Читать книгу A Taste of Texas - Liz Talley - Страница 11

THE SOUP BUBBLED MERRILY on the stove as Rayne sliced truffles for the fennel and dandelion salad she would serve atop the thinly sliced Bosc pears. The rich smell of chicken broth made her tummy growl, but she kept slicing through the earthy pungency of the delicate fungus, while ignoring the smoky Gouda cheese sitting on the wooden cutting board. She’d found the cheese at a farmer’s market in Dallas last weekend. It was divine and she’d already sampled too much of it.

“Mom, can we buy some Pop-Tarts?”

Rayne recoiled as if Henry had asked to eat a booger. “Good Lord, no. Where have you eaten Pop-Tarts?”

Henry shrugged. “Back in Austin. At Kyle Warner’s house. He had all kinds of them. Strawberry, cinnamon and blue—”

“Stop.” Rayne threw up her hand. “Do you know what kind of ingredients are in those things?”

Henry’s brown eyes didn’t blink as he stared at her. “I don’t care. I saw a kid eating them at school today. They had icing on the top.”

Meg dropped the books she was carrying onto the counter. “Give it up, bud. You’ve got the same chance as a nun getting a navel ring. Not going to happen. She’d rather you eat dirt than something with all those chemicals. Be glad you didn’t eat it recently or you’d be getting purged.”

“What’s purged?” Henry asked, flicking little pieces of the cheese with his fingers.

“Stop,” Rayne said for the umpteenth time that day.

“Making yourself throw up,” Meg said, making the motion of sticking her finger down her throat.

Rayne shot her assistant a glare as Henry screwed up his face and groaned, “Gross!”

Brent stomped into the kitchen and sniffed. “What’s gross?”

Meg fluttered and it made Rayne roll her eyes. Her assistant said Brent Hamilton did nothing for her. That, however, wasn’t the way she acted. Her slightly Gothic, slightly punk, but wholly intelligent employee actually batted her heavily made-up eyes at Brent. “Whatever you want to be gross, stud muffin.”

Rayne mimicked Meg’s gagging action from a moment ago, making Henry laugh. She’d tried hard to overcome her strange feelings toward Brent over the past two days, treating him as she would any other employee. Though his gorgeousness made it plainly difficult to accomplish. After all, he’d taken his shirt off this morning inspiring Meg to use the word yummy way too often. The man had to stop taking his clothes off. Had to. “Do you have Pop-Tarts, Mr. Hamilton?” Henry asked, sliding off the stool beside the kitchen island.

“I may have some cinnamon-brown sugar ones left over from the baseball sleepover,” he said eyeing the tomato-basil soup on the stove.

“Wait. You have a baseball team?” Henry’s eyes lit up with interest. Rayne felt her mom radar start beeping.

“I don’t have one. I coach one,” Brent said. Rayne could tell he wasn’t paying attention to his words. He was staring at the oat-bran muffins she’d made with the stone-ground wheat. He obviously had no idea what he’d done. How he’d unleashed a monster, one Rayne would have to deal with.

“Can I be on the team? I’m good. I promise. When I played with the Bengals, I hit it over the fence two times.” Henry parked himself at Brent’s boots and looked at him expectantly.

Shoot.

“Henry, Mr. Hamilton already has a team. We talked about this,” Rayne said, brushing her hands on her apron and preparing for battle. Meg wisely started flipping through whatever catalogs she’d lugged in. She knew the power of Henry’s will.

“Henry can still play. Hunter Todd broke his arm doing cartwheels on the bleachers, so now we’re a player short. We have practice tonight at six if he wants to come along,” Brent said as he slid closer to the muffins. Rayne had sprinkled them with homemade granola so they looked even more tempting than the average oat muffin.

But she didn’t have time to offer him a sample of her testing ground muffins. Her son had taken to whooping, “Yes!” over and over again.

Rayne jabbed Brent in the arm. “You gotta fix this. He can’t play ball this year.”

Brent finally ripped his attention from the food. “Fix what? Why not?”

Henry whooped once more, performing several fist pumps, before tearing out of the kitchen and pounding up the stairs. Rayne knew where he was heading. He’d dig his glove from the drawer she’d relegated it to yesterday. Then he’d pull all his shorts from the bottom drawer to look for his baseball pants. Then he’d bring her the cleats to untie because they were double-knotted and he couldn’t pull them loose with the stubby nails he habitually bit to the quick. Hurricane Henry had set his path, but he’d forgotten that landfall wouldn’t happen without her permission.

And she wasn’t giving it.

Rayne glared at the daft man before her. She tried not to notice how damn good he looked in his tight jeans and the T-shirt he’d finally pulled on. How his shaggy hair looked salon-tousled. How he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning which gave him a bed-rumpled, lazy movie star look. Hell, no. She wasn’t noticing because he’d created a big problem and he had no clue.

“Henry can’t play ball. He’s behind in his reading at school. He’s not up to grade level and struggling to acclimate in the classroom.”

“Oh. Sorry. I knew he loved sports. I’ve tripped over four balls today already. I figured being on the team would help him make friends and feel a part of the community.”

Rayne blinked. She’d never thought of it from that perspective. She knew Henry was lonely. She knew he’d had a hard time the past few days adapting to school. The classes were small and the kids all knew one another. He felt like the odd man out. And if anyone knew that feeling, she did. But she couldn’t allow him to neglect something as important as school. It was already such a chore to get him to sit still and focus on the homework he’d been assigned that afternoon. “That’s true, but he can’t play.”

Henry roared into the kitchen, cleats dangling in his hand. “Hey, Mr. Hamilton, where’s practice?”

The boy hopped onto the stool and started trying to untie the cleats. He ignored the bits of red clay that fell from the bottoms of the shoes and confettied the floor beneath him.

“Um, sport, I can’t really add you to the team without your mom’s permission.” Brent slapped her son on the back and cast a furtive look at Meg. Like he thought she would help him.

“Let’s leave Rayne and Henry to sort this out,” Meg said, jerking her head toward the dining room. Rayne wanted to kick her for helping the enemy. But was Brent really her enemy? Or was being a mom simply too tough sometimes? Either way, she wanted to blame someone for the heart she was about to break. Henry hated school and hated reading. Not a good combination for a kid in second grade. He still had a long row to hoe where academics were concerned even if he were passing at grade level.

Brent moved faster than Meg. He beat her out the door by a good yard.

Henry turned sweet brown eyes on her. “I can’t play?”

Rayne sighed before slipping onto the stool next to her son. His cowlick stuck straight up and she wanted to kiss the freckles that sprinkled his little upturned nose, but she didn’t. She caught his hands, stilling them. “Honey, we’ve already talked about sports. School comes first, and you’re a little behind the kids in your class. Once you show me you’re doing better then you can play baseball or football.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

“But—”

“Henry!” Rayne crossed her arms and prepared for battle. “I said no.”

His eyes filled with tears. “You’re so mean. You don’t care about me. You took me off my team and brought me here. I thought it would be okay, but I don’t like the stupid school here, either. School sucks.”

“All right, where did you hear that language?”

His lips pressed together and he glared at her even as big tears spilled down his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes but said nothing.

“Henry? I asked you a question.”

“Nowhere,” he muttered, propping his arms on the granite counter. His elbows had dirt on them and his shirt had barbecue stains from the sloppy joe he’d had for lunch. Rayne would have to start packing his lunch. No telling what had been in that meat in the school cafeteria.

Rayne set her elbows on the counter next to her son’s and settled her chin onto her hands. She blew out her breath. “I don’t want you using that language again. It doesn’t sound nice.”

Henry rubbed at his eyes again. “Please, Mom. Please say I can play. Let me at least go to practice with them. I’ll read that book. I promise. And I’ll make good grades, too. You’ll see. I can do it.”

Her heart squeezed in her chest. She wanted to say yes. She wanted nothing more than for her baby to be happy. He’d gone through so much. He’d lost his father, had to move and suffered from separation anxiety and nightmares so severe that she cried herself to sleep for him. She wanted to watch him hit that ball and run those bases, but that was not what he needed. Sometimes it sucked being a mom. “I’ll make you a deal. You bring home signed papers that show me you are improving, and I’ll consider letting you play.”

“But I won’t get signed papers till next week. Can I just read the book? Come on, Mom, let’s make a deal. Please. I promise I will do better.”

Rayne felt the tears prick the back of her eyes. She thought about his face as he’d entered the classroom on Monday. About the way he’d fisted one hand in the fabric of her skirt. And she felt herself waver. Didn’t Henry deserve something to make him happy? God, she was such a sucker. “Okay, you can practice with them. But no game until papers come home. And you have to read, starting now. One chapter before you even look at a baseball.”

Henry wrapped his arms around her arm and hugged it. “Thank you, Mom, thank you. I love you.”

She turned and wrapped her arms around him and pulled him to her, inhaling his little-boy scent, dropping a kiss on the back of his sweaty neck. “I love you, Hank.”

He jerked back. “You called me Hank.”

“I don’t think it’s such a bad nickname, but I’ll still call you Henry most days.”

“Like when I’m in trouble? Like when you call me Henry David?” His eyes laughed and he grinned like a deranged cartoon character. Something inside her bloomed at making him so happy, even as a little voice niggled, telling her she should have stuck to her guns.

Rayne clunked that annoying told-you-so voice over the head with an imaginary mallet. Then she drank in the sight of her son from his cowlick to his knotted cleats. He was all boy. Never in a million years would she have expected her and Phillip to create something like Henry. When she’d been pregnant with him, she’d dream of a cerebral child with blond hair and a preference for violin rather than baseball. She saw herself popping in videotapes that taught foreign languages and music. She saw herself reading books and demonstrating how to paint with watercolors.

Funny how life had played a joke on her with a rough, rowdy ball of fire. A sweet, silly Brent-like child. Well, except for the cerebral part. Rayne knew what many did not. Brent was highly intelligent. And Brent loved to read. And write. And create. And so did Henry. He simply just didn’t know it yet.

“Okay, so off you go. I’ve got to finish my soup, and you’ve got a book to start on.”

Henry’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Okay, but can I toss the ball with Mr. Hamilton before I start on the book?”

At her look, he muttered, “Nevermind,” and hopped off the stool.

She smiled and cast a glance toward the bubbling soup. She didn’t want to overcook it.

“Hey, sport. I got you something.”

Brent’s deep voice came from behind her. She spun on the stool to see him standing before Henry holding a book aloft.

“A book?” Henry sounded a bit disappointed, but wasn’t rude enough to let it show too much.

“Yeah,” Brent said, squatting down and thumping the book. She could make out a boy holding a bat on the front. “This one is about a boy named Charlie who finds out he’s really good at pitching, and, get this, he only has one arm.”

Henry took the book and studied the cover. “How’s he do that with one arm?”

“Guess you’ll have to read and find out,” Brent said, standing and looking at her. “All right with you, Mom? Maybe a sports book might be better than, what was the one you were reading? A talking mouse?”

Henry’s eyes never left the book. “Yeah, a dumb talking mouse.”

Rayne shook her head and smiled. “Well, what do you say, Henry?”

“Hank,” Henry said before grinning up at Brent. “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I mean, Coach.”

“You’re welcome,” Brent said, tousling her son’s hair.

Seeing Brent touch her son in such a warm, almost fatherly manner did funny things to Rayne’s heart. She wished Henry still had a father to play ball with, to receive books from, to grin up at. She missed that for him. “Now, get to reading. You’ve got practice in an hour. Can he catch a ride with you, Brent? I’ve got to finish a few things here.”

Henry waited for Brent’s nod before hauling out of the room like the devil was on his heels, clutching the book and tripping over his untied shoelace.

Rayne looked at Brent. Her heart still harbored the resentment, but she felt the block of ice around it melt a bit. Nothing like being nice to her boy to move her toward a better place. “Thanks. That was nice of you.”

“No problem.” Then he smiled, causing her heart to do little flippy things. Damn it. She had to stop thinking about his smile, his naked chest, the thought of being literally tangled up in him. The man had hurt her. Remember the Alamo. Or rather, the Oak Stand Literary Night circa 1994.

She moved toward the stove, picked up a wooden spoon and her control over her hormones. The soup looked perfect, nice and tomatoey. Rich and creamy. Her taste buds rioted for a little nip. She ignored them and instead added the chopped basil sitting on a cutting board beside the range. “So you happened to have a kid’s book lying around?”

She saw his hand move toward one of the muffins and smiled. Men. Boys. They all were alike. Hungry. “Well, I like all kinds of books.”

“Yeah, I saw the Debbie Macomber on the shelf. And, yes, you can have a muffin.”

“Thanks,” he said, cramming it into his mouth. “Mmm. I like these. Oh, and that was my mom’s book. Don’t know how it got on my shelf.”

“But a kid’s book?”

He licked his fingers and made her think of things other than food. “Well, I coach kids. The lessons in those books relate to kids. Or something like that.”

“Oh. Well, thanks for letting Henry borrow one.”

“He can keep that copy. I have a few others, so if he likes that one, he can borrow another.”

She stirred the soup, scooping enough to taste, and slipped the spoon in her mouth. It needed a pinch more sea salt and then she could dish it up for Meg and Aunt Fran to sample. “That’s nice of you.”

“I can be a nice guy. Sometimes.”

Rayne looked over her shoulder. “I remember.”

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing a paper towel and wiping his hands. “I gotta run. Tell your aunt I’ll be back in the morning. Early this time because I got some work to do at the Harpers’ in the afternoon. Send Hank over in about thirty, okay?”

Then he stepped out the back door before she could say anything else. Before she could remember how nice he’d been once. How sweet and vulnerable. So different than what others thought about him. And at one time so absolutely perfect for her.

She washed her hands and allowed the memories to follow the water right down the drain. It was easier that way.

BRENT JOGGED TO HIS PARENTS’ house to let Apple out and realized he’d forgotten and left her asleep on his bed. After grabbing their mail and stacking it on the counter and riffling through the too-thin Oak Stand Gazette, he hurried across the backyard, thinking about the repercussions of handing Henry one of his earlier books. He hadn’t thought about it seeming strange that he’d have copies of a children’s book lying about his house. He’d thought only of finding something Henry would actually enjoy reading, something that would hook him and have him turning pages.

Lucky he could think fast on his feet. It was a good ability to have.

Apple trotted up to him, carrying a decorative pillow she’d capriciously ripped apart. Fluffy white clouds covered his rug. Damn it.

“Apple, you dumbass dog. I ought to punt you to Houston, you stupid mutt.”

The Boston terrier dropped the pillow his mother had painstakingly cross-stitched with his initials at his feet and smiled up at him. Then she barked.

He nudged her with his work boot and picked up the half-flattened pillow. “Damn it.”

Apple barked again before clamping her mouth onto the torn pillow for a game of tug-of-war.

“Stop it,” he said, pulling the pillow. Apple growled and shook her head.

“Talking to the dog again?”

Brent dropped the pillow and propped his hands on his hips. “Hey, Tamara. Yeah, stupid dog tore up that pillow Mom gave me when I moved in here.”

Tam stepped inside, shut the door and propped her bottom on the armchair. He could smell her perfume as it wafted toward him, curling into his nostrils. He glanced at her. She looked fine sitting there, with her golden hair tumbling down her back and her glossy lips ready to be plundered. She wore an itty-bitty dress that tied under her breasts and high-heeled sandals that made her legs look long and tanned.

“I see,” she drawled, and he could tell she had more on her mind than a cross-stitched pillow or a dog. “You wanna go over to the Dairy Barn for a burger tonight then maybe head out to Cooley’s? It’s two-for-Tuesday.”

He picked up the stuffing and repried the pillow from Apple’s mouth. “Nah, I got baseball practice.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, rising and smoothing the flimsy cotton against her upper thighs. “I forgot you coach a team.”

He opened the door and whistled. Apple trotted outside, then spied a squirrel and gave chase. He closed the door as Tamara’s arms curled round his stomach.

“I thought maybe we could try to fix that problem you had the other night,” she whispered against his back. Her fingers smoothed themselves across his stomach. Unwillingly, he felt himself harden, but he grabbed her hands and disengaged them.

He turned. “I don’t think we have time for that kind of therapy, Tam. Though I do thank you for the offer.”

She smiled. Her two canines were slightly longer than her other teeth, giving her a vampy, cute smile. Two dimples appeared in her cheeks. “Well, you know, I do work for agriculture extension. It’s my job to make things grow.”

He chuckled, before bringing her hands to his lips. “And I appreciate the dedication you bring to your work.”

“Oh, heck, Brent. I had to go somewhere. Liv’s with Mark. They’ve been driving me crazy with all their talk of the upcoming wedding. I’m sick of tripping over bridal magazines and all the damned invitation sample books. I can’t believe she’s taking the plunge.”

Liv Wheeler was Tamara’s roommate. He’d dated her once upon a time. She was a sweet girl, not much of a conversationalist, but then again, they hadn’t talked much. The relationship had lasted about a month. She came from a good family and had a sweet disposition so he’d hoped it would evolve into something serious. But it turned out they had little in common. Liv only watched reality television, and the only books she’d ever read were The Baby-sitters Club series when she was twelve. No conversation, only action, which had been fine for a while, but really, he was more than a piece of meat, no matter what everyone liked to say.

“Mark’s a good guy. You need to find a guy like that.”

She tugged at his waistband. “Maybe you. You’re a good guy.”

“No, I’m not.” He removed her hands again and grabbed the remote control. He’d left the station on ESPN and the opening day baseball scores scrolled along the bottom of the screen. He clicked it off.

“What’s wrong, Brent? You’re always good for a quickie,” Tamara teased, propping her hand on one hip. “Or at least you were.”

Her words ruffled him. He didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. He was a man. Hell, he’d gotten hard staring at Rayne lick the spoon out of the soup earlier, so he knew there wasn’t anything wrong with the equipment. It was something else altogether that had him stepping away from Tamara. Something new and different wriggled inside him. A desire to be taken seriously. A wish to give up the fabled, carefree, eye candy image he’d fallen into long ago…and stayed in. He was tired of that life. And the woman before him was another piece in the puzzle of dissatisfaction.

But Tamara wasn’t the sort of girl who took no for an answer. Her tenacity had served her well in the past. Usually she got her man. But the digital clock on the microwave beyond her shoulder told him it was six-thirteen. It took ten minutes to get to the ball field. He still needed to gather up the catching equipment and fill up the watercooler.

“No time,” Brent said, giving Tamara a quick, hard kiss on the forehead, before unwrapping her from around his legs. “Got boys waiting on me, Tam.”

Tamara narrowed her eyes. “And I have some waiting on me at Cooley’s.”

Brent smiled at her attempt to stir jealousy. It was an emotion he was unfamiliar with. Except for when it stirred last weekend when Kate Newman had kissed Rick Mendez beneath the flowered arbor. And it wasn’t jealousy over Kate. It was jealousy for what they’d found together. Utter joy. Utter happiness. Utter love.

The only utter he held was utter contempt for his life. And for some reason, something inside him burned for a piece of what Kate and Rick had found last weekend.

He wasn’t sure why he wanted more now, but he knew he did.

A flash of color caught his eye and broke his thoughts. He stepped from the warmth of Tamara’s embrace and moved toward the French doors. Henry stood, nose pressed against the windowpane.

“Who’s that?” Tamara asked from over his shoulder.

Brent didn’t answer. Just pulled the door open. “Hey, Hank. Where’s your mom?”

The boy shrugged. “She was right behind me. She said she’d pick me up at seven-thirty. She knows where, right?”

Brent nodded as he saw the back end of Rayne disappear behind a hedge that needed clipping. An apron tie snagged on a limb and a slender hand tugged it loose. Brent had no doubt Rayne had seen Tamara twined round him like ivy on an oak. He wished she hadn’t. She already thought him the town gigolo and he’d cemented that impression in her mind, no doubt.

“Come on in, Hank. I’ve got to grab my equipment and then we can go.” The boy stepped inside and eyed the woman studying her manicure. “Oh, this is a friend. Tamara Beach.”

Henry ducked his head and rubbed the toe of his cleat in the rug. “Hi.”

Tamara bent down. “Hey, Hank. You gonna be on Brent’s team, huh? It’s the best team to be on because Brent is the best coach.”

Henry peered up at her beneath the brim of his stained baseball cap. “Um, yeah.”

Brent placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder. It surprised him Henry would be so shy. He hadn’t displayed any unease several days ago when he’d climbed over the fence. In fact, the boy had seemed in his element.

Tamara stood and smiled at Brent, her disgruntled feelings at not getting a roll in the hay gone. “Okay, you guys have fun. Will I see you later at Cooley’s, Brent?”

Brent shook his head. “Not tonight. Got a full day tomorrow. Have some fun for me.”

A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows before she nodded and flicked the bill of Henry’s cap. “Later, gators.”

Tamara picked up the keys she’d abandoned on the end table and slipped out the door.

Henry watched. “She’s pretty. Is she your girlfriend?”

Brent walked into the kitchen and started filling up the cooler with water from the faucet. Then he grabbed the equipment bag from the alcove beside the pantry. “No. Just a friend.”

Henry followed him. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Nope. No girlfriend,” he said, slinging the bag on his shoulder and grabbing two sports drinks from the fridge. It wasn’t too hot yet, but Henry might need some extra electrolytes.

“So are you funny?”

Brent shut the fridge door. “Huh?”

“You know. Funny. Like this one guy who works for my mom. He likes other guys and stuff.” Henry’s brown eyes were so matter-of-fact. Brent had no clue kids his age knew about homosexuality. He was knocked for a loop.

“Um, no. I’m not funny…in that way. But I know some good knock-knock jokes.”

“Me, too.” Henry smiled and Brent noticed he was missing his two lower teeth. It made him look even cuter. “Hey, I read one whole chapter of that book all by myself.”

Brent motioned him toward the door. “That’s great. Chapter books can be hard. Only big kids read those.”

Henry nodded. “I feel bad for that kid in the book. He didn’t get born with a whole arm. That’s gotta stink.”

Brent felt a flash of satisfaction. Just what he had thought when he’d met a college teammate’s son who’d been born with a congenital heart defect which resulted in an underdeveloped limb. He’d intentionally written that book to celebrate the fact his friend’s son Reese hadn’t allowed his handicap to keep him from playing sports. It was one of his favorite books.

“Yeah, but the kid doesn’t let his disability hold him back. You’ll see that he’s pretty brave, especially when some kids make fun of him. Even his own teammates.”

Brent unlocked his truck, tossed the equipment bag and cooler in the bed and helped Henry climb into the cab.

“Well, I’m only on chapter two, but I guess it’ll make me mad if they’re mean to Charlie. It doesn’t seem fair to not be like other kids. It probably makes him cry at night when no one is around.”

Brent opened his mouth, then shut it as he cranked the engine. He wondered if Henry knew firsthand about crying in the privacy of his room. It seemed unfathomable that a strong, funny kid like Henry could suffer humiliation at the hands of others. He seemed so cool. So talented. So innocent and wonderful.

“Maybe,” Brent commented, reversing out of the driveway. “You’ll have to read and find out.”

Henry propped his chin on his elbow and watched the passing scenery of Oak Stand. They rounded the town square, braked for a squirrel and headed south toward the Oak Stand Athletic fields. “Do you think my mom will be early to pick me up?”

Brent shifted his gaze from the road to the boy looking way too contemplative for a seven-year-old.

“Sure. If not, we’ll call her. Or you can ride back with me.”

“Oh,” Henry said, fiddling with the glove he held in his lap. “Okay. I think she’ll probably be early.”

Brent waved at his friend Margo, who swept the steps of Tucker House, then saluted the new police chief, Adam Bent, before swinging toward the highway that would take them to the sports complex outside the city limits.

“So you like books, huh?”

Brent grabbed a dusty ball cap from the dash and crammed it on his head. “Sure. I love books.”

Henry studied him. “Really?”

Brent nodded. “Really. Books take me to new places. Places I can’t go—pirate ships or secret rain forests. Besides, I learn about people who are like me and people who aren’t. It’s like taking a trip, but you don’t have to pack.”

Henry frowned. “I don’t really like books. I’d rather be doing something. Playing ball or watching TV. My mom reads stuff all the time. Sometimes she cries when she reads books. I hate when my mom cries.”

The boy turned and looked out the window as if he knew he’d said too much.

Brent wasn’t sure if he should respond. So he let a few moments go by. Nothing but Miranda Lambert on the radio crooning about love gone wrong.

They drove into the parking lot adjacent to the ball field. A few of the kids on his team already tossed the ball, warming up.

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with crying, Hank.”

Henry’s head whipped around. He met the Brent’s gaze. “Do you cry?”

Brent shrugged. “If I need to.”

Henry’s brow knotted. “Oh.”

Brent didn’t want to tell Henry the last time he’d cried had been when he read in the Oak Stand Gazette that Rayne Rose had married Phillip Albright. That when he’d read those words and saw her smiling face staring out from the page something had crumbled inside him and the world faded several shades dimmer. Because up until seeing Rayne’s and Phillip’s names linked together in holy matrimony, Brent hadn’t realized how much he’d believed in a second chance with Rayne…until that chance had disappeared. The dream of somehow finding himself in her good graces again had been blown out like a candle, leaving the recesses of his heart dark. And that knowledge had caused tears to prick the back of his eyes and sadness to burn deep inside his gut.

But over the past day or two, he’d been looking for matches, contemplating a way to light the candle of hope again. If he could move past her anger and disappointment in him, then maybe, just maybe, he had a shot with Rayne. As crazy as the idea seemed.

And it seemed crazy.

Rayne was going to leave Oak Stand. Her life was too grand for the simplicity of the town. Besides, their past was a hopeless tangle of fierce emotions, emotions born of angsty teenage lust and love.

But he couldn’t stop the thought that had anchored itself inside him. Fate wasn’t a fickle lady. She knew her mind. The cards had been dealt the moment he’d sat on that porch step days ago, hating himself and his life. Then a ball had landed in the backyard and things had changed. Maybe Fate was on his side this time, even if she wasn’t ready to show her cards yet.

He turned to Henry. “Game on. Let’s play some baseball.”