didn't know quite what to make of
his actions.

"Holy
cripes," Cupid said from first base.

From
behind Alex, Specs spoke from the shortstop position. "Did I see what I
think I just saw?"

"We
could use a guy who throws like him," Bones called out as he stood on
second base.

Shutting
out their comments, Alex tunneled his mind in on the game and pitched out the
inning. The Keystones went on to win it 7-4. Whether or not the White Stockings
were the guilty parties in the itching powder incident, the prank had fueled
the home team's aggression. Each man had hit at least a single, Deacon and Duke
got three-baggers; Jimmy, Yank, and Cub doubled. Alex powered a home run early
on for the Keystones to take the lead. Defense had been the best it had ever
been, with a masterful six-four-three play in the bottom of the fifth, thanks
to Camille's ragtime tempo influence.

After
signing autographs for fans and talking to the ladies who were now a regular
part of the crowd, the players returned to the clubhouse with laughter and good
cheer. They didn't bother dressing in their regular duds; they were going over
to the restaurant for steaks and pie to celebrate. Alex didn't plan to go with
them to sit around and rehash the high and low points of the game, as was the
habit of players. He wasn't in the mood to relive the throw Cap had made.

As
they walked out of the clubhouse, Camille called to Alex.

"Mr.
Cordova," she said, causing him to turn at the unfamiliar sound of her
voice speaking his proper name. "There's a matter we need to discuss, and
it can't wait."

It
was just the two of them. The door stood open, and Alex figured that was best.
Because he wanted to take her into his arms in the worst way.

"What
can I do for you?" he said, knowing full well that he'd done more than he
should have last week in her kitchen.

Maybe
if there hadn't been that tension between them, she would have made a quip
about his comment, an innuendo that would have had them both smiling and melt
away some of the friction that charged the air they shared.

But
she said nothing to put him at ease. And what she finally did say pressed down
on him like a steel weight.

"Captain's
Joe McGill, isn't he?"

Time
ebbed
slowly. As Camille waited for Alex to answer her question, she didn't back away
from his stare. She held it, much like she wanted to hold him, for she knew the
answer. There could be no denying the truth in Alex's eyes. She had watched his
reaction on the mound when Cap caught the fly ball. She'd seen how he'd had to
turn away to hide the true depth of his emotions.

At
length, Alex said in a low voice that seemed to come from a long way off,
"Yes, Captain is Joe McGill."

Her
heart pounded.

"Why
did you say you ended his life when clearly you didn't?"

"But
I did. Joe McGill died on the playing field the minute I swung for that ball
and hit him instead. He died as surely as if I put a gun to his head and pulled
the trigger." A shudder rocked him. "Captain was born in his place.
Same body, sure. But a different man inside."

Tears
welled in her eyes. "Oh, Alex." She wanted to hug him, but she
couldn't move. She blinked, wishing she could make him feel better. "Why
do you call him Captain?"

Alex
pulled in a long breath of air. "It was Cap's idea." Alex sank onto
the trunk of his locker and rested his elbows on his knees. He took his ball
cap off, ran his hands through his hair, and dangled the hat in his fingers by
its sweat-stained brim. "The day before the accident, some of the Giants
rented a boat and took it out on the Chesapeake for the afternoon. The players
who'd been with him said Joe really took to it. He decided then and there that
when he retired from the game, he'd buy himself a boat and captain it. They
thought he was joking, but that night at the bar, he said everybody should
start calling him captain if they wanted a ride on his boat when he got
it."

He
stared at the laces of his athletic shoes. "When he woke up in the
hospital, he couldn't remember what happened to him." Lifting his eyes to
hers, he said, "The docs asked him if he knew his name. He said yes. His
name was Captain."

She
imagined the pain Alex must have felt when he witnessed the man he'd injured
declare he was somebody else without any indecision. A somebody else who didn't
even exist...

"Sandy
Beecher, the manager of the Giants, didn't want me anywhere near Joe. But when
it became evident Joe wasn't himself and looked like he never would be again,
the visitors stopped coming. And with Joe not having any family, there was
nobody. So I went. Every day. I wanted to see him. I wanted him to remember. I
wanted him to tell me I was a son of a bitch for doing what I did to him."
The ball cap in Alex's grasp went still as his eyes locked on the felt
K
emblazoned
at its center. "But he never told me to go to hell. Never mentioned the
game. Never talked about anything that had mattered to him. Because he didn't
remember."

Camille
listened as Alex told her about the two hospitals Cap had been in, the horrific
treatments he'd received—the foot bleeding and probing. The restraints tied to
his body. Daily routines that made him less and less the person he'd been. The
medicine with arsenic.

Her
pulse stilled. "Arsenic?"

"I
found out the day we got back from Dorothy. The medicine Cap had been on since
he was admitted to the hospital had small amounts of arsenic in it. If it
hadn't been for Dr. Porter, Cap might have—"

She
went toward him, but he shook his head.

"I
don't want you to feel sorry for the way of things."

"Alex,
you could have told me."

"It's
hard for me to talk about it. I don't like to think about what Cap's been
through. He was dying in that hospital." Averting his eyes from her gaze,
he exhaled quickly. His brow had beaded with sweat. "In Montana, I was
hoping Captain would come around without more doctors. But he's not going to.
I'll do whatever it takes to make Cap get well." Then he looked at her
with directness. "And I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen."

"Of
course you will." She desperately wanted to touch his cheek, to reassure
him. But he wouldn't have let her, so she tucked those thoughts away— right
beside the afternoon they'd spent in each other's arms.

She'd
been devastated when he hadn't come back to her house the next day, even though
he'd told her he wouldn't. She'd hoped, wanted him so badly to care for her in
a way that went beyond a physical sharing. She wanted his love, his heart But
he'd made it clear that he wasn't offering any commitments or bonds beyond the
moment. She'd accepted that. But it was so hard to let go of the wanting
anyway.

In
the darkest hours of the night, she tried to convince herself it was for the
best. Although she hadn't been thinking of repercussions, she didn't regret
losing her virginity to Alex—not then, and not now. She just wished she didn't
hurt so much inside and feel so lonely without him.

She
thought she'd feel relief that she'd been right. That she'd put the pieces
together about Joe and Captain. Instead, her heart broke for Alex, who had
carried the real truth with him and lived with it daily, but for reasons she
didn't understand. Nobody would have blamed him. It had been an accident. She
sympathized with Alex and yet she felt hurt that he hadn't confided in her.

She
masked the letdown she felt. She wouldn't bring it into the conversation. This
wasn't about her. It was about Alex.

"I'm
glad you told me, Alex," Camille managed to say with only a slight waver
to her voice. She wouldn't let him see her cry; he'd think she felt sorry for
him. "If there is anything I can do to help..."

"Ah,
Camille... honey." He stood from the trunk and came to her.

She
swallowed the thickness in her throat and kept her chin high. She didn't move,
even when he was within inches of her. She could smell the sawdust and sunshine
and the unique masculine scent that was his alone. When she looked into his
eyes, she could see the various colors of brown, the thickness of his dark
lashes. His jaw was shadowed by stubble, his mouth gentle. She thought of the
times his lips had been on hers, and a bittersweet ache settled in her breast.

She
felt hot tears in her eyes.

His
hand lifted to her face. He was close to touching her when her father came into
the clubhouse, his voice raised with animation.

"I
got him! I got Nops on a vandalism charge!"

The
intrusion put an immediate space between Alex and Camille that had her pulse
dancing at her wrists. Taking quick hold of her composure, she absently
smoothed the cuffs on her sleeves.

"Daddy,
what about Mr. Nops?" She said the words, but she didn't hear them above
the pounding of her heartbeat.

"I
sicced Hogwood on
him,
since that Will White business was a bust."
His expression was one big happy grin. "I've had Hogwood tailing Nops for
a month, and the things my investigator uncovered about him," he said with
glee, "are as solid as a padlock. Nops put pine tar on the bats, flooded
the outfield, switched the uniforms, and was the one behind the itching powder.
Hogwood has concrete evidence on all of it, from mail receipts from Doctor
Schmaenkmen's company to empty tar cans. Nops manipulated things to foil the
team's potential because he couldn't be manager." He gave a big huff of
excitement. "And wait until you hear this—as of nine o'clock this morning,
I now own the entire caboodle once again!"

Camille
had followed his fast words with dizzily, but the focal point of her feelings
were for Alex. "What are you talking about? Entire caboodle?"

"I've
got Nops on vandalism." The mustache on his lip curved. "The police
have been brought in, and since it was up to me to press charges, I cut a deal
with that lug nut. I don't send him to jail if he relinquishes his share of the
team. He agreed. He loses his money and I get everything. It's been signed,
sealed, and made a done deal this morning in Stykem's office." He gave
Camille a hard hug that she was too stunned to return. "The Harmony
Honeybees are the Kennison family. Father and daughter. Together."

"You
just said Honeybees," she pointed out as she looked at Alex, "not the
Keystones."

His
brows lifted. "So I did... so I did." Then he laughed. "I don't
care what the rags call us. We're a winning team! The Washington Senators lost
again today and so did the Baltimore Orioles. Our club has just moved up to
fifth place!"

Her
father moved away and looked at Alex as if he'd just noticed him in the room.
"Cordova! Great job. You've been pitching some fine innings. Keep up the
good work!" Then to her, "Now, come on, Camille sugar, I want to show
you the Spalding mitts that came in. They're top of the line and cut from the
best leather. I've got them in the dugout."

And
her father steered her out of the clubhouse before she could say another word
to Alex.

* * * * *

"A
glass of sangaree for the lady," Alex ordered, bending his elbow at the
counter alongside men lifting their voices in laughter and tipping back drinks.

"Coming
up." While the barkeeper opened a bottle, Alex turned to lean on the bar
and hooked his foot over the brass rail. His gaze scanned the crowd in the
Firedog Tavern. Nearly all men, except for the women moving from table to
table, serving drinks. The Fire-dog was a respected pouring spot, its
waitresses a virtuous link to the nonvirtuous dance hall and cathouse women who
plied their wares up on 66th Avenue— the seamier side of Cleveland.

At
one of the felt-covered tables along the back wall, Camille sat with the
Keystones. Peanut shells scattered on the tabletop and pitchers of beer made for
table ornamentation. A man couldn't miss her in the sea of dark-colored suits.
She stood out in her apricot-colored dress. Her blond hair was curled and
pinned in the right places to softly frame her face. The hat on her head was
decorated with frosted fruits, peaches, and blushing cherries. Her cheeks
flushed a pretty pink as she laughed at a joke Yank must have told.

As
her mouth widened, her lips curving into a smile that could melt a man, Alex
thought back on the past weeks. August had been left behind and September
heralded in opportunities. The Harmony Keystones played nine home games, and
fifteen games on the road, losing six and winning eighteen. The latest win this
afternoon capped off a four-game stand with the Cleveland Blues. And the
victory moved the Keystones up in the ranks to third.