Love on the Line (9 page)

The song ended too soon. She pulled away, and they walked toward the table where ale was being sold. He bought one for her and one for himself.

“You dance like a prince,” Cara said from behind the rim of her mug.

“Have you danced with princes?”

He’d meant to be teasing. She lifted the mug to her lips, and he saw the cool guardedness slip into her eyes before she averted her gaze to the foamy liquid.

“Mind if I take this lovely lady for a spin?” asked the guy she’d been talking with earlier.

There was no question in his voice, and the way he looked at Cara made Ryan want to deck him. Ryan did mind, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Of course every guy in town would be after her.

Cara turned to Ryan. “This is Adam Mitchell. He’s doing my decks.”

Ryan wanted to say that’d better be all the guy was doing, but that too was ridiculous. The guy didn’t wait for introductions; he slid his arm to the small of Cara’s back and drew her away.

As Ryan watched the guy move her onto the dance floor, he knew he had to win her. Around her, life had zing; he felt lit up in a way he rarely felt except in the ballpark. He wanted more of that feeling, and Cara was its source. He sipped and turned away. Maybe it was his imagination, but the stacks of squashes and pumpkins lined against the back wall seemed to be grinning at him, as if to say he’d just let the fox run away with the hen.

Just then Cain Bryant walked into the barn with a woman on his arm, and an idea fired in Ryan’s mind. He had a pretty good idea just how to court one Cara West.

Chapter Seven

Ryan braced himself against the deck railing as Cain’s boat slammed into the face of an oncoming wave. An early morning of deep-sea salmon fishing wasn’t Ryan’s idea of a perfect first date. When he’d asked Cain to set something up as a double date, at first Cain had razzed him. But by their second cup of coffee, Cain had agreed to cook something up. Between Ryan’s game schedule and Cara’s work driving the bus, opportunities to hook up were limited, but he figured Cain could help him get something going.

Ryan kicked himself. He should’ve been more specific about what constituted a good date activity. Evidently early morning outings on raging seas were Cain’s idea of bliss.

“If this is your idea of an initiation ritual,” Cara shouted back to Cain from the bow of the boat, “it’s working. I’m gonna want to do this again.”

Although Cain’s date, Laurel, had gone quiet and pale as they’d motored out of sight of land, Cara seemed thrilled with the splashing water and rolling waves of the open sea.

“This is my idea of real living,” Cain shouted up to Cara with a broad grin.

Laurel scooted along the flat seat cushion until she was directly beside Cain.

“It’ll calm in a couple more miles,” Cain said, “once we get past the shoal.”

Laurel gave a half-hearted nod and gripped the edge of the seat.

Cain sure knew how to woo a woman.
Not
. But Ryan’s efforts had fared little better.

After the party at Grady’s, Ryan had asked Cara to go with him for brunch at a resort in Sonoma. She said she was busy. He’d asked her to come to the Giants game the next night and join him after, and she’d said she had plants to get in the ground. When he’d pointed out that it was a night game and asked if she really planned on planting by moonlight, she’d just laughed and shook her head. When he’d texted her the next day to invite her to go fishing with him and Cain, she’d finally agreed.

Ryan made his way to the bow, where Cara stood facing the spray.

“I love it out here,” she said, turning into the wind. “I feel free. Up close like this, I feel I’m a part of the sea.”

The boat lurched, and she stumbled. Ryan caught her before she slid down to the deck. He tightened his arms around her and closed the space between them, felt her body mold against his. He didn’t want to let her go. She tipped her head up. As if some drug was shooting through him, messing with his senses, the spray of the waves and the rumble of the engine drifted away as he tried to read the look in her eyes. Thoughts raced in her, that much he saw. But his own thoughts stilled as he flicked a glance at her lips. He bent his head, wanting to taste, but she wriggled out of his arms.

“Nice catch,” she said, her cheeks coloring. “I’m not used to such small boats.” The flush in her face deepened, as if she’d just admitted some great secret.

“This is the biggest boat I’ve ever been on.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Not much call for boats where I grew up.”

She shivered and looked away, then turned to hold the rail, using it to move cautiously hand over hand toward the cabin. “Maybe we’d better join Cain and Laurel,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s rough out here.”

Rough indeed. He followed her until she was safely in the cabin and then ducked back out to the bow. He needed more than a few minutes to calm the spike of desire firing in him.

As they traveled farther from shore, the waters calmed and Cain began setting out fishing poles. Laurel perked up and appeared to enjoy Cain’s very hands-on instructions.

Ryan eyed his own pole and gave the reel a spin. In East Texas, fishing required a simple pole and line and patiently waiting at the edge of a man-made reservoir for a stocked bass or trout to find the bait. It required some skill, but nothing like pitting yourself against the open ocean and a wild fish that navigated thousands of miles to spawn in the creek it was born in.

“We’re lucky to get out here at all,” Cain said as he baited Laurel’s hook and helped her feed her line down into the water. “The fishery was closed last year—no pulses.”

“Fish have pulses?” Ryan had never heard of such a thing.

Cain pushed back his cap and then rearranged it low on his forehead. “I’m sure they do; I hadn’t considered it. But it’s water pulses that mean life and death to fish like salmon. When the snow melts, pulses of fresh water rush down from the Sierra, through the delta and out the bay to the sea. The salmon rely on the pulses to push them back to the sea. Between lack of snow and the dams, the fresh water flow isn’t what it should be and the fish populations have crashed. And that’s nothing to the way the spawning grounds have been screwed with.”

Ryan was aware that Cara was listening intently.

“I thought the state was regulating the water flow for the spawning runs,” she said.

Cain looked up from the hook he was baiting. “Been studying up on California water regulations, have you?”

Cara pressed her lips together. “I’ve read a bit in the papers.”

Like a hermit crab retreating into its shell, she coiled in on herself. Ryan observed bodies for a living; any player who couldn’t read the body language of guys on an opposing team didn’t last long in the game. He wondered what he was seeing in her reaction. Maybe she was one of those women afraid of appearing too intelligent. But this was the twenty-first century and nothing about her fit the type.

“Water’s a serious issue in Texas,” Ryan said in an attempt to smooth things over. “If the state doesn’t shepherd its groundwater, oil is about the only export we’ll have.”

He leaned over to help Cara bait her line, but she’d already fastened a herring firmly to the hook. She whipped the pole over her head, and her line trailed perfectly out from the boat. He cast his line out beside hers and shoved the handle of the pole into the PVC holder bolted to the side of the boat. For a moment he searched for something neutral to say that wouldn’t spook her.

Cara’s rod doubled over as her line whizzed out away from the boat.

“I’ve got it,” she said as she grabbed her rod, braced her legs against the side of the boat and began to turn hard on the reel.

“You’re in for a battle,” Cain said as he stepped beside her. “Want me to take it?”

“Ha! No way. This guy’s mine,” she said, laughing.

The fish quickly peeled off about eighty yards of line, then followed that with a few magnificent leaps. Ryan saw the strain as Cara began the long process of reeling the fish in. Several minutes went by. He bit back the urge to help her and reveled in her determination.

Cara fought hard, but so did the fish. Cain stepped up to her and motioned for her to follow him.

“Walk backwards toward the front of the boat,” Cain directed. When she did, he dipped the net into the water, tipped the handle straight up in the air and closed the net around the salmon.

“If I’d known you were such a hand at this, I would’ve brought you out here sooner,” Cain said as he lowered the net and the fish to the deck. “That’s a twenty-pound buck if I ever saw one.”

Cara blushed

“Want to give it another go?” Cain leaned her rod against the side of the boat and reached into the bait pail.

Cara looked to where Laurel stood, watching them all. “Let’s have a look at Laurel’s line,” Cara said.

She helped Laurel reel in her line; the bait had been eaten off the hook.

“I’m not really a fan of fishing,” Laurel said. “I might be wasting your bait.” She looked over to Cain, her cheeks flushed.

“There’s plenty of bait,” Cain said with a half-hearted grin. “But would you rather have a cup of cocoa and watch?”

Laurel’s relief was matched only by Ryan’s own. He hated to see anyone forced by circumstance into an activity that didn’t suit them.

“I’ll join you,” Cara said and followed Laurel into the cabin.

“Not the cleverest invitation on my part.” Cain nodded toward the boat cabin. “I should’ve asked Laurel if she liked fishing. I should’ve seen she’s a woman who likes land.”

“Women aren’t always so easy to read,” Ryan said. Especially the woman he’d begun to  obsess over.

“Yeah, well, some are harder than others.” He nodded again toward the boat cabin. “Cara’s a puzzle.”

Ryan shrugged. She was a puzzle, a puzzle he looked forward to finding the key to, even if he had to do it slowly and step by painstaking step.

He and Cain each landed a large salmon and then sat for about fifteen minutes with no strikes on their lines.

“I never like to admit it, but I’d say that’s it for the day,” Cain said as he reeled in. He looked out over the blue-green expanse surrounding them. “I think we got lucky.”

Cara and Laurel stepped onto the deck and handed them both a steaming mug of cocoa.

“Had to share the goods,” Cara said.

“Lucky me.” Ryan felt his face flame. “I mean lucky us,” he added, lifting his mug toward Cain.

Cara turned to Laurel, who held her mug of cocoa as if it were a life-saving device. “What do you do when you’re not fishing at dawn?”

“I’m finishing a degree in natural history,” Laurel said, the light returning to her eyes.

“My brother’s interested in birds,” Cara said.

Ryan admired the way Cara drew Laurel out, made her feel comfortable, helped her forget the misery of the morning and the rough seas closer to shore. Cara had a touch with people. She sure had a touch with him.

“I’ll have to take some online courses,” Laurel added. “My new job at the bakery will make it hard to get to class. I might have to put my studies on hold for a while; it might be hard to handle classes and work.”

“No, better to keep at it,” Ryan said. “I left college to play ball, pissed off my old man. Can’t say I would’ve done it different now, but you’re there. It’s a good idea to finish.”

Cain started up the engine.

“Did you go to college?” Laurel asked Cara over the chug of the motor.

“I did.”

“Where?”

There it was again, Ryan observed—the drawing back. Cara obviously did not like answering questions.

“Oh, a small school back East.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to New York,” Laurel said. “I’m saving up. Have you been there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, ladies and gentleman,” Cain boomed. “Places everyone. We’ll be hitting a rough spot in about five minutes.” He motioned to Laurel. “Sit back up here.”

Laurel smiled, but Ryan saw her shoulders brace as she prepared for another bout of rough seas. She wasn’t a girlfriend for an ocean hunter like Cain. He looked back to where Cara stood, braced and riding the motion of the boat with the finesse of a rodeo rider. The wind spread her hair out behind her like a chestnut-colored flag of independence.

Cain was right—she was a puzzle. A puzzle he was no closer to solving than when they’d set out.