Willowleaf Lane Read online

  One part of her wanted to apologize, to go back to that moment of quiet accord between them. She knew she couldn’t. She had developed willpower in all other aspects of her life. She just had to be tough about resisting him, too.

  “Good night. Let me know when you’ve come up with enough solid details about the wounded vets program and are ready for me to talk to Mary Ella.”

  “I will. Good night.”

  He stepped back and closed the door with a hard thud. She sat for just a few seconds, surprised to realize her hands were trembling a little, but she quickly turned the key, reversed out of the parking stall and headed for home without looking back.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FOUR DAYS AFTER that dinner at the café, Spence rang Charlotte’s doorbell, a restless energy seething through him.

  Maybe he should have waited until the next morning, when he could have tried to catch her at the candy store.

  The papers in his hand rustled in the slight evening breeze. No. She told him to let her know when he was ready to talk to Mary Ella. He had been on the phone, online videoconferencing, tossing emails back and forth nonstop since early Thursday and after an exhaustive amount of research, he was ready to start the ball rolling.

  He was always this way with a project. Once he was ready to go, even another day’s delay seemed too long.

  Besides that, he wanted to see her. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her all weekend. By yesterday morning, he had even considered taking Peyton out for breakfast and then casually peeking into Sugar Rush. He might have, except she said she had a stomachache and wasn’t hungry so he’d made waffles and bacon at home—of which she’d eaten a half-dozen pieces.

  He rang the doorbell again, that energy bubbling along his skin. Under other circumstances, he would have thought nine o’clock on a Sunday night a rude time to be making social calls. She would understand—if she was home, anyway.

  He was pretty certain she was, considering the light spilling out from a couple different windows and some kind of mellow jazz that eased through the summer night, sultry and warm.

  Of course, she could always have left the lights and the music going while she left the house. Or she could be occupied with a date and not at all inclined to answer the door to a neighbor she quite obviously disdained.

  The thought of her sharing her time with someone else left an uncomfortable ball of discomfort lodged under his ribs—and the renewed realization that he would even entertain such an emotion left him even more uncomfortable.

  Jade had cheated on him regularly. Toward the end of his marriage, he hadn’t given a rat’s behind about his wife’s other men—until the final betrayal that had sent his world tumbling.

  With some vague idea now that maybe the doorbell was broken—even though he was quite sure he had heard it chiming through the house—he reached a hand out to knock. Before his hand could connect with the blue-painted wood, the door swung open and she stood there, haloed by the light seeping out from inside.

  She was barefoot, wearing a gauzy white summer dress with a thin ribbon of lace around the hem, propped up on her crutches, and beside her stood a big black and tan hound dog, who watched him out of doleful droopy eyes.

  “Spencer! Oh. I... Hello.”

  “I forgot you had to hobble to the door on the crutches. I’m sorry.”

  “It wouldn’t have been a big deal but the dog sort of got in my way.”

  “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “I don’t. This is Tucker. He’s my brother’s. I’m dog sitting for a couple days.” Worry, cloudy and dark, crossed her expression. “Dylan had to go into the VA for a procedure.”

  He wanted to say something to comfort her but was pretty sure anything he tried would fall flat.

  “What a great dog,” he said instead, crouching a little to scratch the hound’s jowly chin.

  He loved dogs and had wanted a dozen when he was a kid. He’d even brought home a stray one day, a shy little mutt he found crouching beside the road on his way home from school. He had kept her secret in his room, feeding her whatever scraps he could sneak from the kitchen, until Billie found out. The next day, he came home from school and the dog was gone. Billie said she must have run away but even at eleven, he was pretty sure his mom had probably dumped her somewhere.

  One of the first things he had done after signing with the Pioneers was buy a couple big gorgeous purebred German shepherds.

  If the dogs were his first big indulgence, tangling up with the wrong woman was his second. Jade had hated the dogs, said they scared her to death. After Peyton was born, Jade claimed one of them growled at the baby, and she wouldn’t have them in the house. After he stopped caring about his wife’s opinion, it had seemed too much trouble while he was traveling with the team to change the status quo.

  He supposed there was nothing to stop him from getting a dog or two now. It might even be good for Peyton to have the responsibility of caring for an animal. He would have to check his lease to see if it was allowed at the rental.

  He wasn’t here to pet her brother’s dog, he reminded himself, and he straightened up.

  “Sorry to drop in so late like this. I wanted to be sure to catch you tonight. May I come in?”

  She glanced behind her at the warm welcome of her cozy house and then back to him, and he saw a tumult of wariness in her expressive blue eyes.

  “Sure.” She turned on the crutches with adroit skill and gestured inside to her living room, bright and cheerful.

  “Can I get you something to drink? I could probably find a beer in the refrigerator. With six brothers, I try to keep some around.”

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  He didn’t take chances with any kind of potentially addictive substance since he’d completed rehab. Though his issue had been the mix of prescription painkillers that had kept him playing long after he should have walked away, he knew his genetic soup as the child of an alcoholic predisposed him for addiction.

  “Water? Ginger ale?”

  “I’m good. Please. Sit down.”

  She finally took a seat in a wingback armchair patterned with bold flowers and he sat adjacent to her on a sage-green sofa he noticed matched the stem color of the flowers.

  The dog settled at her feet in what looked like a customary arrangement between the two of them.

  “I won’t keep you long. I wanted to catch you up on the status of what we talked about the other day, the idea of using the recreation center to help wounded veterans. It’s got a tentative name now. A Warrior’s Hope.”

  “Oh. Oh, that’s perfect!” Her smile was warm, approving, and he wanted to sit right there in her cozy living room for a couple hours, letting her approbation wash over him.

  “I can’t take credit for it, to be honest. When I was talking with the director of a similar program in Idaho, she suggested the name and it seemed to fit.”

  “Definitely.”

  “I’ve actually spent several days talking to other people situated in these groups across the West. Sun Valley, Park City. California. They gave me some fantastic ideas. I really think we could make this work.”

  He waved the documentation he had collected and printed out over the past few days. He held it out so she could see better, and as he moved closer to her, a soft, seductive mix of citrus and vanilla whispered to him.

  “If the population is already being served by these other programs, wouldn’t A Warrior’s Hope be redundant?” she asked.

  He forced his attention back to the documentation. “From what I understand, the need far outstrips available resources. We could definitely fill a much-needed niche. I’m thinking we should start small. Ideally, I would like to see a series of intensive recreational therapy sessions, maybe eight or nine a year. We can augment that if we see more
demand and can find the resources.”

  He shifted through the papers until he found the sample brochure he had worked with his assistant to design. “In the summers, we can focus on hiking and water sports at the reservoir, climbing, maybe some fly-fishing and horseback riding. In the winter, we’ve got sledding, adaptive skiing, snowshoeing. There are boundless natural recreational possibilities here, not to mention the pool and exercise equipment at the recreation center.”

  He hadn’t been this excited about anything in a long time. Before, his charitable giving had always involved writing a check but this was hands-on, boots-on-the-ground kind of service and he relished the possibilities. Hearing stories from other groups that had started similar programs only fueled the fire of his enthusiasm.

  “Initially, I’m thinking we could arrange transportation and lodging for five or six soldiers at a time and their families for weeklong sessions,” he went on. “In addition to the physical therapy possibilities, I want to help them reconnect, since it’s not only the soldiers whose lives are changed forever by an injury. It’s spouses, girlfriends, children. What better place to do that than Hope’s Crossing?”

  He wanted her to jump with enthusiasm, to exclaim over the research and the ideas. When she only gazed down at his information, a distant, unreadable expression on her lovely features, air began to seep from his passion like a pinpricked balloon.

  Did she hate the idea? She had liked the name. What about the concept didn’t work for her?

  “You’ve really done your homework,” she said.

  “This is a major undertaking. I wanted to be sure it was really viable before pursuing it further. From my interactions with other programs, I think we can pull this off, especially with the infrastructure we already have in place. We can make a real difference here.”

  “What about the cost? How do you imagine funding this? Bringing in veterans and all? I can’t imagine the city council will let you use taxes.”

  This, at least, was one concern he could address. “Here’s the thing. I’ve already got a charitable foundation, and we’ve been looking for a new direction lately, for various reasons. I know others who might be in similar situations. I want to do this, to help people like Dylan who might be struggling to come to terms with changes in their lives after war injuries. This is a worthy cause, helping a population that tends to be forgotten.”

  She leafed through the papers for a moment and, while he sensed her interest in what she was reading, he also guessed she was trying to collect her thoughts.

  “I need you to answer a question for me,” she finally said.

  “Of course. What is it?”

  The dog snuffled near her feet and she looked down at him before lifting her gaze to meet Spence’s.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  He gestured to the pile of research in her lap. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? There’s a great need. More than forty thousand soldiers have been injured overseas, with three-quarters of those having life-threatening or life-changing injuries. And here’s something staggering. Nearly 20 percent of soldiers who’ve seen combat in the Middle East have sustained what could be classified a traumatic brain injury. An estimated 30 percent of returning soldiers have psychological or post-traumatic stress issues.”

  “I know that’s all true. We’ve seen it firsthand with Dylan. You haven’t. Your life has been baseball for the past fifteen years, about as far removed as a person can be from the horror of war.”

  The words stung. “That doesn’t mean I can’t care about people who need help.”

  “This goes beyond simple concern. This is going to take millions of dollars and a huge commitment in time and energy.”

  He had no answer to that. He only knew that he had spent four days pouring exhaustive effort into developing a preliminary plan for A Warrior’s Hope. He wanted her to be excited about it, too.

  “I’ve got millions of dollars. And nothing but time.”

  “And don’t forget, you also have an image to repair.”

  Fury, hot and sharp, burst inside him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m sure you can figure it out.” She pressed her lips together, eyes flashing.

  Had he ever seen her angry before? He couldn’t remember it. She had always been sweet Charlotte, quiet and kind.

  “You think this is a publicity stunt. You think I want to use the plight of injured soldiers and their families to throw some kind of sparkle-clean over my mistakes?”

  “You wouldn’t be the first celebrity who seemed to think giving mouth service to a few good works will make everybody willing to forgive and forget, just gloss over an ugly past.”

  He stared at her. “Wow. You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”

  “No,” she said bluntly.

  The single word hit him like a line drive to the gut and he couldn’t breathe for a moment.

  “Fine.” He gathered the papers, wanting to shove his fist through her pretty sage walls. “Screw you. I’m doing this, with or without your help.”

  The droopy-eyed dog lifted his head and watched as Spence stalked to the door but she didn’t get up from the chair.

  “Never mind. I’ll talk to Harry myself. It’s better that way. I thought so all along. I don’t need you or Mary Ella McKnight to run interference for me.”

  He opened the door to storm out, then something—anger, pride, hurt, he couldn’t have said—sent him back into her living room.

  “This is a good proposal and you know it. I just hope to hell there are enough people in Hope’s Crossing who aren’t as judgmental and myopic—who are open-minded enough to look at the merits of the idea, not focus only on the past sins of the person presenting it. Somehow I expected more from you.”

  He couldn’t believe he had ever been so excited to talk to her about this. He had thought the other night that maybe, just maybe, she might be one of his few allies in town but apparently she couldn’t see beyond his reputation.

  “Why would you?” she demanded. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know you used to be a kind person. You were one of the least judgmental people I knew, with a nice word for everyone. You and Dermot were the only ones who bothered to come to my mother’s funeral. It meant something to me, that you cared. I’ve never forgotten that.”

  “Bull,” she whispered. “You haven’t given me a thought since you left town.”

  That was probably true, he had to admit. When he walked away from Hope’s Crossing, his good sense had been clouded by unimagined wealth and sudden fame. He had never expected to come back at all, much less under these far-from-stellar circumstances.

  She had been his friend. He shouldn’t have relegated that to some dusty corner of his memory. He frowned. At least, she had been his friend until near the end of his senior year, a few months before he signed with the Pioneers and left town. After that, she had stopped talking to him, he remembered, and completely ignored him at the café, though he couldn’t for the life of him think what he might have done. Something immeasurably stupid, probably.

  “I was an asshole. I think that’s been well established by now.”

  Amazing how simple arrogance could ruin a person’s life. He had worked damn hard to be a good baseball player, staying later than anybody else, honing his technique, working out for hours each day to stay in top shape.

  A healthy ego and a fierce competitive streak had been requirements at the level at which he had competed, but that same ego had forced him to ignore a body that was wearing down from years of throwing ninety-five-mile-an-hour fastballs.

  And it had been colossal, unmitigated gall to believe he could cover up somebody else’s mess without it slopping back on him.

  He sighed, the sharp edge of his temper dulling. He was responsible for his
own mistakes. None of it was Charlotte Caine’s fault and he couldn’t blame her for thinking the worst about his motives.

  “The truth is, I want to do this. I’m ready to throw my own charitable organization behind it. Whatever you think about my past, I also still have plenty of connections among professional athletes who have their own charitable organizations and might be looking for a cause.”

  He could call at least a dozen guys right now, in both the American and National leagues, who had stood by him when it mattered. Any one of them would be willing to donate at least high five figures, enough to seed the project.

  “I think we could make A Warrior’s Hope a force to be reckoned with. You can think what you want about my motives. I can’t deny there might be some element of truth to what you say. Would I like to walk down the street without people spitting on me? Okay. Sure. But I want to do this because it’s a damn good idea and because it could help people who deserve a break.”

  Gazing at him, brow furrowed, she reached down and scratched the dog behind his ears. What was she thinking? Did she believe him? And what would he do if she didn’t want to help?

  He could certainly make this happen without her but it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.

  After a breathless moment, she held her fingers out. “Give me that.”

  He offered her the research, and she snatched it away and reviewed it once more.

  He sank down on the sofa and the clever dog, apparently sensing her attention was elsewhere, shifted his haunches on the carpet so his head was just at Spence’s hand level.

  He sat in her cozy living room while the mountain-sweet evening breeze danced in through the open windows and fluttered the curtains. Her whole house smelled like her—vanilla and citrus, completely delectable—and he decided this wasn’t at all a bad way to spend a Sunday evening, with a lovely woman reading next to him and his fingers petting a dog’s warm fur.

  She nibbled on her bottom lip as she read, and he found himself utterly fascinated by the sight. She used to do that, he remembered, when she would read over his piss-poor English papers.