The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5
mother offered and watched Lil as warily as she watched him.
    He jolted at the cry of a hawk, and Lil caught herself before she sneered. Her mother wouldn’t like it if she sneered at company.
    “Sam.” Grinning broadly, Joe stuck out a hand. “How are things?”
    “Can’t complain.”
    “And Lucy, don’t you look pretty?”
    “We do what we can with what we’ve got. This is our grandson, Cooper.”
    “Glad to meet you, Cooper. Welcome to the Black Hills. This is my Lil.”
    “Hello.” She cocked her head. He had blue eyes—ice-on-the-mountain blue. He didn’t smile, nor did his eyes.
    “Joe, you and Lil go clean up. We’re going to eat outside,” Jenna added. “We’ve got a fine day for it. Cooper, sit down here by me, and tell me what you like to do in New York. I’ve never been there.”
    In Lil’s experience, her mother could get anybody to talk, make anybody smile. But Cooper Sullivan from New York City seemed to be the exception. He spoke when spoken to, minded his manners, but little more. They sat out at the picnic table, one of Lil’s favorite things, and feasted on fried chicken and biscuits, on potato salad and snap beans her mother had put up last harvest.
    Conversation ranged from horses and cattle and crops, to weather and books and the status of other neighbors. All the things, in Lil’s world, that mattered.
    Though Cooper struck Lil as stiff as his shirt, he managed to eat two helpings of everything, though he barely opened his mouth otherwise.
    Until her father brought up baseball.
    “Boston’s going to break the curse this year.”
    Cooper snorted, then immediately hunched his shoulders.
    In his easy way, Joe picked up the basket of biscuits, offered it to the boy. “Oh, yeah, Mr. New York. Yankees or Mets?”
    “Yankees.”
    “Not a prayer.” As if in sympathy, Joe shook his head. “Not this year, kid.”
    “We’ve got a strong infield, good bats. Sir,” he added as if he’d just remembered to.
    “Baltimore’s already killing you.”
    “It’s a fluke. They died last year, and they’ll fade this year.”
    “When they do, the Red Sox will pounce.”
    “Crawl maybe.”
    “Oh, a smart-ass.”
    Cooper paled a little, but Joe continued as if he hadn’t noticed the reaction. “Let me just say, Wade Boggs, and toss in Nick Esasky. Then—”
    “Don Mattingly, Steve Sax.”
    “George Steinbrenner.”
    For the first time, Coop grinned. “Well, you can’t have everything.”
    “Let me consult my expert. Sox or Yankees, Lil?”
    “Neither. It’s Baltimore. They’ve got the youth, the momentum. They’ve got Frank Robinson. Boston’s got a play, but they won’t pull it off. The Yankees? Not a chance, not this year.”
    “My only child, and she wounds me.” Joe put a hand on his heart. “Do you play back home, Cooper?”
    “Yes, sir. Second base.”
    “Lil, take Cooper on around back of the barn. You can work off the meal with a little batting practice.”
    “Okay.”
    Coop slid off the bench. “Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Chance. It was very good.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    As the children walked away, Jenna looked over at Lucy. “Poor little boy,” she murmured.
    The dogs raced ahead, and across the field. “I play third base,” Lil told Coop.
    “Where? There’s nothing around here.”
    “Right outside Deadwood. We have a field, and a league. I’m going to be the first woman to play major-league ball.”
    Coop snorted again. “Women can’t play the bigs. That’s just the way it is.”
    “The way it is isn’t the way it has to be. That’s what my mother says. And when I’m finished playing, I’m going to manage.”
    He sneered, and though it brought her hackles up, she liked him better for it. At least he didn’t seem as stiff as his shirt anymore. “You don’t know dick.”
    “Dick who?”
    He laughed, and even though she knew he was laughing at her, she decided to give him one more chance before she clobbered him.
    He was company. A

Similar Books

Join

Steve Toutonghi

Incoming Freshman

Carol Lynne

On the Move

Catherine Vale

Berserker (Omnibus)

Robert Holdstock

Crazy Paving

Louise Doughty

Black Sunday

Thomas Harris