“There you go again, attributing your own faults to me.”
The first batter stroked a single; they both paused, watched him get to first.
“All right, try this on for size,” she said. “Pigheaded. Pig. Head,” she repeated, using her hands to sketch a pig's head in the air.
“I just know a little bit more about baseball than you,” Jake continued, climbing the steps of the dugout to the on-deck circle as Ruben advanced to the batter's box.
“Okay, fine,” Robin called after him. “Don't listen to me, what do I know? Strike out again if you want.” Jake flashed a forced smile at her over his shoulder, grumbled beneath his breath at the size of the nads on that woman, and marched to the on-deck circle. To prove just how stupid it
was for her to give him advice, he took a couple of hard swings that made his shoulder burn.
Ruben, on the balls of his feet, slapped a single on the first pitch, stunning himself and the team. Elated, he could hardly run, but actually rounded first and made it all the way to second when the left fielder bobbled the ball. Firmly on base, he beamed, panting, chest puffed, yelling at Jake to bring him home.
“Oh yeah, what do I know?” Robin called out.
Jake ignored her. At the bottom of the eighth, Ruben was the go-ahead run on second. All he had to do was get a single to pull the team ahead. Hey, no pressure there. He stepped up to home plate, assumed the position, and let the pitcher throw him a ball, then stepped back, knocked the dirt from his cleats with his bat. When he was good and ready, he very casually stepped into the batter's box again, taking all the time he needed to position.
The next pitch was a slider; he swung hard, wrenched his back again, and hopped out of the batter's box on one foot as the ump called, “Steeee-rike!”
“Jesus, what are you doing”! Step into your swing!"
Her again! This had to be his worst nightmare ever. He was going to step into it, all right, and take a swing that would knock her butt all the way into next week. He survived one ball, then another, and followed those two pitches up by stupidly swinging at a lousy curve ball in the dirt.
“Ah jeez, what is so difficult about waiting for your pitch?” Robin shouted at him.
“Got your batting coach here today?” the catcher asked, snickering.
“I got your batting coach right here, pal,” Jake growled. With a full count, he crouched down, anticipating the payoff pitch. The pitcher wound up and uncorked a sinker. By some divine miracle, Jake managed to get under it; the ball went sailing high toward right field. He dropped the bat and raced toward first, rounded it like an old pro as he heard a cry go up from the crowd. The ball had sailed well over the right fielder's head; the go-ahead run was rounding third and headed for home.
As Jake hit second base and ran for third, Bob Richards looked like a contortionist, jumping up and down and waving him home. Jake did not break stride, rounded third without knowing where the ball was, and in the last few feet, hurled his entire body through the air, diving headfirst into home, his hand outstretched, his fingers reaching the plate just ahead of the catcher's tag.
The small crowd went wild; the team rushed out to home plate to help him up. Every fiber in him burned, but he grit his teeth, spit the sand from his mouth, dusted off his pants, then laughed at his great luck with the team, high fives all around.
As he turned toward the dugout, he saw Robin pressed up against the fence, her hands loosely tangled in the chain links above her head. She grinned at him with such admiration that Jake actually felt himself grow an inch or two. He grinned right back, sauntered toward her, his smile as wide as Texas .
“Now that was a nice at bat,” she said as he neared the fence. “You finally got up on the balls of your feet.”
Jake laughed. “So, are you going to hang around for the last inning, or are you going to go coach some other team?”
“Oh, I don't know,” she said, dropping her hands to her hips. “There's really not much to work with around here. Besides, after that performance, I wouldn't miss the end of this game for the world!”
“Good,” he said, earning another winsome grin. With a little wave of her fingers, she turned toward the bleachers. He watched her walk away (could never see enough of that), then stepped into the dugout and collapsed on the bench. He was pleased when Victor Hernandez put them up another run before the inning ended. The opposing team could not muster even a base hit in the last inning, and thereby ended the game.
As Jake headed for the dugout to get his gear, Robin and Cole stood at the same time, both making their way down the bleacher steps. In his extra-wide pants, Cole had trouble negotiating the bleachers. On the ground, Robin walked about three feet ahead of Cole, who was doing his usual
reluctant shuffle, head down, hands stuffed in pockets. The kid had to be exhausted—it was hard work to stay that miserable.
“You're really good,” Robin said rightly as he walked up to the fence.
He did not confess that his performance today had more to do with lucky pride than any skill. “So do you often hang out in the park watching old men play baseball?”
Robin's laugh was rich, warm. “I told you I was going to come by.”
“I didn't believe you,” he said, latching his hand to the fence and leaning toward her. “I think you probably say lots of things you don't really mean.”
“Why, I'm wounded.”
“So how did you find my nephew?” he asked as Cole shyly slunk over to them.
Robin made a sound of surprise as she shifted her gaze to Cole. "Your nephew?'
“Meet Cole Manning.” Cole looked at Jake. “Hey, say hello,” Jake reminded him, and the kid pulled one hand out of his pocket, stuck it sort of halfway to Robin.
Robin graciously accepted it. “It's very nice to meet you, Cole. I'm Robin.”
“Hey,” Cole muttered, quickly withdrawing his hand.
“Robin is… She is…”
“His batting coach,” Robin interjected when Jake could not seem to think of an appropriate word.
Cole squinted up at Jake. “She said you were a big baby.”
“Jeez,” Robin said, blushing. “You could have at least mentioned that you knew him!”
Cole shrugged, but dammit if Jake didn't see the hint of a smile. “I didn't say anything because he is a big baby.”
“Very funny,” Jake said, reaching into his pocket for some change. “Here, go get a couple of sodas. I'll meet you at the truck.”
“Bye, Cole,” Robin said as Cole took the money and started to slink away.
Cole waved at her. Jake waited for him to gain some distance, then looked at Robin. She was smiling, blue eyes
shimmering, eyes that could pull a man into a world of trouble.
“So… it turns out that instead of being a pervert, you're actually a man of many talents,” she said, playfully punching him in the arm. “Baseball, school, renovations.”
“Ah. Zaney's been talking, has he?”
“A little. Isn't it a glorious day? I was walking through the flower gardens earlier, and it's just gorgeous. Do you do that? I mean, when you're happy, do you ever want to just get out and see flowers?”
Yes. Oh yes, there were definitely those moments. Like now. “Would you like to see some of the prettiest wildflow-ers in all of Texas ?”
“Here at the park?”
“No—about an hour outside of Houston . There's a place I found a few years ago where the wildflowers bloom like you've never seen them. If you want, I could take you.”
A smile slowly spread across her luscious lips, one almost as brilliant as her sapphire eyes. “That,” she said, “would be very cool.”
Robin heard his motorcycle on the drive and checked herself one last time in the mirror. She had changed to jeans and (just in case) matching bra and panties. One never knew when one might end up splat on the highway.
Instead of letting himself in as he normally did, Jake knocked. Robin flung open the front door, all smiles, but her breath lodged in her throat. Leaning against the scaffolding, one leg crossed over the other, Jake was wearing Levi's that were faded in just the right place (oh my), boots, a plain white T-shirt, and a do-rag.
He looked about as hot as any man she had ever seen. Hotter.
He grinned at her like he knew what she was thinking, casually took in her hair, her patriotic flag shirt, her jeans. “I was going to ask if it was okay to take the Hog, but you look like you're ready for it.”
Ooo-ho, she was ready for it, all right, and grabbed a
jacket and backpack from the stair railing. “Let's go.”
Jake's laugh made his whiskey eyes dance. “Well, come on, gorgeous.”
On the drive, he showed her where to sit on the bike, and where to put her feet. Robin donned a baseball cap and straddled the Harley. And when Jake took his seat in front of her, she confirmed what she had believed—that their bodies fit perfectly together. He was nestled deeply between her legs (quite well, actually), but the breadth of his back, the strength of his legs, the whole package was just… perfect.
“Hold on to my waist,” he instructed her as he started the bike up.
No problemo. She put her hands on his waist—ooh, very solid, no love handles—and inched them around further, until she was practically lying on his back. As they coasted down North Boulevard , she imagined lying in bed with him like this, drifting off to sleep against the warmth of his strong back. He told her to hang on and enjoy the ride.
Oh, if only…
They were out of Houston in no time at all and the day was perfect—the trees a vivid green against a brilliantly clear blue sky, a perfectly moderate temperature. Robin could not have had a better day if she had painted it, and she relaxed with her hands on his waist, enjoying the rush of wind, his control of the bike.
They rode for three-quarters of an hour toward San Antonio before turning off on an old ranch road and heading north for a time until Jake slowed and turned onto a dirt road lined with live oaks and cypress trees beyond which she really couldn't see, other than to know it was pasture-land stretching on either side. But when they crested a small hill, Jake slowed to a stop above an amazing vista that rivaled any Robin had seen anywhere around the world.
Just below, the Brazos River meandered lazily among gently sloping hills. An old frame house, long abandoned, stood in empty disrepair, a tattered curtain flapping in the breeze the only sign someone had once lived there. Live oak trees with their long branches dotted the banks of the river, shading the grassy sprawl that stretched into grazing fields.
The fields were carpeted in riotous color, the violet of blue-bonnets, the vivid red of Indian paintbrush, the sunny yellow of buttercups, among black-eyed Susans, lilac verbena and pristine white rain lilies. A small herd of longhorn cattle grazed peacefully on the opposite bank; only one lifted then-head at the intrusion.
“It's beautiful,” Robin said in awe when Jake turned off the bike. He stood up, helped her off. She walked forward, trying to take it all in, the serene little valley. It made her long for… something. “How did you find it?”
“Just riding,” he said as he unbuckled one saddlebag and reached inside. “When I can, I like to get away and clear my head.”
Get away from what? she wondered. Had he come here looking for solitude? Or had he brought others like her? Like Lindy?
He pulled an insulated cooler from the bag. “Come on,” he said, and reached casually for her hand.
She loved the feel of her hand in his, loved being dragged down the incline by him, loved seeing his hips move determinedly in Levi's that were so worn in the back that she could actually see the blue checked pattern of his boxers underneath. She wanted to believe they had done this before and would do it again, that she would always feel this extraordinary sense of contentment.
When they reached a barbed-wire fence, Jake dropped her hand and stretched the wires to make an opening big enough for Robin to get through. When she was on the other side, he handed her the bag (heavy!) and climbed over. “Your eyes are the exact color of bluebonnets, did you know that?” he asked, taking the bag and her hand again, as if he had done it a thousand times before.
They walked through the field of wildflowers, quietly absorbing the beauty of it, until they reached the long boughs of a very old live oak. There, on a grassy knoll in the shade, was a rickety old wooden picnic table.
“Who owns this place?” she asked as Jake set the insulated bag down.
He winked, gave her a sly grin. “Who knows?”
“You mean we are trespassing?”
“I prefer to call it passing through,” he said, opening the bag.
“What if someone comes?” she asked, surreptitiously admiring his body.
“No one ever comes out here.”
“Okay, well… I just sort of promised myself I wouldn't go to jail anymore.”
“I'll do my best to keep you from it, but you know, there's only so much a man can do,” he said, laughing. “I've got beer and peanuts. You like beer?” he asked, reaching into the bag and extracting a longneck.
“I haven't had a beer in years,” she said, as he twisted the top off and handed her the bottle. “They bloat you up,” she added, as Jake helped himself to a beer.
“Live dangerously.”
Like she wasn't living pretty dangerously already. Robin took a sip of the beer, felt it slide cold and wet down her throat, soothing her mouth made dry by the ride out. With a smile, she lifted the bottle in mock salute to him. “Excellent vintage.”
“Yeah, last Thursday was an excellent day.” He propped himself against the table, one arm across his chest, and took a generous swig of his beer, his eyes never leaving her. “So what do you think?”
“It's beautiful.”
“You've probably seen a lot better, but it's pretty nice for this part of the world.”
“It's pretty nice for any part of the world.”
He glanced at the field of wildflowers. “I wouldn't know about that. All I know is that even though it's beautiful, it all seems to fade next to you.”
The compliment caught her off guard; she slowly lowered her beer, cocked a brow.
“Okay, I'll confess,” he said, lifting one hand in surrender. “I think you are about the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.”