The Cedar Tree (Love Is Not Enough) (34 page)

"Okay," he said irritably, "you get on the end of a hammer tomorrow and see how it goes."

She couldn't drive a nail straight to save her life, and the day unfolded just the same as each day had since he kissed her in the lambing pen.

She hadn't shown up at Sunnyside for a few days after that night, but when she did—untouchable, her guard firmly in place—she carried on as though nothing had happened. Angry and determined to force her hand, he had shoved her out of the driver's seat, aggressively crowding her like a bronc in a chute. Ignoring the cool distance she tried to keep between them, he needled her with obnoxious comments and a hearty one-of-the-boys attitude. He welcomed the sparking anger and occasional bewildered hurt in her eyes.

She was losing the dead look, at least.

By the end of each day, she had gone home exhausted, mad, and not speaking to him, but…she continued to leave the kid with Rachel while she showed up at camp to help with the lambs.

The last ewe lambed on a Saturday night. The next day after church, he joined the church group at the softball park with his baseball mitt in hand—unused since he'd gotten tossed from his college team.

"Hey, Gil," Will yelled as he jogged toward the field, "you can be the other captain. Your pick."

Katie, holding the kid on her lap, sat on the bottom bleacher in a pink tee shirt, jeans, and sneakers.

He stopped close to her. "You playin'?" he asked in an undertone.

She nodded.

"Okay," he said, scanning the group to Tracy, now a frequent visitor. "I'll take Tracy."

Katie stiffened.

He chose Lance next. Ears red, Lance glanced at her. She stared at her shoes.

Finally, only Katie and the kid sat alone on the bottom bleacher. 

"Katie wants to play, Will," Lance said.

Will looked at her in surprise. "Oh. I thought she was sittin' out with the baby. Come pitch for me, Katie."

"That's all right," she said stiffly. "Chris needs a nap, anyway."

Behind her, Will's wife, Linda, reached for the kid. "Give him to me."

She hesitated then reluctantly handed the baby off. A few minutes later, Tim struck out the first batter, age seven. Popular opinion let her on base anyway. Tim struck out the next batter, too—the seven-year-old's dad. Katie stepped to the plate.

He grinned from where he played first base. Ranch girls always swung the bat like they meant business. He shoved his mitt tighter onto his hand. Tim sent a fast pitch over the plate. She swung hard. The bat hit the ball with a hollow clap. In left field, Lance shoved up his glasses, halfheartedly jogging toward the ball arching white against the sky. He reached out his long arm. The ball dropped short of his mitt.

"Oh, c'mon," Tim yelled from the mound, disgusted. "Obvious, man."

Feet flying, Katie rounded first base with a defiant glare at him. He grinned at her then ran across the infield. He jumped to intercept Lance's unhurried throw to the ten-year-old on third base then side-armed the ball easily to the catcher…who was married and held no passion for Katie. The catcher tagged her out at home plate. Tim tossed his mitt to Katie as the sides changed.

He stepped to the plate. She eyed him grimly from the pitcher's mound then pitched the ball hard and fast. With a satisfying crack of the bat, he hit it out of the ball field.

Pumping his fist in the air, he grinned as he jogged past her. "That was a sweet, sweet pitch, Campbell. Thanks. You make me look better than I am."

"That's not hard," she snapped.

He crossed home plate as Will vaulted the field's chain-link fence to throw the ball into the infield.

Tracy stepped to the plate…obviously not a ranch girl. Stepping close behind her curves, he placed his arms around her, guiding her hands into place. She leaned into him, giggling. Her hair didn't smell like lightning, but it smelled good. He took his time stepping away, holding Katie's narrow-eyed gaze from the mound.

"Make her throw it to you, Tracy," he said heartily.

Katie, her eyes like blue ice chips, smoked three contemptuous strikes over the plate, and then Lance stepped up to bat. He swung at and missed the first two pitches.

"Lance, cut it out," Katie shouted. "I don't need your help, okay?"

"He's just tryin' to make you look better than you are, Campbell," he called from the dugout. "Show some appreciation."

Her jaw tight, she threw a hard pitch. The ball ticked off Lance's unenthusiastic swing and rolled to the pitcher's mound. She tossed it to the first baseman then headed for the dugout, her brows drawn together in a scowl.

On her next at bat, she popped a fly into center field.

"Got it," he yelled, waving away the outfielder. Running under the ball, he opened his mitt behind his back, caught the ball, and jogged toward the dugout in one effortless motion, retiring the side.

On his turn, he stepped to the plate circling his bat, taunting her.

"C'mon, Katie," Lance yelled from the dugout. "You can do it."

Deep annoyance flickered through her gaze.

"Dude. Notice whose team she's on?" Tim said disgustedly to Lance then turned and yelled, "Forget it, Katie. You couldn't strike him out if you tried all day." 

"He's already struck out," she said.

He grinned into her cold stare. "Far from it." He nodded meaningfully toward Tracy who sat on a bleacher filing a red fingernail, an anxious frown on her pretty face.

Katie's brows snapped together. She hurled the ball. At his head. He ducked backward. Then he had to dodge the next pitch, too.

He snatched the ball from Will, the catcher. Tight jawed, he jogged to the mound.

"What're you doin'?" he asked in a conversational undertone, crowding close to her.

"My arm must be getting tired."

"No, it's not. You've got those big arms." He moved even closer until his mouth almost brushed her ear. Her hair, damp with sweat and curling on her neck and temples, did smell like lightning. "I'll embarrass you if you try to hit me again. Got it?"

"You're in my personal space."

"Oh, c'mon, Campbell." He met her gaze with a grim smile. "I've been in your personal space. Recently. I'm still a long ways from it."

She didn't flinch. "Get away from me or I'll give you a knee right in your family jewels, buster."

"Try it."

"You guys stop actin' like you're married," Tim yelled impatiently.

With a final glare, he shoved the ball into her hand. He jogged toward the plate.

"Will," he yelled, "you got anybody in your bullpen? If you need another girl to pitch, I'll loan you Tracy."

The crowd erupted with shouted warnings. He whirled then dropped flat to the ground as the ball whistled overhead. He lunged to his feet, headed back toward the mound.

"Gil. Hey. Cut it out," Will shouted. "I don't know what you two got goin' on, but maybe you'd better get outta the game and get it fixed."

Katie slammed her mitt to the ground. "There's nothing to fix, Will, so just butt out," she yelled.

The crowd and players gaped at her. She started for the parking lot, moving fast.

Speechless, he stared after her back with its angry ponytail. Maybe he'd pushed her too far.

Lance rose from the dugout bench to follow her then caught her by the elbow and said something.

She wrenched away, turning on him. "Get away from me," she screamed. "You're suffocating me to death."

***

That night, a bonfire blazed in Will and Linda's backyard. The same crowd from the softball game milled around it, roasting hot dogs and singing along with the hymns Will played on his fiddle. Gil sat on a log, accompanying him on his guitar. Tracy sat beside him, sometimes leaning against him. She sang off key.

He made no attempt to move away from her, but his gaze never strayed far from the tree at the edge of the firelight where Katie joggled the unhappy kid fussing in her arms.

After her outburst at the game, she had disappeared for thirty minutes. She returned for the kid and the two of them spent the remainder of the game in Tim's rusty Chevy pickup—a new acquisition since he'd become a licensed driver.

Tonight her mood seemed unimproved. Lance had roasted a hot dog for her, but she had curtly refused it then stood behind the tree with the kid. Lance—now slumped in a chair in the mellow glow of firelight—stared toward her shadowy form, too.

An hour later, he slipped away from Tracy and carried his guitar to his pickup parked behind the trees at the edge of the yard. Katie stood in the darkness a few feet away with her back to him, bouncing the kid who still screamed loud enough to wake the dead. She sang determinedly in quiet, clipped notes.

"I gave my love a cherry, which hath no stone…I gave my love a chicken, which hath no bone…"

The baby shrieked louder, pushing against her with his fat arms.

"I gave my love a story which hath no end…I gave my love a baby with no cryin'…"

He silently placed his guitar case in the back of his truck then leaned against the side.

She took the kid in a tighter hold. "Please, Chris. I'm so tired," she muttered, desperation edging her tone. She continued grimly. "How can there be a cherry that hath no stone? How can there be a chicken that hath no bone?"

The screams trailed into silence. Her voice softened with relief and the haunting melody slowed. "How can there be a story which hath no end? How can there be a baby with no cryin'?"

She shifted her little brother's dead weight in her arms, rolling her head on her shoulders. "A cherry when it's bloomin', it hath no stone…A chicken when it's pippin', it hath no bone…The story of I love—" she stumbled over the words, her voice thick—"you, it hath no end…and a baby when he's sleepin', hath no cryin'…"

The lullaby faded into the soft rustling of cottonwood leaves. She sniffed.

"My mama used to sing that," he said quietly.

She froze in place then dipped her head to rub her cheek on her tee shirt sleeve. Was she crying?

She cleared her throat. "Probably better than me."

"No."

The fragrance of burning pine drifted on the breeze. He didn't move. She swayed with the kid. 

"I didn't know you played guitar so well," she said quietly.

"I told you I used to play in bars."

"Not songs like those."

"No."

A female shriek sounded near the fire, then laughter. Katie turned. The faint firelight reflected on her eyes, deep with sad weariness…no longer a girl's eyes.

He frowned. What was her dad thinking, saddling her with his kid even at a party?

He let down the tailgate of his truck. "Come sit down before you fall down."

She hesitated but then hoisted herself and the kid onto the tailgate.

He sat beside her. "Looks like your dad could've watched the rugrat for a while," he said gruffly.

She gently brushed her hand over the fuzz of hair on her brother's head. "Dad sometimes…forgets things." She rolled her head on her shoulders again.

He hesitated then held out his hands. "Let me have him."

She stared at him with surprise but then slowly passed the kid to him. Their hands made brief contact, straining the nerve endings in his fingers toward every well remembered finger, joint, and callous of her small palms.

He gave the baby an awkward jiggle. He'd never held one before. She shivered, rubbing her hands over her arms.

"My jacket's in the truck," he said.

"I'm okay."

Somebody tossed more wood onto the fire, sending up a shower of crackling sparks into the silence between them.

"Do you ever…?" She hesitated, her gaze on her sneakers. "Do you ever wonder about the baby?"

The baby.

His stomach clenched. He adjusted the kid on his arm. "What baby?"

"Your baby. Or babies. Little kids."  She raised her gaze. "Was there only one?"

"That's the only one I know of." He jiggled the kid in silence.

"You might've made a good dad."

"I'd have made the worst dad in the world like I was then," he said bitterly. He met her gaze. "Only thing I could've done worse was bein' a husband."

She didn't look away.

He swallowed hard. "Katie? That letter? I had to tell you the truth."

She held his gaze a moment longer, then she nodded and turned away.

"What was all that at the ball game about?" he asked.

Her slender throat moved. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know anything anymore."

His heartbeat quickened. "You know we belong—"

"Gil, don't," she said softly. "Just don't." She slid off the tailgate, holding out her arms for her little brother. "You'd better get back to Tracy."

His stomach burned with acid. Did she take mood killing classes somewhere? It was the same old story every stinking time. He was so sick of it.

"Yeah, guess I'd better," he said tightly, handing the kid back to her. "Your boyfriend's probably lookin' for you, too."

"Tell him I'm ready to go, please."

He slid off the tailgate. "Tell him yourself."

She walked away. He slammed the tailgate closed then headed for the cab. Just as he touched the door handle, Lance stepped from the shadows.

"I heard all that." Lance's nice guy voice cracked like a twelve-year-old boy's.

"Congratulations."

"What was all that at the ball game about?"

"You heard her."

"I wanna hear you."

"She's not a very good pitcher."

Lance's chest heaved with rapid, irregular movements. "You think you're such a stud. Always right there with your smart mouth and your smooth moves—"

"Dude," he said impatiently. "Wake up. She treats me like crap. She throws balls at my head."

"You don't know her." Lance's Adam's apple bobbed convulsively. "You'll never know her like I do."

"No problem, then."

Lance's bony face twisted with pain. His big knuckled fists clenched. "Except she loves
you
—" Lance swung his fist—"you stupid sucker…"

His head snapped back as a teeth-rattling burst of light exploded the darkness in front of his eyes.