Sliding Home (16 page)

In a haze, she faced the
kitchen, glanced at the clock. In twenty minutes, her life had crashed. Her
forward momentum was now slammed in reverse.

She had decisions to make,
a future to map.

A headache to treat.

She poured a cup of coffee,
took a sip, burned her tongue. She blew, cooled it. Her throat and stomach
didn't deserve second-degree burns.

Cimarron crawled from
beneath the table, as if he knew she needed him. She absently patted his head.

Hurt and anger warred within
her. She didn't know which emotion to release first. She could let the tears
fall or she could flop on her bed and punch her pillow.

A knock on the door and her
decision was made.

Kason Rhodes entered,
uninvited.

Her temper shot through the
roof.

The man made a perfect
pillow.

Eight

“Get out!” Dayne stood with
her hands on her hips, her left foot tapping.

Kason towered over her, a
full head taller and ninety pounds heavier. He intimidated with his closeness.
No doubt a jock tactic.

“Out!” She shoved at his
shoulders.

He was no pillow. There was
nothing soft about this man. He met her gaze, attentive yet guarded, and
allowed time to stretch out. “I came to install your television antenna,” he
said at length. “I need a key to the basement.”

Basement, the bottom
compartment on her camper.

He couldn't be serious or
so insensitive. The past twenty minutes had changed everything.

“I don't want your help.”
Her tone was as ineffective as her thump to his chest. Kason Rhodes was cut
from steel.

“I'm here to help,” he
said. “You have no business on the roof. A slip of the foot and you'll have
broken bones.”

“My bones to break,” she
said stubbornly.

One corner of his lip
curled. “You're irresponsible.”

“You're a liar.” Blinded by
her own circumstances, she'd assumed he was poor. Yet he hadn't had the decency
to tell her otherwise. How convenient for him. How awkward for her.

His expression cooled,
closed, and he shrugged. “You believed I was broke the day we met,” he said. “You
saw my run-down trailer and lack of possessions and took pity on me.”

“You never set me straight.”
She cuffed his bicep. “Damn, Kason, I fed you, felt sorry for you, wanted to
help turn your life around.”

“I never asked for your
assistance.”

“But you took it.” Her sigh
squeezed her chest, compressed her entire body. “I made a fool of myself, and
you let me. I came to the woods to heal, and just as I'm feeling grounded
again, you hurt me twice over.”

She punched him again for
good measure—her knuckles to his abdomen. The man was solid, showed not a
ripple of pain.

“I feel used. I'm mad,
Rhodes.”

“
Your anger's misguided.”

Male logic and totally
lame.

“I should be pissed you're
on my land and that you've launched an RV park. Yet I'm over it.”

“I'm not as forgiving,” she
said. “I was naive, and you took advantage of me. You've had your laugh. Get
lost,
 
Kason.”

His brow creased and he
grew uncomfortable. “You weren't a joke, Dayne.” He decided to come clean. “Most
days, my life's a fishbowl. I liked that you saw me outside baseball.”

“You can't separate who you
are from what you do,” she said. “Athletes live and breathe their sport.”

“I've wanted to tell you.”
He jammed his hands in his jeans pockets, his mouth pinched. “I tried today,
right before the Dixons arrived.”

“You didn't try hard
enough.”

“You shot out the door.”

“And here I thought
outfielders were fast,” she said, sneering. “You could have blocked my path,
caught my arm.”

No comeback from Kason.
He'd gone quiet. The silence grew strained. He ran one hand across his stomach,
and his gaze shifted to the refrigerator. “Guess there won't be pudding.”

“You guessed right.” She
struggled not to slug him again. His thoughts had strayed to food in the middle
of their fight. Her stomach was in a knot, and he craved butterscotch pudding.
Typical male, and totally aggravating.

He scrubbed his knuckles
along his jawline, a sandpaper shadow. His brown eyes darkened with a
contemplative heat. “Sex, then?” He tried. “You're damn uptight.”

“Fighting isn't foreplay.”
She ground her words out. “We have no reason to kiss and make up.”

“An orgasm gives new
perspective to an old problem.”

The man was insufferable. A
punch to his package...

He read her mind, stepped
back. “Crippling, Dayne. You'd limit my ability to run. I can't cover the
outfield hunched over.”

“It would be such a shame
to hurt the best left fielder in Major League Baseball.” She did sarcasm well.

“I am good,” he said
without conceit. “I work hard at my profession. I practice my ass off.”

“You and your game can
leave.” They were getting nowhere. “I need time alone.”

Cimarron crawled from under
the table. He cocked his head in question. Dayne patted his head. “Cim's
welcome to stay.” The big dog wagged his stub of a tail, adoring and happy.

They'd hit a stalemate, and
Kason Rhodes had no more moves. He didn't know how to fight with a woman. In
his limited experience, if sex didn't settle an argument, he'd hit the door.
He'd never stayed to smooth a rough spot.

Dayne was a different
story. Today, tomorrow, next week, he'd right what she considered wrong. She
blamed him for keeping his identity a secret, yet he had done so with good
reason. He'd wanted her to know him as a man before she saw him as an athlete.

Needless to say, she
disliked both sides of him now.

He had the wild urge to
pull her close, to hug her, to let her struggle against him until she tired.
Judging by her expression, she'd bite, kick, and unman him if he so much as touched
her.

He needed his body parts in
good working order for Opening Day. If she wanted to be left alone, he'd give
her space. He could always come back later.

***

As the sun was setting, she
still refused to answer the door. He knew she was in the camper. She was
burning candles and her shadow flickered behind the curtain. Still, she chose
to ignore him.

He debated rocking the tin
can until she fell out a window. But he didn't want to injure her. And, too,
Cimarron was inside. A man didn't hurt his dog.

She cracked the door only
after he'd walked away—to return Cim, who didn't want to be sent home. The big
dog dragged himself to the double-wide. A handful of Dinkies Dog Biscuits put
him in a better mood.

Sunday passed with no sign
of Dayne. She'd locked her bike to her camper. Unless she'd taken off on foot,
she was still inside. She was taking solitude to an extreme.

Maybe he should cut his
losses, insist she relocate. But deep down, Kason knew he'd miss her. She'd
driven him insane by taking over his trailer, then camping on his land. Overall
it was a good crazy. In one short week, she'd intertwined her life with his,
and strangely enough, he no longer cared. She amused him.

He wasn't an easy man to
know. Harder yet to like. Somehow they'd become friends and neighbors. The
thought of her being his lover left him hard. He liked her tight little tomboy
body. She'd lighten up; he was sure of it. By dinnertime, he was far less
certain.

Brenda Dixon waved him down
as he crossed to his Hummer. He'd planned to grab a quick meal at Buckets, a
small diner where salad, French fries, hot wings, and blue crab legs came in
large aluminum buckets. A lot of food for a low price.

He didn't mind eating out,
even though Dayne's food crowded his cupboards. He flat-out refused to take
anything more from her.

“Ben told me not to bother
you.” Brenda wrung her hands together. “I hate to be a busybody. However, I
feel responsible for telling Dayne that you were a Rogue when you'd chosen to
keep it a secret.” She sighed. “She's not a fan, Kason.”

Brenda Dixon meddling in
his personal life didn't sit well. He didn't know this woman, nor did he want
her advice. He widened his stance and his whole body tightened.

She patted his arm, almost
motherly. “A great get-out-of-my-face expression, son, but it won't work on me.
I raised four boys, all hellions. My youngest could outmean you.”

Kason rolled his shoulders,
cut his look in half. He gave her his full attention.

“We gave Dayne a ride to
the warehouse this morning,” she informed him. “There was no point in her
riding her bike.”

The tomboy had escaped him.
He'd kept one eye on her Airstream, and she hadn't surfaced. She'd no doubt
climbed through her bedroom window. It faced the Dixons pop-up, outside his
view.

“Ben and I waited while she
spoke with her boss and collected boxes.” Brenda sighed. “She's packing and
plans to pull up stakes by Thursday.”

“Thursday?” Only four days
away.

“Her moving is based on how
quickly she can find a new job,” said Brenda, “which, according to Dayne, will
be far, far away from the asshole who owns these thousand acres.”

“She's not going anywhere.”
The relief on Brenda's face indicated he'd spoken his thoughts out loud. He'd
never fixed a relationship. He wasn't certain he could. But he was going to
try.

“You're a good man, Kason
Rhodes.” Brenda's impression of him came as a surprise. “You're talented,
dedicated, and celebrated when it comes to baseball.” She nodded toward Dayne's
camper. “Perhaps it's time to step outside the sport to smell the roses.”

Or smell the peaches, in
Dayne's case. He liked her sun-warmed and earthy scent. “Suggestion noted.”

“My husband's an advocate
for solitude,” she continued. “He had a hunter's cabin in Vermont for many
years. He never invited me or our sons to join him, nor did he ever shoot a
deer. The man communed with nature. The fresh air cleared his head.”

Again, Brenda patted his
arm. “Enjoy your evening,” she said, then left him to his thoughts.

***

A short time later, Kason
sat in a back booth at Buckets. The diner was dark, the service fast. Dayne
remained on his mind through the meal. By the time he'd cracked his second
bucket of crab legs and downed his Bohemian beer, he had a plan to ease the
tension between them. He'd put it into effect after the season opener.

His mind soon shifted to
the game, which demanded his full focus. He was paid big bucks to produce. He
refused to let either the team or himself down. In eighteen hours he'd be on
the field.

The Rogues wanted a win.

It would set a precedent for
the season.

***

At 1:05 P.M. on Monday,
Kason Rhodes looked down the dugout bench. The players had been introduced, the
national anthem sung. Richmond's mayor had tossed out the first pitch. Five
minutes, and they'd take the field.

The weatherman had
forecasted April showers, yet an unexpected heat claimed the day. Under Kason's
eyes were greased black to ward off the sun's glare. By the sixth inning,
shadows would creep onto the outfield. Fly balls could get lost in the split of
light and dark.

The silence intensified as
each man went through his mental ritual. More than one player made the sign of
the cross. Several others spat sunflower seeds. Psycho McMillan popped bubble
gum. Kason visualized the game ahead.

“Play ball!” The umpire's
shout sent the Rogues onto the field. The adrenaline rush was a natural high.

“Three up, three down,”
Psycho called to pitcher Brek Stryker. “Don't make me apply suntan lotion.”

The Louisville batting
order proved cocky, mouthy, and willing to swing. Fastball, curveball, slider,
the batters aimed for the parking lot without success.