ground in front of her yielded no answers.
Praying the children and the man hadn’t seen her fall, she got to her feet gingerly. The trio on the soccer field was laughing about something, immersed in their own little world that didn’t include Jazz. The man was now standing in goal beside the boy, who gripped the soccer ball with both hands.
Drawing in a deep breath, Jazz wiped at the dirt on her scraped arm and brushed at the twigs and grass on her running clothes. Thankfully nobody had seen her fall. As it got later in the morning and the August temperatures rose, the trail became less populated.
“Go deep, Robbie!” the man yelled, waving his arm to indicate a point roughly even with Jazz. “Brooke’s got a good punt.”
The man bent his head to say something to the girl, probably instructions. He watched as the girl took three long steps, dropped the ball and punted.
The black-and-white ball arced into the sky and flew down the field. It must have careened off the side of the girl’s foot because it didn’t travel in a straight line, instead landing and bouncing not far from Jazz.
The redheaded boy was running toward the ball, arms and legs pumping. Jazz told herself to resume her workout before the boy closed the distance between them but she craved a better look at him. With her heart hammering, she left the trail and headed for the rolling ball. She bent down, picked it up and raised her eyes.
The boy slowed, then stopped. His cheeks were red, she wasn’t sure whether from exertion or exposure to the sun. Freckles sprinkled his nose. His expression was open and earnest, something about it striking a note of familiarity she both searched for and feared noticing.
“Can I have that?” the boy asked.
Jazz stared at him, her mind a blank.
He pointed. “The ball.”
She looked down at her hands, almost surprised to see what they held. “Oh. Of course.”
Jazz tossed him the ball. He caught it easily, but stood his ground. His eyes dipped. “You’re bleeding.”
She gazed down at herself and saw blood trickling down her right leg from a gash on her knee. “I tripped over a root.”
“It looks like it hurts.”
“It’s nothing.” She felt numb to the injury, her entire focus on the boy. Like the girl, he wore long socks that she now saw covered shin guards. Even at his young age, he had an athletic build, and was wiry rather than muscular. As far as Jazz knew, nobody in her family was an athlete. Was that relevant?
“Well, bye.” The boy pivoted and dashed away.
She opened her mouth to call him back, then closed it. She shouldn’t prolong their encounter. To the boy, she was a stranger who’d happened to retrieve his ball. Maybe that’s all she was. She didn’t know how old the children were, whether they were twins or if they’d been adopted.
She could probably concoct a story, approach their father and get some answers. But what purpose would that serve? Even though she couldn’t help keeping an eye out for redheaded twins wherever she went, she would never consciously search for them. If they were happy, as this boy and girl seemed to be, she had no intention of disrupting their lives.
The boy appeared smaller and smaller as he retreated into the distance, finally stopping next to the man and the girl. The two children were virtually the same size, like twins might be. Jazz’s throat thickened. She tried to swallow but couldn’t manage it.
The boy said something to the man, then extended his arm and pointed to Jazz. The man patted the boy’s shoulder before he took off in a slow jog, heading directly for her. The children followed.
Jazz told herself to move, to rejoin the path and continue her run. Her feet didn’t cooperate, remaining as motionless as if they were glued to the grass. The man kept approaching, growing more substantial with every powerful stride. His coloring was nothing like the children’s, his hair a sun-lightened medium brown, his skin lightly tanned. He reached her a few seconds before the children.
“Hey, are you okay?” the man asked. “Robbie said you were bleeding.”
“She said she fell over a root,” Robbie added helpfully. The boy had come up behind him, arriving a few seconds before the girl. Up close, she looked remarkably like the boy.
The girl made a face. “Oh, gross!”
“Blood isn’t gross, Brooke,” the man said before addressing Jazz. “You look a little pale. You should sit down.”
With Brooke’s hair pulled back from her face and Robbie’s short haircut, it was easy to see their hairlines were identical, down to their widow’s peaks. Also the same were their oval faces, their green eyes and the freckles dotting their noses.
“Did you hear me? You’re not in shock, are you?” The man was talking again. To her. Jazz yanked her gaze from the children and focused on him. She placed him at somewhere around thirty, not much older than she was. With a slightly crooked nose and wide mouth, a combination that worked surprisingly well, he didn’t resemble the children facially, either.
“Sorry.” Her head was still spinning with possibility but she attempted a smile. “No, I’m not in shock. I’m fine.”
He frowned, his brows drawing together. “You should clean that cut so it doesn’t get infected.”
She attempted to rein in her scattered thoughts. “I will when I get home.”
“I have a first-aid kit in my bag,” he offered. “It’s over there by the goal.”
“Oh, no.” She immediately shook her head. “Thanks, but I couldn’t be a bother.”
“No bother,” he said. “Name the injury, and I’ve probably had it. I’m darn near an expert.”
She felt herself wavering. If she went with him, she could find out more about the children. What would it hurt to possibly verify these were the twins she’d given up at birth? She’d know for sure they were healthy and happy, all she could wish for.
“I don’t want to take time away from your kids,” she said, still undecided.
“They’re my niece and nephew,” he said.
“Uncle Matt’s not married,” Robbie added. “He doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”
“Mom says he has lots of girlfriends,” Brooke chimed in. “Nuh-uh,” Robbie said. “I never met one.”
“Not serious girlfriends.” Brooke sounded years older than she was.
“Thanks for sharing, kids, but you’re not helping,” the man said with an exaggerated grimace. He moved close enough to Jazz to extend a hand. “I’m Matt Caminetti. And these blabbermouths are Brooke and Robbie, my sister’s children.”
“I’m Jazz,” she said, deliberately omitting her last name. She had a vague impression of warmth when his hand clasped hers. Her mind whirled even as she greeted the children. Would it be a mistake to spend more time in their presence?
“Come
