team.”
“Is he?” Touched by the sudden light in those shy gray eyes, Jared reached out to flip up the visor of Connor’s ball cap. The boy jerked instinctively, went still, and reminded Jared that life had not been all ball games and hot dogs for this nine-year-old. “I’m looking forward to watching him,” Jared continued, as if the moment had never happened. “What position does he play?”
Ashamed of his own cowardice, Connor studied the ground again. “Shortstop.”
“Yeah? I used to play short.”
“You did?” Astonished by the idea, Connor just stared.
“That’s right. Devin played third, and—”
“Sheriff MacKade played baseball?” Now the astonishment was mixed with a pure case of hero worship. “I bet he was real good.”
“He was okay.” It pricked the pride, just a little, to remember he’d never been able to outhit, or outfield Devin. “How many dogs you want, Connor?”
“I’ve got money. Mom gave me money. And Ms. Morningstar.” He fumbled with the bills. “I’m supposed to get one for her, too. With mustard.”
“It’s my treat.” Jared held up three fingers at the vendor as Bryan worried his lip and stared at his money. “This way I get to hang out with you and Ms. Morningstar.”
Jared handed the boy the first hot dog, watched him carefully, deliberately squeeze on a line of bright yellow mustard. “Are your mother and sister here?”
“No, sir. Mom’s working, and Emma’s with her down at the diner. She said it was okay for me to come down and watch, though.”
Jared added drinks to the order, and packed the whole business up in a flimsy cardboard box. “Can you handle this?”
“Yes, sir. Sure.” Pleased to have been given the job, Connor walked toward the stands, holding the box as if the hot dogs were explosives and the soft drinks a lit match. “We’re way up at the top, ’cause Ms. Morningstar says you can see everything better from up high.”
And he could see her, Jared mused, as they approached the stands. She sat with her elbows on her knees, her chin cupped in her hands. And her eyes—though he had to imagine, as they were shielded with dark glasses—focused on the field.
He was wrong about that. She was watching him, walking beside the boy, flashing that killer smile or giving a quick salute whenever someone hailed him. And noticing several women—of varying ages—who put their shoulders back or patted at their hair as he passed.
That was what a man who looked like that did to a woman, Savannah supposed. Made her instinctively aware of herself on a purely physical level. It was like pheromones, she decided. The scent of sex.
Those long legs of his carried him up the stands behind the small boy. Now and again his hand touched a shoulder or shook a hand. Savannah picked up the jacket she’d set in Connor’s place and squeezed over toward the rail.
“Nice day for a ball game,” Jared said as he sat beside her. He took the box from Connor and, to make room for the boy, shifted closer to the woman. “Crowded.”
“It is now. Thanks, Con.”
“Mr. MacKade bought them,” Connor told her, and solemnly handed her back her money.
She started to tell him to keep it, but she understood pride. “Thanks, Mr. MacKade.”
“What’s the score?”
“We’re down one, bottom of the third.” She took a healthy bite of her hot dog. “But the top of our batting order’s coming up.”
“Bryan bats third.” Connor chewed and swallowed politely before he spoke. “He has the most RBIs.”
Jared watched the first boy come out in the bright orange uniform of the team sponsored by Ed’s Café. “Have you met Edwina Crump?” Jared murmured near Savannah’s ear.
“Not yet. She owns the diner where Cassandra works, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah. Be grateful your boy’s not wearing lipstick pink.”
Savannah started to comment, then let out an encouraging shout when the bat cracked. The crowd hollered with her when the batter raced to first.
“Tying run’s on, right, Con?”
“Yes’m. That’s J. D. Bristol. He’s a good runner.”
She devoured her hot dog, fueling her nerves, while the second batter struck out, swinging. Someone shouted abuse at the ump, and several hot debates erupted in the stands.
“Apparently these games are taken as seriously as ever,” Jared commented.
“Baseball’s a serious business,” Savannah muttered. Her stomach did a fast boogie as Bryan stepped toward the plate.
Now the crowd murmured.
“That’s the Morningstar kid,” someone announced. “Got a hot bat.”
“Way that pitcher’s hurling, he’s going to need a torch. Nobody’s getting a good piece of that ball today.”
Savannah lifted her chin, and bumped the man in front of her with her knee. “You just watch,” she told him when he glanced around. “He’ll get all of it.”
Jared grinned and leaned back on the iron rail. “Yeah, a serious business.”
She winced when Bryan took a hard swing and met air. “I’ve got a buck says he knocks the tying run in.”
“I don’t like to bet against your boy, or the home team,” Jared mused. “But MacKades are betting men. A buck it is.”
Savannah held her breath as Bryan went through his little batter’s routine. Out of the box, kicking at dirt with his left foot, then his right, adjusting his helmet, taking two practice swings.
“Eye on the ball, Bry,” she murmured when he stepped to the plate. “Keep your eye on the ball.”
He did—as it sailed past him and into the catcher’s mitt.
“Strike two.”
“What the hell kind of call is that?” she demanded. “That was low and outside. Anybody could see that was low and outside.”
The man in front of her turned around, nodded seriously. “It surely was. Bo Perkins’s got eyes like my grandma, and she needs glasses to see her own opinion.”
“Well, somebody ought to give Bo Perkins a kick in the…” She let the words trail off, remembering Connor who was watching her with huge eyes. “Strike zone,” she decided.
“Good save,” Jared said under his breath, and watched Bryan step to the plate again.
The pitcher wound up, delivered. And Bryan gave a mighty swing that caught the ball on the meat of
