Bright Hopes

Bright Hopes Pat Warren WELCOME TO TYLERJOIN THE CROWDSit in the bleachers and catch up on the latest gossip. Share the passions and pastimes of America's favorite hometown.THE HOMETOWN HERO AND THE LADY COACHPatrick Kelsey, Tyler's former all-star, is not impressed to learn that Tyler High's new football coach is a woman. But Pam Casals isn't what he expects.CAN THEY CREATE A WINNING TEAM?Pam's bright, vivacious and dedicated. Her infectious enthusiasm inspires everyone around her. Yet, when he tries to get close to her, she backs off. Patrick begins to wonder if there's something important she isn't telling him…. WELCOME TO TYLER-JOIN THE CROWD Sit in the bleachers and catch up on the latest gossip. Share the passions and pastimes of America’s favorite hometown. THE HOMETOWN HERO AND THE LADY COACH Patrick Kelsey, Tyler’s former all-star, is not impressed to learn that Tyler High’s new football coach is a woman. But Pam Casals isn’t what Patrick expects. CAN THEY CREATE A WINNING TEAM? Pam’s bright, vivacious and dedicated. Her infectious enthusiasm inspires everyone around her. Yet, when Patrick tries to get close to her, she backs off. Patrick begins to wonder if there’s something important Pam isn’t telling him... Previously Published. “What are you doing, Patrick?” Pam frowned, uneasy under his gaze. “I enjoy looking at you. Life is for enjoying, Pam, and I enjoy you.” “Is life for enjoying, Patrick?” He nodded. “I decided that it was some years ago, when I had to reevaluate my life after a big disappointment.” So he, too, had known disappointment. Pam was curious, but she decided to keep the discussion impersonal. “Disappointments that change our lives stay with us. At least, the lingering effects do.” “Right now, I don’t want to think about past disappointments. It’s Friday night, I’m out with the loveliest woman in town, and all’s right with my world. How about yours?” She warmed under his heated gaze. “My world’s pretty fine right now, too.” He nodded toward the crowded room. “What do you say we blow this joint? I’d like to be alone with you.” That sent her blood racing, but not with fright. With anticipation. Taking his hand in hers, she pulled him up and headed toward the door. Dear Reader (#ulink_6bbd0af3-1974-5600-ba65-78c413fdbf2d), Welcome to Harlequin’s Tyler, a small Wisconsin town whose citizens we hope you’ll soon come to know and love. Like many of the innovative publishing concepts Harlequin has launched over the years, the idea for the Tyler series originated in response to our readers’ preferences. Your enthusiasm for sequels and continuing characters within many of the Harlequin lines has prompted us to create a twelve-book series of individual romances whose characters’ lives inevitably intertwine. Tyler faces many challenges typical of small towns, but the fabric of this fictional community will be torn by the revelation of a long-ago murder, the details of which will evolve right through the series. This intriguing crime will culminate in an emotional trial that profoundly affects the lives of the Ingallses, the Barons, the Forresters and the Wochecks. Renovations have begun on the old Timberlake resort lodge as the series opens, and the lodge will also attract the attention of a prominent Chicago hotelier, a man with a personal interest in showing Tyler folks his financial clout. Marge is waiting with some home-baked pie at her diner, and policeman Brick Bauer might direct you down Elm Street if it’s patriarch Judson Ingalls you’re after. The Kelseys run the loveliest boardinghouse in town, and you’ll find everything you need at Gates Department Store. Pam Casals gives hometown favorite son, Patrick Kelsey, a run for his money when she hires on as Tyler High’s new football coach. So join us in Tyler, once a month, for the next eleven months, for a slice of small-town life that’s not as innocent or as quiet as you might expect, and for a sense of community that will capture your mind and your heart. Marsha Zinberg Editorial Coordinator, Tyler Bright Hopes Pat Warren www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Special thanks and acknowledgment to Pat Warren for her contribution to this work. Special thanks and acknowledgment to Joanna Kosloff for her contribution to the concept for the Tyler series. CONTENTS Cover (#u0712a1d4-6c84-51dc-b1d0-89aa36b80354) Back Cover Text (#ue952e601-4241-5305-a32c-d96458bcda2d) Dear Reader (#ueaef8e4f-e6a3-5ef8-8f38-b1c0c865540b) Title Page (#u583d89e1-7022-52d8-b274-b8f90675b682) Acknowledgments (#uf3a952e6-0e6f-5516-8196-a28fb4a259a4) CHAPTER ONE (#ufc8c7f34-78d1-582b-9571-7bb1480effd0) CHAPTER TWO (#u7bab87b0-f4c8-5fa6-8169-22a3d8479652) CHAPTER THREE (#u6cfba0cc-4909-5729-bfa1-d8d9c4d38868) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_333b8ca8-54a2-5583-9c25-ef78413c5292) “A WOMAN FOOTBALL COACH?” Patrick Kelsey laughed out loud. “Come on, Miss Mackie. You’ve got to be kidding!” Josephine Mackie sat back in her desk chair, adjusted her round, rimless glasses on her long, thin nose and looked up at the tall gym teacher. “Why, Patrick, don’t tell me you’re a chauvinist. Not with that superachiever mother of yours and three charming sisters.” Patrick ran a hand through his short, dark hair. That was the one drawback to growing up and living in a small town like Tyler, Wisconsin. Everyone knew you, your family and most of your business. Miss Mackie had been principal of Tyler High School when he was a freshman twenty years ago. She wasn’t meddlesome so much as knowledgeable—about everyone. He flashed her what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Not me. It’s just that...well, these are guys, Miss Mackie. Young men, really. There’ll be problems, like the locker room, for instance. They’re going to hate having a female around when they’re changing.” “I don’t imagine she’ll shower with the boys, do you?” Patrick reached for patience, never his strong suit. “How about the game itself? I never heard of a woman who knows football inside and out.” “Really? Ever hear of Phyllis George, to name one? I thought she did a highly commendable job, and on national television at that. And now there’s Pam Casals. Have you read her credentials?” Patrick felt his irritation grow as he paced her small office. “I know she was a runner in the Olympics.” “A little more than a mere runner. She won a silver medal when she was seventeen, then returned and won a gold medal at twenty-one.” “Okay, so she can run. But does she know football?” Disappointed in his reaction, Miss Mackie nevertheless continued unruffled. “She went on to become an exhibition performer, earned a degree in phys ed, was head coach at a college in the east and an Olympic coach for a year in Seoul. For a young woman who’s just turned thirty, I would call that an impressive list of accomplishments.” Stopping in front of her desk, Patrick braced his hands on the edge and leaned forward. “I repeat, does she know football?” “I would think so, having coached football at the college level. Surely she can manage high school boys.” Josephine Mackie felt her gaze soften as she studied Patrick’s stubborn features. She thought she knew exactly why he was so upset, and chose her words carefully. “I realize that when I asked you to join our coaching staff ten years ago, Patrick, your dream was to one day be football coach here at your alma mater. I believe you took on coaching basketball temporarily, thinking that when Dale McCormick retired, you’d shift over to football. But you’ve done such a tremendous job—guiding the basketball team from class B to class A status and giving us a championship season for the past two years. We don’t want to lose you in that capacity.” Patrick’s blue eyes were serious as he straightened. He’d figured that was what she’d thought, and the rest of the town, too. But they were wrong. He’d been a star quarterback during his years at Tyler, and at the small Midwestern college he’d attended while earning his teaching degree. Then there’d been problems—serious problems—and he’d had to rearrange his dreams. When he returned to his hometown, he’d been pleased to be asked to coach basketball and assist Coach McCormick occasionally in football. Even now, what he really wanted was what was best for the Tyler High boys. But he knew that changing the thinking of a whole group of people who had their minds made up wasn’t something he could do without revealing more than he felt comfortable doing. “Miss Mackie, I’m perfectly happy coaching basketball. You’re aware, I’m sure, that many of the boys on the football team also play basketball. I know these guys, and they aren’t going to accept a woman coach.” She narrowed her pale gray eyes and zeroed in. “They will if you encourage them to accept her.” Settling into the old wooden chair facing her desk, Patrick scowled. “I don’t know if I can do that, in good conscience.” Propping her elbows on her desk, Miss Mackie leaned forward. “Patrick, I don’t have to tell you that this town gets greatly involved in our school athletics. And the football team’s been on a long losing streak. Dale McCormick was a good coach once, back when you were playing for him. But for some time now, he’s been merely coasting along, counting the days to retirement.” “I agree,” Patrick admitted. “The school board felt we needed new blood, someone to get the boys all stirred up. Of our six applicants, Pam Casals is by far the most qualified. I’ve talked with her on the phone and she’s personable and intelligent. I’ve hired her on a one-season trial basis and she’s arriving next week. Won’t you open your mind and give her a chance?” Miss Mackie was a good administrator, her judgment usually on target, Patrick felt. This time, though, she was wrong. “I have nothing against this particular woman, you understand. I just don’t feel any woman can coach football. It’s too rugged a game, too physical.” He picked up Pam Casals’ file and flipped it open, to where her picture was clipped to the inside front cover. “See how small she looks? She could get hurt out there.” Josephine Mackie sighed. Patrick Kelsey was an instructor who seldom gave her problems. He was making up for lost time today. Glancing at her watch, she stood, realizing she could debate this issue with Patrick all day and neither would bend. “It’s only the first of August. We have several weeks before classes start. During that time, we’ll be observing Pam and her training and practice methods closely.” Picking up her purse, she walked around the desk. The school was deserted; she’d come in to get a head start on some paperwork and had been somewhat surprised when Patrick cornered her. “Why don’t you study her file a bit more and then leave it on my desk? I have an appointment.” The gentleman in him had Patrick rising and smiling at the slim principal. “I don’t mean to give you a hard time. But you know what these guys mean to me.” She smiled back at him. “They mean a great deal to me, too.” Patrick nodded. “You off to a board meeting?” Josephine found herself blushing as she patted her sparse gray hair. “No, actually I have an appointment at the Hair Affair.” He grinned at her. “Big date tonight, Miss Mackie?” Girlishly, she pursed her lips, turned from him and opened the door, choosing to ignore his question. “Please lock up when you leave,” she said, then hurried down the hallway. Chuckling, Patrick sat back down, wondering why Miss Mackie had never married. Too wrapped up in her job, he supposed. Few women could juggle work and children, and still maintain a happy marriage. His mother, Anna Kelsey, was about the only one he knew of. But she was one of a kind. He opened the file again. Pam Casals did not look like his idea of a football coach. From the picture, she appeared to be of medium height and quite slender, with the muscular legs of a runner. Her shoulder-length brown hair, wind-tossed, framed an oval face, and her large brown eyes gazed directly into the camera. She didn’t appear aggressive or arrogant, but there was a hint of determination to the angle of her chin. Still, if this woman could handle that rowdy group of high school boys, then he was the Easter Bunny, Patrick thought with a frown. Quickly he read through her file. Like millions of people, he was always drawn to watch the Olympics. He’d heard countless stories of the dedication, perseverance, sacrifices and sheer guts it took to win a medal. She was a winner, he’d give her that. But could she make the Tyler boys into winners? Doubtful, he thought, closing the file. He knew these boys better than anyone, certainly better than an outsider. And a woman at that. He would give her a chance, but he would remain in the picture. He’d keep an eye on her, check out her methods, look out for his boys. He’d mention to a couple of the guys—Ricky and B.J. and Moose—that he’d be interested in knowing what Coach Casals did during their training sessions. It wasn’t really spying, Patrick told himself as he placed Pam’s file on the principal’s desk. It was protecting. Digging in the pocket of his jeans for his keys, Patrick left the office whistling. * * * A RAINBOW. Pam Casals glanced to the right as she drove along the country road, and smiled. Slowing, she pulled to a stop by a wooden fence bordering pastureland. Shifting into park, she slid out of her sporty white convertible and went to lean on the weathered fence. It had been raining that morning when she set out from Chicago, a light drizzling summer rain. Wisconsin being north of Illinois, it wasn’t quite as warm here. Fall would be along all too soon. The rainbow shimmered in the sky, where the last of the clouds were moving off to the east. Rainbows were a sign of good luck—Pam remembered reading that somewhere. She certainly hoped so. It was time for a bit of luck. On an impulse, she made a wish. “I wish that I might find happiness in Tyler,” she said aloud. A small herd of cows grazing nearby, brown shapes on a field of still-damp green grass, didn’t even glance her way. She breathed in deeply, air so fresh it almost hurt to inhale. No automobile fumes, no pollution or even smoke. On the drive she’d passed dairy farms, many with large wooden barns, as well as cornfields, orchards and several horse farms. She’d taken the scenic route instead of the highway, enjoying the twisting rural roads and the lakes tucked in among rolling green hills. The clean country atmosphere was a welcome change from the city she’d left behind. She’d left a lot of things behind, or so she hoped. Pain and confusion and doubt. Frustration and anger and broken dreams. And a shattered love affair. A few good things, too, like her father, Julian Casals, still living in the family home in a suburb of Chicago. And her two married brothers, Don and Ramon, who’d taught her so much more than football. Pam swung around, leaning her elbows on the fence. She was only a short distance from Tyler, and she hoped there were more two-lane roads like this one around. It was a perfect place to run—smooth blacktop, very little traffic. And run she must, while she could. For her health and her mental well-being and the sheer, physical pleasure of it. A low-throated bark drew her attention to her car, and she grinned. Her old, white, long-haired English sheepdog sat in the back seat, his head cocked in her direction, his pink tongue hanging low. “All right, Samson,” she said, slipping behind the wheel again. “I know you’re impatient to get going.” With another glance at the rainbow, Pam shifted into drive. “I’m anxious to check out our new home, too.” Flipping on the radio as she pulled away, she heard Willie Nelson’s unmistakable voice ring out. “On the road again...” Pam glanced back at Samson, whose ears were blowing in the breeze. “That’s us, pal. On the road again.” Laughing for no apparent reason except a sudden happy sense of anticipation, she headed for Tyler. * * * IT WAS EXACTLY two o’clock when she arrived in the middle of town. There was a central square—an open, grassy area with huge old oak trees and well-maintained flower beds. The downtown business section consisted of a few blocks of two-story brick buildings, predictably lining Main Street. The small-town atmosphere pleased Pam as she pulled up in front of the post office. High on its pole, the flag rippled in the wind, but the building had a Saturday-afternoon-deserted look. Stretching, she got out of the car. According to the map Rosemary Dusold had sent her, she was only a couple of blocks from her friend’s house. But there was no time like the present to get oriented. Across the way, she spotted the Tyler library and the brick town hall. On the opposite corner was a beauty shop, the sign heralding it as the Hair Affair. Cute, Pam thought. Around a corner, she saw a sign for Marge’s Diner. She patted Samson’s shaggy head. “I’ll be right back, fella,” she said as she headed for the square. A bank on another corner featured a tower clock. The usual array of grocery store, drugstore, cleaners and so on filled out that side of the block. She walked on. A couple of older ladies seated on a park bench smiled up at Pam as she approached, giving her a feeling of friendly welcome. A handful of youngsters were playing tag on the far side. In the center of the green, she spotted several adults involved in a loosely organized game of touch football. Her interest heightened, Pam stepped closer. Watching took her back in time to her early teens, when she and her father and two brothers would spend many an autumn afternoon tossing the pigskin. Soon, playing catch hadn’t been enough for Pam, so she’d organized a group of neighbors and divided them into two teams. Then she’d mapped out strategies for her side, trying to make up for her size by outwitting the opponents. Much to her brothers’ surprise, her maneuvers worked more often than they failed. Their respect had spurred her on to try even harder. She’d already been running then, her dreams focusing on the future Olympics. But her love of football had never died. She’d learned the game first by playing, then by watching the college teams on television, as well as the pros. Fun times, Pam thought. Times that had bonded their small family closer after the devastation of her mother’s early death. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her white slacks, she leaned against a tree. There was one big guy, a solid wall of muscle, who wasn’t much on speed but nearly impossible to get past due to his size. She noticed a woman about her age with dark hair, a tall rugged outdoor-type man with black curly hair and, to Pam’s surprise, her friend and new roommate, Rosemary Dusold, leaping high to catch a pass, her blond ponytail bobbing. Smiling, Pam stepped out of the shade, hoping Rosemary would notice her. As she stood on the edge of the green, she saw a wild throw coming her way. No player was out this far. Forgetting herself, she ran a few steps, jumped up and caught the ball. Acting instinctively, Pam began to run toward the makeshift goal line, hotly pursued by two or three players she heard running behind her. Exhilarated, the ball tucked close to her body, she picked up speed. Almost there, she thought. Then she felt the hit. Strong arms settled around her waist, sliding lower to her knees, taking her down. Her tackler rolled, cushioning the fall with his lean, hard body, letting her land on him rather than on the unforgiving ground. “Touchdown!” someone called out from behind as thundering feet arrived. “She fell short,” yelled a dissident. Still clutching the ball, Pam eased from the grip that held her and scrambled to her feet. Her opponent rose, too, and she found herself looking up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Unexpectedly, her heart missed a beat and she found herself swallowing on a dry throat. He was several inches over six feet, with curly black hair falling onto a lean face etched with laugh lines at the corners of those incredible eyes. He smiled then, his features softening as he reached out to brush leaves and grass from her shoulder. Pam’s reaction to his light touch was on a parallel with the way she’d felt when her gaze had locked with his. Dizzying. She took a step backward. “I hope I didn’t hurt you,” he said. She was lovely, with warm brown eyes and skin the color of a pale peach. Who was she? Patrick wondered. “No, I’m fine.” She had on baggy white slacks and a comfortably faded green-and-white Jets football jersey with the number 12 on the back. “I see you’re a Joe Namath fan.” “I was.” She couldn’t seem to stop staring into his eyes. Strangers in Tyler—especially strangers who joined in impromptu games—were uncommon. There was something familiar about her, Patrick thought, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. “That was a great catch.” “Thanks,” Pam said, giving him the football. “I’m Patrick Kelsey.” He offered his hand. Politely she slid her own hand into his grip, feeling the calluses on his roughened skin—and the warmth. “Hello,” she replied. Before she could say more, Rosemary came alongside. “Pam,” Rosemary greeted her. “Glad you’re here at last.” Pam withdrew her hand and turned to smile at her friend. “Me, too.” “Hey, everyone,” Rosemary went on, “this is Pam Casals, a friend of mine from Chicago who’s come to stay with me for a while. Pam, this is Kathleen Kelsey and Terry Williams and Al Broderick. The big guy’s Brick Bauer. Watch out for him—he’s going to be our next police chief. That’s Nick over there and you’ve already met Patrick.” Patrick frowned. “You’re Pam Casals?” As Pam nodded, Rosemary chimed in again. “She’s going to be working at Tyler High with you, Patrick. Pam’s the new football coach.” “So I’ve heard. Welcome to Tyler.” Though his words were welcoming, his tone had cooled considerably. Pam couldn’t help wondering why. “Thanks. Are you one of the teachers?” “Gym teacher. Also basketball coach.” Glancing at his watch, he tossed the ball to Rosemary. “Sorry to break this up, but I’ve got to run. See you all later.” “Nice to meet you, Patrick,” Pam called to his retreating back. “Yeah, you, too,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t let Patrick worry you,” Kathleen said as she smiled at Pam. “He’s my brother and I know he’s a little moody, but he’s a great guy. Glad you’re with us, Pam.” “Thanks,” Pam said quietly. So she would have the pleasure of working with the moody Patrick Kelsey. Terrific. Calling their goodbyes, the others left to go their separate ways. Rosemary fell into step with Pam. “Come on. My place is only a couple of blocks from here,” she said. Impulsively, she slid an arm around Pam’s shoulders and squeezed. “I think you’re going to like Tyler.” Pam heard the squeal of tires and looked toward Main Street as Patrick’s truck zoomed out of sight. “I hope so,” she answered. * * * THE WHITE FRAME HOUSE was on Morgan Avenue, two stories high with a wraparound porch and green shuttered windows. There was a Victorian elegance to the old building, Pam thought as she parked her car in the side drive. She watched Rosemary hurry out of the car. Five foot eight, Rosemary was bigger than Pam and incredibly strong, yet she moved with a style and grace that Pam envied. “You want to put old slobbering Samson in the backyard for now?” Rosemary asked with an affectionate pat on the dog’s head. Pam nodded, and slipped on the dog’s leash as she opened the car door. Settling Samson inside the fenced enclosure, she returned to the front and climbed the wooden steps with Rosemary. A swing, painted red, hung from two chains at the far end of the porch. Very inviting, she thought. “About five years ago,” Rosemary said, opening the screen door for her, “after the owner died, the heirs renovated the house, turning it into four apartments. They’re all very roomy and comfortable. Mrs. Tibbs, a sweet but somewhat nosy widow, lives on the right, a young married couple upstairs on one side and a piano teacher across the hall from them. Mine’s this one on the lower left.” She paused in the neat hallway, glancing at mail spread on a small mahogany table. “Nothing for me.” Pulling out a key, she unlocked the door. Charming was the word, Pam thought as she looked about. A rich carved mantel above a huge stone fireplace, highly polished floors with gently faded area rugs in floral designs, and furniture you could no longer buy. Running a hand along an overstuffed rose couch, Pam smiled. “Are these your things?” “No, not a single piece. I arrived with only my clothes.” Rosemary went through the arch into the dining room and past into the spacious kitchen. “It even came with dishes and pots. Don’t you just love it?” Strolling past the drop-leaf table and an antique Singer sewing machine, Pam agreed. “Who owns this place now?” Rosemary poured lemonade into two glasses tinted pale gold. “I don’t know. Relatives of one of the original families of Tyler, I think. When you get to meeting people around here, you’ll learn that half the town’s related in some way to the other half.” Handing Pam her drink, she tilted up her own glass and drank thirstily. Sipping, Pam wandered back into the living room. Lace curtains billowed at the front bay window, dancing in a lively late-afternoon breeze. A large maple tree just outside shaded the whole front yard. She saw a squirrel with bulging cheeks scamper busily up into thick limbs and get lost in the leafy top. Turning, she sat down on the comfortably sagging sofa with starched doilies pinned to each armrest and sighed. “It’s like time has stood still in this house. I feel like I walked into a fifties movie.” Rosemary flung herself into the chair opposite Pam. “Maybe the forties, even. I was lucky to find this apartment.” “Are you sure you don’t mind my moving in with you?” Pam asked with a worried look. “I told you back in Chicago that I’d love the company. There’re two large bedrooms and a big bath with this marvelous claw-footed tub. And I’m not even here much, what with working at Tyler General Hospital, my commitment to the Davis Rehab Center in Chicago and my backpacking trips.” “I’ll pay half the rent, of course. I can’t believe how low it is compared to Chicago apartments.” “Isn’t it great?” Rosemary finished her drink and set the glass aside. “So tell me, how are you feeling?” “Fine.” “Honestly? No pain, no numbness, no tingling? Don’t lie to me now. I’m your therapist, remember.” “I remember. I truly feel great. No symptoms at all. I think I’m solidly in remission.” “Good.” Rosemary nodded. “If you have any problems—I mean any—let me know. Therapy works best if we catch the problem early. You know how sneaky MS is. One day you notice a little blurry vision, next day your big toe goes numb, and the third day you try to stand and you can’t feel anything from the knees down.” Pam stared into the cloudy remains of her drink. “I know. Believe me, I don’t want that happening. I’ll tell you at the first sign.” “This job at the school, do you think you’ll have a lot of stress with it? Stress can aggravate your condition, you know.” Pam shrugged. “No more than anyone else starting in a new position in a new town.” She looked up, remembering the man who’d tackled her, the warm way he’d looked at her, then the way his eyes had frosted over when he learned who she was. “What do you know about Patrick Kelsey?” Rosemary swung both legs over the fat arm of the easy chair, scrunching down comfortably. “His family goes way back. He’s a descendant of one of the first families. His parents own and operate Kelsey Boardinghouse on Gunther Street not far from here. Plus his father works at the Ingalls plant and his mother is receptionist for Dr. Phelps. Anna’s real personable. I want you to meet George Phelps, too. He’s a good man in case you need a doctor.” This wasn’t what Pam wanted to hear. “Why would Patrick have turned so moody back there in the square, when before he heard my name, he was smiling?” “Maybe he wanted the job you got. He teaches gym and coaches varsity basketball. He’s some kind of hero around here, dating back to his high school football days.” “Sounds like the people of Tyler take high school sports seriously—and have long memories.” “You got that right. Fierce loyalty around here. They give newcomers a hearty welcome, then sit back and wait for them to prove themselves. They accepted me, so don’t worry.” “But you’ve been here three years. It seems I was here three minutes and managed to offend one of their favorite sons.” “Patrick will come around. He’s really a great guy, always helping people, very family oriented. I’ve often wondered why he’s never married.” Rosemary eyed Pam as she slipped out of her running shoes. “Maybe he’s been waiting for the right woman to come along.” Pam shook her head. “Don’t look at me. Besides, he seems a bit touchy. If he’s lived here all his life, it can’t be my fault I got the job and he didn’t. Or is it having a woman coach he’s against, possibly?” “I don’t know. I wouldn’t worry about it. Don’t add to your own stress level.” “Good idea.” Pam stretched and yawned. “I should unpack, go get some groceries and turn in early tonight. I want to look around tomorrow, and Monday morning I meet with the principal.” “Oh, she’s nice. Everyone likes Miss Mackie. And she’ll understand about your limitations with MS.” Pam leaned forward, her eyes serious. “I don’t plan to tell Miss Mackie or anyone else that I have multiple sclerosis. And I don’t want you to say anything, either.” Slowly, Rosemary raised a questioning brow. “Do you think that’s wise?” “I don’t know. I do know I need to prove myself, and I can’t do that if everyone’s waiting for me to fall over from fatigue or show up one day in a wheelchair.” “But if they know, they can—” “No. Please, Rosemary.” She had to make her friend see. “This is my life and my decision. When we first started working out together at the rehab center, I was going through the aftermath of depression, really feeling sorry for myself. Well, I’ve spent all the time doing that that I plan to. You’re the one who challenged me to learn to live with MS, and I’m honestly trying to. I realize that remissions are temporary, but I feel good and I don’t want constant reminders that I could slip back again any day.” “Remission periods can last for months, even years.” “I’m hopeful that’s the case with me. But I want no quarter given because I’ve got a problem here. I want to earn people’s respect, not their pity. Listen as my friend, Rosemary, not my therapist, and try to understand.” Gracefully Rosemary untangled herself from the chair and walked over to Pam, hugging her as she sat down on the couch. “I do understand. I just don’t want to see you hurt. Over the past two years, I’ve grown to care about you a lot.” Pam blinked back a quick rush of emotion. “Me, too. I just have to do this my way, okay?” “Sure.” Rosemary stood. “Now, let me get your bag, so you can unpack while I start dinner. You can shop tomorrow. Tonight I’m cooking my specialty. Chicken chow mein.” “Sounds great.” Pam searched for her keys. “I hope you’ll make enough so Samson can have dinner, too. He loves Chinese.” “Not dog food?” Pam grinned at her friend’s surprised look. “He never touches the stuff. And he likes a wedge of lemon in his water dish.” “Of course he does.” Rosemary smiled at her friend. “I’m really glad you’re here.” Glancing down, she pointed. “Grass stains. I hope they come out of your slacks.” Pam considered the green stain on her pantleg. “Think I could get Patrick Kelsey to clean them for me?” “You really should get acquainted with him. He knows the boys at Tyler High better than anyone else. They trust him.” Pam tossed her keys in the air and caught them in her fist. “Then I guess it’ll be my job to get them to trust me. Why haven’t you gotten to know him better, since you think he’s so swell?” Rosemary shook her head. “I’ve been divorced five years and I intend to stay that way. Once burned is twice shy.” She sobered, studying Pam’s face. “Do you ever hear from Bob?” “No, never. It’s best this way, really. When something’s over, it should stay over.” “Amen,” Rosemary agreed. CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_759c3156-374a-5b37-a834-23305e0a2205) “YOU LOOK even younger than your picture,” Josephine Mackie said, rising and offering her hand to her new football coach. Pam smiled as she shook hands with the principal. “I know. It sometimes keeps people from taking me seriously.” “Not after they hear about all you’ve accomplished,” Miss Mackie said, resuming her seat and indicating the chair across from her desk. “I’m very impressed with your credentials.” “Thank you.” Despite her somewhat austere looks, there was a warmth about Josephine Mackie that had Pam relaxing. “It must have been thrilling, being in the Olympics.” “An unbelievable experience, yes.” “You won your gold medal when you were only twentyone. I’m surprised you didn’t try again the next time. You were only twenty-five.” “I’d planned to. I’d even begun training. But younger women were my competition, and although I hated to admit it, the body doesn’t respond at twenty-five as it does at seventeen no matter how hard you try. And the old-timers have more difficulty getting sponsorship money. I decided to turn professional.” Miss Mackie smiled. She had no trouble understanding the body’s limitations. She glanced down at Pam’s file, then back up. “I hope you’ll understand that I need to ask these questions. Although the college where you coached spoke highly of you, you wrote on your application that they fired you. Why was that?” “I have no problem answering that question.” Pam crossed her legs and adjusted her cotton skirt. “In training for the Olympics, I learned that an athlete must try to be the best he can be, to push as hard as physically possible and to keep a positive attitude about winning. When I began coaching, I approached the team with the same no-excuses, hard-work strategy. The college administration didn’t agree with my perfectionist methods, even though we’d gone from last place to second in our division. They thought I expected too much from the boys.” Honesty, even at her own expense. Miss Mackie liked that. “Our Titans aren’t in last place, but we haven’t had a championship team since 1972, the third consecutive year they won the title.” “That’s impressive. Who was your coach then?” “Dale McCormick, the man who just retired. He was a real fireball back then, but he seemed to run out of steam.” She watched Pam’s crossed leg rock rhythmically as she sat. Not nerves, she decided, but rather Pam seemed to have trouble remaining idle. “You look as if you have a lot of energy.” “I do. And a great deal of enthusiasm and love of football.” Josephine crossed her hands over the closed file. She had no regrets about hiring this young woman, yet it wouldn’t hurt to bring up the concerns voiced by Patrick Kelsey last week. They were apprehensions shared by several others on the school board, she was certain. “Tell me, do you run into any problems as a female coaching young men in an almost exclusively male sport?” Pam nodded. “A few. I find as I go in that the boys have their reservations. Many think that women don’t even understand football, much less how to coach the game. I usually let them make their jokes, get it out of their systems, and then we get down to work. Once they see that my methods work, they forget I’m a woman. The same theory applies to the school board.” Miss Mackie found it difficult to believe that young men would forget Pam was a woman, but she let it go. “You certainly have a great deal of confidence.” If only you knew, Pam thought, but she smiled. “I’ve found that focusing on your strong points and learning to compensate for your weak points builds confidence. And going into a game—or a new job—with confidence is half the battle.” Leaning back in her chair, the principal studied the young woman seated across from her a long moment, then nodded. “I like your attitude, Pam. I believe you can put the Tyler Titans back into the running for the championship.” “Thank you. I appreciate that.” “So now, are you settled in? You mentioned you’d be sharing a friend’s apartment.” “Yes. Rosemary Dusold. She’s a physical therapist and she has a lovely place on Morgan Avenue.” “I know the house. Beautifully refurbished a while back. Marge Peterson lives on Morgan Avenue. She runs Marge’s Diner right off the town square.” “Oh, yes. I drove around town yesterday, getting oriented. Is the food pretty good?” “I don’t eat out much, but they tell me it is. The diner is sort of a gathering spot for folks around here.” “I noticed it was crowded when I passed by. You’ve lived here all your life?” “Yes. Tyler has its drawbacks, but I’m comfortable here. It’s a nice, quiet way of life.” “Coming from Chicago, I like the country atmosphere. I drove out to a lake yesterday and saw this beautiful old place they’re evidently renovating. I believe the sign said Timberlake. I’m glad it’s being redone instead of torn down. These old buildings have such charm. Tyler might attract even more visitors when they finish.” Miss Mackie pressed her lips together tightly. She’d heard some disturbing things at the Hair Affair last week—that a long-buried body had been found on the grounds of the lodge. However, she hated gossip and wasn’t about to pass any on to this newcomer. “I’m not sure Tyler wants tourism. We kind of enjoy being a sleepy little community.” “Who owns Timberlake, do you know?” “Judson Ingalls. His family goes just about as far back as the founding of Tyler. The Ingalls family also owns Ingalls Farm and Machinery and a variety of other holdings.” “I believe Rosemary and I drove past his home on Elm Street. A beautiful Victorian house.” “You’ll undoubtedly meet Mr. Ingalls at the games. He’s a member of the Booster Club and a big supporter of our athletic program.” Leaning forward, she changed the subject. “Do you have any questions about your position?” “Well, I’d hoped you might have some films I could watch on last year’s games. Some of those players are probably on this year’s team as well, and it would give me some idea of their capabilities. Naturally, I’d also like to see the boys’ school records so I can get to know them a bit before we meet next week.” “I believe our gym teacher, Patrick Kelsey, can help you with all that. Dale McCormick turned over all records to Patrick when he left. I can arrange an introduction or give you his number.” Pam felt herself stiffen a bit and hoped the astute woman hadn’t noticed. “We’ve met, in the town square last Saturday. I have to ask you. Did Patrick Kelsey want to be football coach?” So they hadn’t hit it off, Miss Mackie thought. She wasn’t surprised, after her last conversation with Patrick, although she’d hoped he would keep an open mind. “I suspect he did. Patrick played football here at Tyler when he was in high school, and he was an outstanding athlete. He’d been out of college a couple of years before he moved back. Dale McCormick was still doing well with our football teams, but we badly needed a basketball coach. I called Patrick and persuaded him to take over that spot. He’s made those boys into winners, and I think he’s happy in basketball now.” Pam folded and refolded the edge of her skirt thoughtfully. “I got the impression he wasn’t pleased at my arrival. I could be mistaken, of course, but...” Josephine sighed. “You’ve been honest with me, so I’ll return the favor. Although he’s only thirty-four, Patrick’s from the old school. He’s not really a chauvinist—after all, he works for a woman and he’s always shown me a great deal of respect. Also, his mother manages two jobs and he adores her. Maybe he’s in the habit of protecting women because he has three younger sisters. At any rate, Patrick doesn’t feel women belong in football.” That sounded pretty chauvinistic despite Miss Mackie’s explanation, Pam thought. “Is he going to be interfering with my coaching?” she asked quietly. Better to find out now than later. “Absolutely not.” “Are you giving me carte blanche, the authority to coach this team my way then?” The wording was a little strong for her liking, but the principal had to let Pam know she was behind her. “Yes, I am. For one trial season.” “I understand.” Miss Mackie’s fingers drummed on the desk top. “Patrick has been told to give you every assistance. He may try to push his ideas on you, as he’s quite opinionated when it comes to sports. And he used to assist Coach McCormick. But you needn’t listen to him. The methods Dale and Patrick used obviously haven’t worked in recent years. I’m anxious to see what you can do. Patrick will back off, you’ll see.” Pam seriously doubted that. In her mind’s eye, she pictured those intense blue eyes, the solid bulk of his shoulders, the confident stance. Back off? Not Patrick Kelsey. But despite his formidable good looks and his past football glory, he would soon learn that Pam Casals was no pushover. “I’m sure we’ll manage to keep from coming to blows.” With a smile, she stood. “Thank you, Miss Mackie, for your time. And your confidence.” “You’re very welcome. I look forward to seeing more of you.” Leaving the principal’s office, Pam walked down the main-floor corridor, glancing into open classrooms. Curiosity leading the way, she made her way around back to the gymnasium and paused to look it over. Then she moved toward the locker rooms and sports office. The locker rooms, one for boys and the other smaller one for girls, looked the same as they did in most schools, as did the connecting showers. From there, she walked up a ramp to the football field. It was well maintained, with lights for night games and a fairly new digital scoreboard. The extensive wooden bleachers on both sides were freshly painted, and there was an enclosed announcer’s box. Impressive, Pam thought, remembering she’d been told the Tyler Booster Club actively sponsored improvements. Retracing her steps, she again passed the gymnasium with its polished floor and headed down a hallway. At the first door, she looked up and read the nameplate. Coach Kelsey. Above it was an empty slot where Coach McCormick’s name had evidently been and where her nameplate would likely go. So she was to share an office with Patrick. Interesting. She tried the knob but found it locked. Not unusual, since there were probably files inside and possibly equipment. She could go back to Miss Mackie and ask for a key, but she decided to wait. Staring at the door, she wondered if Coach Kelsey would allow her nameplate to be put into the top slot. With a smile she turned. She would bet her silver medal he wouldn’t. * * * PAM STOOD at the far end of the bleachers, watching the football players arrive for the first day of practice. She wore running shoes and gray sweats, and had her hair tied back in a ponytail. Holding her clipboard, she studied the boys, trying to match them to the players in the game videos she’d been scrutinizing for days now. These were the young men who’d successfully tried out in the spring. Most of them had learned the ropes on the junior varsity team. She’d gotten a key to the office from Miss Mackie and pored over their scholastic records as well. Some were impressive; others were not. She’d found the films neatly boxed and carefully labeled and taken them home to view, leaving Patrick Kelsey a note explaining their absence. She had yet to run into the man himself again. It was a lovely day, a sunshiny August afternoon, and she was anxious to get started. Around her neck, she wore a yellow whistle dangling from a chain. Putting it to her lips, she gave three long blasts and motioned the boys over. “Take a seat on the bleachers, fellas,” she invited as they straggled over. Most wore wary expressions and she couldn’t blame them. The unknown always made a person hesitant. The Wednesday edition of the Tyler Citizen had featured a story about her as the newest addition to the high school staff. They’d run her picture, played up her Olympic achievements and done a commendable job in extolling her coaching experience. The boys and their parents had likely read the article. By the looks on their faces, none of it had removed their skepticism as to her ability to coach them. Uphill all the way, Pam thought with a familiar tug. When had anything ever come easily to her? Dad had always told her that victories hard won were the sweetest. She believed her father. Moving to stand in front of the seated group, she looked up at them and smiled. “I’m Pam Casals, your new football coach. I...” Whistles, nervous giggles and veiled comments followed the announcement as the boys elbowed one another, laughed and stared. Pam patiently waited for them to resettle. In the back, a heavyset boy wearing a shirt with Italian Stallion emblazoned across the chest stood to be heard. “Hey, you’re a girl!” More guffaws and laughter. Shifting her feet, Pam smiled indulgently. “Thank you for noticing. Now, I’d like you to forget that I am.” That announcement was greeted with whoops and hollers and more rib-tickling laughter. Pam banked her annoyance, trying to remember that these were young boys ranging from fifteen to nearly eighteen, feeling the need to assert their masculinity. And feeling safe within their familiar group. But enough was enough. “Let me ask you a question. Are you proud of the Titans’ record last year, winding up sixth in an eight-team league?” She saw a few faces lose their grins, others look a bit chagrined. “Would you like to play on a winning team, to walk proud, to be the best there is? Would you like to be Class A champions?” There was a hushed silence for a moment, then a couple of them shouted out. “Yeah.” “Sure.” “You bet.” “Good,” she said, nodding. “Because I want to work with champions.” More cheers and punches of agreement. “I’ve spent a lot of hours lately studying your game films from last year. And I want to tell you all something.” She paused, waiting until she was certain she had their complete attention. “I think you guys have the potential to beat any team in the league.” The grins were wide now, the affirmative nods and comments that followed rousing. They were beginning to picture themselves as champions, Pam noted with satisfaction. The first step. When they quieted, she continued. “We’re going to learn three things before our first game. One is conditioning. You have to get in shape and stay in shape. Two, we’re going to learn to play football.” A blond boy shouted out, “We already know how to play football.” “Perhaps you do. But we’re going to learn to work together as a team. I want no superstars here. I want team effort. There are no unimportant positions in football. It’s one for all and all for one, straight across the board. And three, we’re going to learn how to win.” They were strangely subdued as they studied her. Moving her eyes from face to face, she saw the beginning of a reluctant respect forming on a couple. Uphill, but not impossible, she decided. Now if only she could deliver. “As your coach, I have only two rules. One is that if you don’t pass your classes, you don’t play. Rule number two is that if you don’t come to practice, you don’t play. There are no exceptions to either rule. Other than that—” she paused to flash a big smile “—we’re here to play ball, to have fun and to win.” “Yea, coach!” a redheaded boy yelled out, followed by several other shouts of agreement. “Okay, now. Grab your helmets and pads and get out on the field. I want to see what kind of training exercises you’ve done in the past, and I want to watch you run through a few plays so I can see what we need to work on.” Some whispering together, some openly discussing her talk, they filed off the bleachers and disappeared toward the locker room. Several paused to say a few words to someone seated on the bottom bench at the opposite end. It was only as the last of the boys walked out of sight that she recognized Patrick Kelsey. Unwinding his long legs, he started toward her. Instinctively, Pam braced herself. He was wearing jeans, a cutoff football jersey and sneakers. Lord, but he was big, she thought as he stopped in front of her. “Do I call you Coach, Miss Casals or what?” he asked, wrinkling his face as if he’d been pondering the question for some time. “Pam will do nicely.” She could play this game. “And you? Do you prefer Coach Kelsey, Mr. Kelsey, Patrick or Pat?” He gave her an engaging grin. “The fellas call me Coach, the newspaper boy calls me Mr. Kelsey, my grandmother calls me Paddy, short for the Gaelic version of my name. I hear my history students call me Napoleon. My friends call me Patrick.” The sun was in her eyes as she squinted up at him, holding her clipboard to her chest in what she recognized as a protective gesture. “Well, I’m not the fellas, nor the newsboy. And I’m not your grandmother. I also don’t think we’re friends, at least not yet. That leaves me stymied.” Kill the enemy with kindness, Patrick thought as he rocked on the balls of his feet and watched her. “Honeybuns is open.” She laughed. “I think I’ll pass on that one, too.” He watched her sit down on the bench and shift her attention to her notes. She looked young enough to be a high school senior. No wonder the boys had whistled and stared. The sun brought out the red in her brown hair. There was some red on her cheeks, too, and he wondered if it was from weather exposure or from hassling with him. He sat down beside her. “I heard most of your pep talk. Not bad.” Why was it she could almost hear him add the rest: for a woman. Keeping her features even, Pam looked up. “Thanks.” “What’d you learn from the game films?” “Too early to tell.” She had to be the least chatty female he’d met in a while, Patrick thought as he leaned his elbows back on the seat behind. “I saw you and Rosemary riding around yesterday. Checking out the town?” “Mmm-hmm.” “Where’d you go?” Pushy, friendly or just plain nosy? Pam asked herself. She put on a polite smile. “Here and there. Rosemary showed me the hospital where she works and we drove past some beautiful old mansions on Elm Street. Then we went out toward the lake and saw the lodge, Timberlake. Seems like it’ll be really something when they finish the renovations.” “Did you hear about the body they found there while they were inspecting some plumbing pipes?” That caught her interest, Patrick thought as he saw her eyes widen. “No, really? Who was it?” He shrugged. “They’re not sure yet. Some old-timers around town think it might be Margaret Ingalls.” Pam frowned, trying to sort through the many names she’d heard over the past few days. “I don’t think I’ve heard of her. There’s a Judson Ingalls....” Patrick nodded. “Margaret was his wife. Disappeared one day some years before I was born. Rumor has it that she got bored with her marriage and left with a lover.” Pam shook her head. “And I thought this was a sleepy little town.” Patrick straightened, shifting closer. “It is. Small towns are not immune to love affairs or even murder. My mother told me the story of Margaret Ingalls’ disappearance years ago. She’s always suspected something more happened than the woman just up and left. Margaret’s daughter, Alyssa, went to school with my mother. Mom can’t imagine a woman turning her back on a child, even for a lover.” “Your mother’s a romantic.” “She certainly is.” Pam found herself looking into those compelling blue eyes. “But you’re a cynic, aren’t you?” “I wouldn’t say that.” Patrick lifted her hand from where it had been resting on her knee. “Which are you, Pam?” She felt herself drowning suddenly, in fathomless blue water. Without conscious effort, her hand tightened in his. “You know, I’ve never seen eyes as blue as yours. Never.” “And I’ve never been this close to a football coach who smelled as good as you. What are you wearing?” “Jasmine. I...” Thundering footsteps heralded the arrival of the team. They rushed onto the field, carrying helmets and equipment, suited in practice gear. Pam snatched her hand back and jumped up guiltily, flushing as she did. What was the matter with her, sitting here discussing cologne and eye color when she had a job to do? Clearing her throat, she grabbed her clipboard and started toward the field. “Hey, you didn’t answer my question,” Patrick called after her. “Are you a cynic or a romantic?” Over her shoulder, she frowned at him. “Somewhere in between. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” She hurried off to watch her boys. * * * THE FIRST PRACTICE did not go well. Of course, they were rusty after the long summer, but that wasn’t all. Two hours after they’d begun, Pam blew her whistle and motioned the boys back to the bleacher area. Some time ago she’d seen Patrick leave, and she’d felt relieved to be left alone with her team. Strolling from group to group, she’d taken notes, given short instructions, requested demonstrations of various plays. Now she felt more confident about the things they needed to work on. “Okay, fellas, there’s some good news and some bad news.” She paused to let the groaners have their say. “The good news is I wasn’t mistaken. You have amazing potential, many strengths and much going for you, both individually and as a team. The bad news is we have a lot of work ahead of us. Sit down, please.” Pam glanced at her notes as the sweaty players sprawled on the benches. “The summer’s taken it’s toll and some of you are badly out of shape. I’ve looked at your weigh-in figures, and a couple of guys are going on a diet, starting tonight.” She ignored the gripes this time. “I’m posting a weight-requirements chart in the locker room. We’ll weight in every Monday.” She tossed meaningful looks toward the heavier boys. “Coach, you’re sadistic,” the kid named Moose complained. “You’re defense, Moose, so we need you strong. But we don’t need you flabby. Twenty pounds have to come off, starting today.” “There go my Twinkies,” Moose moaned, then laughed. “Tomorrow morning, practice starts at nine sharp. I’ve arranged for tires to be brought in. Your footwork is sloppy. A man running the ball has to be able to pivot and swivel on a dime. You also need to learn how to fall with the ball. A few of you are going to break an arm or dislocate a shoulder if you don’t master falling. That means falling without letting go of the ball.” “Sounds like we won’t be through before noon,” someone grumbled. “More like three or four,” Pam explained. “You’ll have an hour for lunch and then back to work. Our first preseason game is in two weeks. We can’t get in shape on a couple hours a day. We’ll be doing push-ups, sit-ups, running exercises, and in the afternoon, we’ll scrimmage.” “It’s still pretty hot to work that hard,” B.J. threw out. “So come in shorts. But come prepared to work.” She stepped back and gave them an encouraging smile. “It’ll be worth it. You’ll see. Picture us on Thanksgiving Day walking off the field with the trophy.” “Yeah, man!” Moose called out. “That’s it, fellas. See you in the morning.” Pam stood aside, watching them file off, catching a few fragmented phrases. “Not as bad as I’d thought she’d be.” “Tougher than McCormick, can you believe it?” “Wait’ll Coach Kelsey hears what she’s got us doing.” Shaking her head, Pam picked up a forgotten helmet. Coach Kelsey again. It would seem she’d have less trouble winning over the boys than the man whose amused blue eyes seemed to hint that she wouldn’t last. Walking toward her office, she vowed to prove him wrong. * * * AT SIX IN THE MORNING, dew was heavy on the grass in the pastures and the air was fresh and clean. Pacing herself, Pam ran along the edge of the two-lane road, enjoying the slip-slap sound of her running shoes as they briefly hit the asphalt. She wore a blue cotton shirt and shorts, and had scarcely worked up a sweat though she’d been at it for about twenty minutes. Loping along beside her, Samson kept up somewhat grumpily, his tongue hanging out, his breathing huffy. Though quite large, sheepdogs had great stamina, and Pam knew he dropped back occasionally not from fatigue but to investigate a tree or some creepy-crawly he’d spotted. For years a morning run had been part of their routine—until Pam’s illness had put a halt to most physical activity. Those months confined to a wheelchair, when the debilitating numbness made it difficult and sometimes impossible to do even the smallest of chores for herself, had been the worst weeks of her life. Pam followed a bend in the road, letting herself remember back four years ago, when she’d returned to her father’s house in Chicago from her coaching stint with the Olympic team in Seoul. She’d been happy, in love, planning for a limitless future. Bob Conti had coached with her, a tall blond giant of a man who’d never been sick a day in his life, or so he’d said. They’d met in Seoul, two athletes in the prime of life, attractive and attracted, with mutual interests and goals. Love had hit like a thunderbolt and life had taken on a rosy hue. When Pam developed flu symptoms after their return, she’d naturally thought them temporary. When two weeks later she’d still felt tired and weak, sometimes having such difficulty with dizziness that she couldn’t walk straight, Bob had insisted she see a doctor. Even during the battery of tests, Pam hadn’t really worried. After all, she was young and healthy, an athlete who’d always taken extraordinary care of herself. By the time a neurologist had been called in, her hands were plagued with needlelike tingling and she couldn’t trust her legs, for they would often go numb from the knees down. Finally, the doctors met with her to discuss the diagnosis—multiple sclerosis. Feeling warmer now, Pam slowed down, slipped her sweatband around her forehead, then resumed her pace. She’d learned she was a prime candidate for MS. The disease struck mostly young adults under thirty, seventy-five percent of the patients female, thirty-five percent white women from upper middle class homes, a good many of whom had had scarlet fever. Unfortunately, Pam fit the profile to a tee. Shock more than anything had slowed her return to health, her movement into the remission state. The doctors had been very helpful, very informative, but she’d been so devastated that no one had seemed able to reach her. Not her family nor her friends. Not even Bob. No one, until therapist Rosemary Dusolt had come into her life. Working with Pam’s weak limbs, Rosemary not only pumped life back into her body, she tapped into Pam’s strong will and taught her to learn to live with her disease as well. She convinced her that she could still live a full and vital life by coming to terms with MS. As she grew stronger, Pam slowly came to realize that Bob was unable to deal with her situation, that he didn’t want to be committed to someone for whom life at times would become a daily struggle. Though the hurt and disappointment ate at her, she broke off with him. Just as Rosemary had predicted, she was eventually able to leave her wheelchair, to rebuild her body, to heal her mind. Pam knew what to avoid now—extremes of temperature as in saunas and very hot showers; humid places, like the seashore; getting stressed out or overtired. She also knew that she’d move in and out of remission, and that bad times would come again. Perhaps that was why the good periods were so sweet, so much to be savored. Needing to work, to keep busy, she’d started looking for a job only recently, answering ads and sending out r?sum?s. The Tyler High position, necessitating a move, had been ideal. She’d be close to Rosemary and away from her well-intentioned but hovering family. She needed to prove to herself that she could go it alone. Smiling down at Samson as he came galloping up to her from behind, Pam stretched out her arms and slowed to hug the shaggy dog. Life was good if you didn’t expect too much, if you took each day as it came and counted your blessings. Learning to live one day at a time had been a hard lesson, but she’d mastered it. When life tosses you lemons, Dad had often said, you have to learn to make lemonade. Pausing under the shade of an overhanging tree to catch her breath, Pam realized again how right her father was. He’d been wonderfully supportive about her new job, maintaining that she could make the Titans into winners, that she could conquer MS in the same way she’d overcome adversities on the way to her gold medal. Too bad Bob couldn’t have had that kind of faith in her. Pam started to run back to her car. Bob was no longer a sharp ache inside her, but rather a dull disappointment. Though Rosemary and her doctors had told her that marriage and children were not things an MS patient would have to do without, Pam wasn’t so sure. It would take a special man—patient, caring, tolerant—to live with and love her. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, for either of them. Limitations at the outset of a relationship were difficult to face. And her future would always be cloudy. She no longer counted on finding a man she could love who would return her feelings, without pity, without regret. Pam looked up at the climbing sun. She had today, and today she felt wonderful. Perhaps that would have to do. “Come on, Samson,” she shouted over her shoulder at the lagging dog, “race you to the car.” * * * PAM STOOD on the sidelines of Tyler High’s football field watching the boys returning from lunch. She’d finished her own yogurt and apple juice a while ago and was ready to set up some scrimmages. She’d had them exercising fiercely this morning, as they had the past six mornings—push-ups, rope climbing, running through tires for foot coordination, tossing the pigskin through hanging tires to improve aim. She’d given them Sunday off, then had them back on Monday. Now, a week after they’d begun, she could see improvement—in performance and in pride. Stepping out onto the field, she blew her whistle and waited for them to join her. “Okay, fellas. I want to see you divide into teams and practice the plays we worked on yesterday.” She frowned as she looked through the crowd. “Where’s Ricky Travis?” “He had work to do on his father’s farm this afternoon, Coach,” B.J. said. “Said to tell you he’ll be here in the morning.” She leveled her gaze. “I’ll talk to Ricky. If any of you see him before morning, you might remind him of rule number two. If you don’t come to practice, you don’t play in the games. There are no exceptions.” “Come on, Coach,” Moose said, “Ricky’s our quarterback.” “He is if he comes to practice. He won’t be if he misses. B.J., you play quarterback this afternoon. And fellas, remember what we went over yesterday. Be aware of each man around you, and of your opponent. You’ve got to protect the quarterback, not let him take hits. Especially since we’re down to one today. Okay, let’s go.” She jogged back to the sidelines and put on her sunglasses. Hunkering down near the fifty-yard line, she scribbled on her clipboard as the boys went into position. * * * SHE WAS WEARING pink today. Patrick couldn’t believe it. Did she have sweats in every color? he wondered as he stood at the far end of the bleachers. The boys were all in abbreviated uniforms and protective gear, mostly in drab colors. Pam stood out like a pink beacon across the field, her dark hair tied back with a piece of pink yarn. Damnedest sight he’d ever seen on a football grid. Why would a woman want to coach football? he asked himself, not for the first time since hearing of Pam Casals. She was attractive and talented. She could travel, do promotional work, put on running exhibitions, coach women’s basketball—any number of things. Why football? Was it the challenge, a climb-the-mountain-because-it’s-there type of thinking? She’d conquered running, now she wanted to conquer a man’s domain. Was she hoping to make the Titans into winners, thereby luring another college coaching offer? Or—God forbid—did she have her sights set on the pros? Was Tyler merely a stepping-stone to Pam Casals? Patrick ran a hand through his windblown hair. She was a hard one to call. She looked so feminine, so young. Yet watching the boys, he had to admit they were listening to her, following her instructions. The smart remarks and clowning had stopped. For nearly a week now, he’d come by for a few minutes every day, just to check on her methods and the team’s progress. It wasn’t sensational, but it wasn’t shabby, either. He’d stayed mostly out of sight, seeing that she was too occupied to notice his brief visits. A couple of the guys had glanced up, but they hadn’t come over. He’d noted that she was tough on discipline, something he tried to instill in his basketball team as well. He’d checked with several of the fellows off campus about how they were getting along, and except for the usual grumblings about workouts and diet, none had really complained about Pam specifically. Patrick watched her toss down her clipboard and leap into the air to catch a stray ball, her movements clean and sure, yet gracefully feminine. She was cute rather than beautiful. Not that he was here because of Pam as a woman. He owed it to his boys to keep an eye on their new coach, that was all. Leaning against the back bleacher, he saw her call them into a loose huddle and wondered what she was saying. * * * “THAT LAST PLAY was lousy,” Pam said, hands on her hips, eyes on her players. “Where’d you learn to hand off like that, B.J.?” “From Coach McCormick.” Pam turned aside thoughtfully. This had come up before and she’d ignored it. No more, she decided as she paced a short distance and returned to address them. “I told you from the start that we would learn to play football all over and that we’d be winners. I want you to forget everything else you’ve been told—no matter who told it to you—and do things my way. I’m not saying I’m always right. But doing plays the old way, you wound up near the cellar in the standings. Let’s try the new way and see if it works. If it doesn’t, I’ll bow out. Is that fair?” Exchanging uneasy and skeptical glances, the boys nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s run that play over again. On three, B.J., and I want to see some blocking, defense.” She jogged off the field and turned to watch them move into formation. Pam was hunched down observing, so deeply absorbed she didn’t hear anyone approach. The play went off beautifully, and B.J.’s receiver, Todd, caught the throw and ran clear. “That’s more like it,” she shouted out. “Where’d you learn that play?” Patrick asked from behind her. Startled, she nearly fell over from her awkward position. Rising, she glared at him. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me?” “I didn’t sneak. I walked around the field in plain view. I repeat, where’d you learn that play?” Pam wiped her damp palms on her sweatpants. “What difference does it make? It works and that’s what’s important.” “The plays Dale and I taught them last year worked, too, and most of the team know them backward and forward.” “If they worked so well, why did the team wind up in sixth place in a field of eight?” Patrick made a dismissing gesture. “Couldn’t be helped. We had a lot of injuries, our best running back moved out of town halfway through the season, and our kicker contracted mono and we didn’t have a backup man.” She shook her head. “Tough luck. Each position should have a backup and every team has injuries. Let’s face it, McCormick’s methods were outdated and unimaginative.” She didn’t add that she lumped Patrick’s routines in with the retired coach’s, but she could see by his stormy expression that he got the message. Becoming aware that the boys, waiting for the next call, were moving closer and enjoying their heated exchange, Pam turned to them. “Take a water break, guys,” she yelled out. As the players strolled off the field, Patrick got hold of his temper. “Listen, there’s no guarantee your new ways will work when these guys face other, more experienced teams, so don’t be so damn cocky. And don’t you be undermining my methods to them. I coach quite a few of the boys in basketball, and I don’t want you messing up their thinking.” “I haven’t said one word against you to those boys. Which is more than I can say about you and the way you’ve just happened to run into several of them and pump them for information.” Patrick felt his face flush and could have cheerfully popped the kid who’d blabbed to her. “I’ve never talked detrimentally about you.” Pam picked up her clipboard. “Maybe not, but you haven’t exactly spoken up on my behalf, either. Listen, we’re supposed to be on the same side, working for the same school. You could have encouraged them to give me a chance, to try things my way. But you chose not to. All right. I’ll win them over without you. It’s just a damn shame your ego’s so monumentally big you can’t accept that there are several ways to build a winning team and that yours might not be the only way.” Turning on her heel, she started across the field. “Wait a minute,” Patrick called after her. “I want to talk to you.” “Well, I don’t want to talk to you,” Pam shouted over her shoulder as she walked toward the drinking fountain. What she really would have liked was to pour a pitcher of cold water over the arrogant Patrick Kelsey’s head. CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c6e76c31-486e-50e7-87c6-f14233f17c24) SHE ALWAYS HAD the most voracious appetite when she was nervous, Pam acknowledged as she poured melted butter over a huge bowl of popcorn. She also had a craving for sweets, so she popped the lid on a can of cola and took both into the living room. Tomorrow night at this time her team would be playing its first preseason game. Miss Mackie had happily reported that it would be in front of a sellout crowd. Everyone in town, it seemed, was curious as to what the new woman coach had done with their high school football team. Pam closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn’t bomb the first time out. Grabbing a handful of popcorn, she dug in. No negative thinking, she ordered herself. The boys had come a long way, their spirits were high and, blessedly, there’d been no serious injuries so far. They were revved up and ready to go. Winning this one was important to their self-esteem. And maybe to hers. Samson loped over and laid his big chin on her knee, his eyes begging to share in her treat. “Did I forget about you, Sam?” Quickly she got his bowl, tossed in several generous handfuls and placed it on the floor alongside the couch. “Go to it.” He wasted no time in doing so. The two of them were home alone tonight, Rosemary having gone backpacking for several days with a couple of friends. The weather was definitely cooling, the very first leaves starting to change color. Soon she wouldn’t be able to camp out, Rosemary had explained. Pam took a long drink of her cold soda. She felt restless and a bit jumpy. Too fidgety to read, and she’d never been one to watch much television. Maybe what she needed was a boost to her own morale. Rising, she went to her room, found the right cassette and returned to shove it into the VCR. Watching herself on tape—the pageantry of the Olympics, the winning run itself and the moment of glory as she’d stood in the winner’s circle—smacked of living in the past, of wishing for things that were no longer possible. Pam had rarely done so before MS had struck. Yet occasionally now, it seemed necessary for her to remind herself that she’d excelled once, and could do so again, albeit in another capacity. Almost forgetting to eat, Pam watched the grandeur of the torch-lighting ceremony, remembering what it had felt like to stand among her fellow Americans, proudly wearing the red, white and blue. She remembered the lump in her throat as the final runner had stretched to ignite the flame. Her father and brothers had been in the audience, and it had been such a glorious time. Dad had asked a friend and neighbor to tape the event both years, and then he’d had copies made for all of them. The next scene showed an interviewer asking her questions about her training, her motivation, her expectations. The time had flashed by in the wink of an eye, it had seemed back then. She remembered now only the excitement, the anticipation, the anxiety of wanting so badly to win. Samson had finished his bowl and cocked his head, then ambled toward the door. Sniffing first, he soon gave a short series of barks. The knock that followed didn’t surprise Pam, since Sam had keen hearing. She pushed the hold button on the cassette and went to answer. * * * PATRICK HADN’T INTENDED to drop by. He stood in the hallway, a thoughtful frown on his face. Pam Casals was, after all, one of his fellow faculty members. It would be only polite to wish her well on the eve of the first football game. And Patrick had been brought up with the burden of good manners. He’d stopped by to watch the boys practice even after he and Pam had had those rather heated words. But he hadn’t lingered, and he hadn’t walked over to talk with Pam again. He also hadn’t sought out any of the boys to ask how things were going. She’d made him feel small about that, despite his good intentions in doing it in the first place. Basically, he wanted to be friends with Pam. They would be brushing shoulders at Tyler High and around town for months, perhaps years, to come. He was a friendly kind of guy; everyone said so. There was no reason for him to keep chipping away at her or vice versa. So he’d decided to come over, to mend this particular fence, to offer a truce. Shuffling his feet, he swore under his breath. That wasn’t exactly it. The honesty his mother had instilled in him years ago had him facing an uncomfortable truth. He wanted to see Pam Casals, to be with her, to get to know her. What was so terribly wrong with that? Patrick asked himself. She was attractive, personable, interesting. And like it or not, she seemed to invade his thoughts with increasing frequency. It was time to see if there was something between them. He raised his hand to knock again. The door swung open and the smile slid from his face. How could a woman wear such ordinary clothes—faded jeans that hugged her slender legs and a short-sleeved blue sweatshirt—and still be extraordinarily feminine down to the pink-painted toes of her bare feet? Her hair wasn’t tied back, either, but rather hung to her shoulders, softly framing her face. And she wore lipstick, also pale pink. Patrick felt like a high school freshman calling on his first girl. Clearing his throat, he met her wary eyes and found a smile. “Hi. I was...in the neighborhood, taking a walk. Just thought I’d stop in and wish you good luck for tomorrow’s game.” Nervous. He was actually nervous. Pam couldn’t imagine why. However, she’d never been one to hold a grudge. But she would still proceed with caution. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” Samson shoved past her and came out to sniff at their visitor. “That’s a big dog,” Patrick commented unnecessarily. “What’s his name?” “Samson.” Leaning down, he patted the dog’s shaggy head. “He needs a haircut.” “Can’t cut Samson’s hair. It’ll remove all his strength, remember?” She smiled at his questioning look. “Like in the Bible.” Patrick grinned. “Right. We wouldn’t want that.” He straightened. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Pam debated for a heartbeat, then stepped back. “No, you’re not. Would you like to come in?” “Thanks.” Samson at his heels, he strolled in, his gaze taking in the attractive room. “I haven’t been inside since they redid this place. Very nice.” “I think so.” Closing the door, she moved back to the couch. “Samson and I were just sharing a snack. Would you like some popcorn?” He took a handful from the bowl she held out and sat down at the opposite end of the couch. The television, caught in a freeze-frame, captured his eye. “Were you watching something?” “Nothing important.” Pam popped a few kernels of corn into her mouth. “What was it?” He was persistent. But she already knew that about him. She let out a sigh, feeling foolish. “My Olympic tapes. I watch them when I need a shot of confidence.” “You worried about tomorrow?” “Not exactly worried. But not wildly confident, either.” Patrick nodded. He’d experienced the same feelings with his own teams. “You’ve worked really hard, and so have the boys. They’ll do all right.” She hadn’t expected that, not from him. “I hope so.” He nodded toward the television. “Could I see the tape?” She’d never watched it with anyone outside her own family and teammates. Yet she could think of no way to refuse. Trying to look nonchalant, she pushed the play button on the remote control. She chewed popcorn nervously as the camera zeroed in on the twenty-one-year-old Pam and her competitors warming up just before the run. The announcer’s voice was almost breathy in his excitement, preparing the viewing audience for the actual event. “You haven’t changed very much,” Patrick commented as he moved closer to her for another handful of popcorn. “I prefer to think I look older.” “Not much.” He turned to her. “Prettier, though.” She felt a flush of pleasure as the gun went off and the women on screen began their run. The action saved her from responding to his compliment. Silently, Patrick watched the event; saw Pam sprint ahead of her competitors easily and early, and never relinquish her lead. He thought her quite beautiful as she burst across the finish line, a look of giddy triumph on her face. He swung back to her. “Your finest hour, right?” “So far,” Pam said, feeling a shade embarrassed as she snapped off the cassette. Patrick stretched his arm along the couch back, studying her. “What could beat winning the gold?” Setting down the nearly empty bowl, Pam shrugged. “I’ve always thought having a baby would be the ultimate achievement.” She sent him a quick, shy look. “At least for me.” Her answer surprised him and shifted his opinion of her ever so slightly. Yet seeing her quiet beauty tonight, he had no difficulty thinking of her as very much a woman and not merely a football coach. “Do you have someone special in your life?” He watched her shake her head and wondered why her answer pleased him. “I’m surprised.” She wouldn’t dwell on the past two empty years. Instead, she’d go way back. “I spent most of my teens and early twenties training, then more years traveling and competing. That kind of commitment takes time and leaves very little energy for building relationships.” “You’ve never had a serious relationship?” She was growing annoyed with the slant of their conversation and frowned in his direction. “I didn’t say that. I did have a relationship, but it didn’t last.” “A fellow athlete?” He no longer asked himself why he wanted to know. “Yes.” “Did you break up because he couldn’t handle your success?” He couldn’t know how far off he was. “No. We broke up because we wanted different things out of life.” Time to shift the focus. “What about you? Mid-thirties and still footloose and fancy-free. How come?” Leaning back, he gazed toward the empty fireplace. “I came close once, about two years ago.” “What happened?” It was what hadn’t happened more than what had. “Kelly was nice enough, worked as a buyer for Gates Department Store in town. We got along quite well. But there just wasn’t enough between us. No fire, no enthusiasm. I think I was considering marriage to please my folks more than to please me.” Pam nodded, understanding perfectly. Her father had often urged her to think about settling down. Patrick smiled as he remembered something else. “I did go steady all through high school, with Hayley Ingalls. But after graduation, Hayley left to attend this elitist college out east. That wasn’t my cup of tea. Neither was she, I guess.” “Another Ingalls. Related to Judson?” “Yes, his great-niece. Judson’s brother, Herbert, and his family live in Milwaukee. At any rate, since Kelly I haven’t had a relationship that lasted more than a few weeks. Maybe I’m looking for the kind of woman who doesn’t exist anymore. Someone like my mother. She’s such a terrific lady. Raised four of us, ran the boardinghouse, and she’s been Dr. Phelps’s receptionist for years. Plus she supports my dad in whatever he wants to do.” “You’re right. They don’t make women like that anymore.” She looked at him and they both laughed. “Actually, my mother was like that, too. She raised three of us, my two brothers and an overactive tomboy like me. And she worked in real estate, yet she was always there for my dad, as well. She died when I was thirteen, and I still miss her.” “She never got to see you win the gold. What a shame.” That thought always sobered Pam. It was her one regret about the Olympics, that her mother hadn’t been there to share the joy. Patrick saw the sadness come and go on her face, and decided to lighten things. “Could I see your medals?” He watched her slowly turn to him, a frown on her face. “What’s the matter?” “Nothing. I’m trying to remember where I put them.” Could she really be as ego-free as she sounded? Patrick wondered as he shook his head. “Why are you so surprised? Do you think I should display them on the mantel or perhaps hang them around my neck?” “I probably would.” “Oh, you would not.” She jumped to her feet. “I remember now. They’re in my sock drawer. I’ll get them.” She was back in a flash and found him as she’d left him, looking toward her rather incredulously. She handed him the two cases. Patrick flipped open one, then the other. He studied the dull silver medal, then the gleaming gold. Running his thumb over the hard surfaces, he found himself impressed. “Really something. Don’t you think you ought to have them framed and hung on your wall?” Pam curled up in the corner of the couch, drawing her feet up under her. “Maybe I will one day, when I settle down somewhere permanently. It’s a little ostentatious to display them openly, though, don’t you think?” “No, I don’t. I think they should be a source of great pride to you.” “They can be that in my sock drawer as well as on the wall. I know they’re there even if people who come to my home don’t see them.” He closed the cases and handed them to her. “I suppose so. I just think something so outstanding should be shared.” “I’ll take it under advisement,” she said, knowing full well she wouldn’t. “I’ll bet the guys on your team would love to see those medals.” She set the cases on the table. That was the last thing she’d do. “I don’t believe in dwelling too much on the past—or the future. I believe in living for today.” Patrick crossed his legs and leaned forward, wanting to make his point. “Of course, those boys aren’t going for the gold right now. They’re young and spirited and need understanding. They should be having fun.” So there’d been a hidden agenda to his casual visit, Pam thought. She leaned her elbow on the back of the couch and toyed with her hair as she narrowed her eyes. “And you don’t think that I understand them, or that they’re having fun?” She’d never worked with teenagers, didn’t really know them. Patrick tried to keep his tone level. “I didn’t say that. However, I think you push a bit harder than is good for young boys.” “And you’ve come to this conclusion by dropping in on our practices for ten minutes a day? You should be scouting for pro teams or something more in keeping with your wonderful powers of observation and interpretation.” “I don’t mean to offend you.” “Really?” No, he’d meant to rile her enough to quit. “I’m not offended, Patrick. Actually, you’re behaving exactly as I’d have predicted. Like a know-it-all male who has his mind made up on every situation before he even encounters it.” Why did it always come to this with Pam Casals? Patrick tried to appear reasonable. “I have an open mind. I—” “Oh! You wouldn’t know an open mind if you fell into one. I thought, since the last time we shouted at each other, that maybe you’d come around. That perhaps you were going to, at the very least, reserve judgment until we were into the full season.” “I’m here, aren’t I? I came to wish you well.” “Did you?” What was there about this man that sent her emotions into overdrive every time they were together? Patrick was fighting his churning emotions, too. But they’d not been fueled by temper. He was sitting close enough that he had only to move his hand slightly to touch her hair, and he couldn’t resist doing so. Incredibly soft, like silk. “Maybe not. Maybe I came for an altogether different reason, one that has nothing to do with football.” Pam could feel her pulse suddenly pounding in her throat. “What reason is that?” Her voice sounded oddly thick. A car horn blasted twice out on the street, and they both looked out the window. The car passed on by. Pam turned back and found herself gazing into those fascinating blue eyes mere inches from hers. He was so close she could feel his warm breath on her cheeks. Instantly, she forgot the car, the subject they’d been discussing, everything. Mesmerized by his gaze, she was helpless to pull back, nor did she really wish to. His hand moved to her cheek, his strong fingers warm against her skin as he traced the contours of her face. Until then, she hadn’t known she’d wanted his touch, hadn’t admitted she needed the simple human contact. Patrick shifted his gaze to her lips and saw them tremble open. She was as nervous as he, and oddly enough, the thought relaxed him. He’d wanted to discover if there was anything between them. Even before he lowered his mouth to hers, he knew there was. He’d been afraid she might pull back, but she didn’t. Just a taste, he told himself. Just a sample to satisfy his curiosity. But even as he dared to lean in, to deepen the kiss, he craved to know more. Her movements were hesitant, belying his impression of her take-charge personality. Her small hands shifted to his shoulders almost reluctantly, somewhat awkwardly, as if without her conscious permission. Her lips parted in invitation, yet there was a curious shyness to her surrender. She shouldn’t have allowed this to begin, Pam thought through a haze of sensation. She shouldn’t want anything resembling an involvement, for it only led to heartbreak. She shouldn’t need a man’s touch, especially not this man’s. Yet even before his lips touched hers, she knew she’d wanted him from the first moment she’d seen him on the village green. She’d known passion before, had tasted desire in a man’s kiss. She’d experienced a demanding lover, the heated madness a man could bring to a woman. But she’d never sampled such patience, such gentleness, such slow seduction. She’d never imagined how captivating tenderness could be. Yet, as his arms slowly slid around her, bringing her body in closer contact with his, she sensed that deeper needs lay hidden beneath that solid chest. Endlessly, his lips moved over hers, while his heart beat wildly against her own. For Pam, the world suddenly narrowed to this room, to this man and to these incredible feelings he had awakened in her. He had to stop, Patrick told himself even as his mouth slanted over hers, seeking a better angle. Her scent wrapped itself around him, conjuring up visions over which he had no control. He wanted to pick her up, carry her off and set her down on cool, sweet-smelling sheets, to lie with her and love her all night long. But his good sense warred with his needs. This wasn’t a woman to be treated casually. And Tyler was a small town where people talked. Pam was new here, a teacher with a reputation to protect. And he was the hometown boy, who couldn’t violate the trust she’d placed in him by opening her door tonight. With more reluctance than he’d ever experienced, he lifted his head and drew back. He watched her eyes slowly open and saw the remnants of hazy passion in their brown depths. She blinked, and he opened his mouth to speak, but she quickly raised her fingers to his lips. “Don’t say anything, please. If you apologize, I think I’ll cry.” Her trembling admission moved him deeply. Gently he tucked her head under his chin and sat stroking her hair, wondering how one kiss could possibly have affected him so strongly. Pam held on to him more fiercely than when he’d been kissing her. Bob had been out of her life for many months now, and hadn’t held her for some time even before he’d left. How could she have known how badly she needed to be held, to be cherished, if only briefly? It had been like a raw hunger inside her, one she hadn’t admitted even to herself. The very nature of her illness had had her isolating herself from friends and family alike, wanting so desperately to go it alone. She had been handled, probed and examined endlessly by competent medical hands, but all the while she’d been longing for the gentle touch she’d found today. And who’d have thought it would come from such a surprising source as Patrick Kelsey? Pam sat up, feeling a bit more in control. Forcing herself, she raised her eyes to his and found him looking at her tenderly. It was almost her undoing. “I wasn’t going to apologize,” Patrick said. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the afternoon I tackled you.” He smiled then, somewhat sheepishly. “I was too stubborn to admit it, though.” She wanted to confess that she’d felt the same, but she wasn’t prepared for where such an admission might lead. Besides, she wasn’t certain if she’d wanted him to hold her, or if anyone would have done, and he’d been handy. A troublesome thought. She averted her gaze. “I’m sorry I got a little emotional on you there. I don’t usually, but it’s been an unsettling couple of weeks.” “I understand.” He didn’t of course, but she wasn’t about to correct him. Feeling nonplussed, she wished he would go now and leave her to work her way through her tangled feelings alone. But he sat there, calmly studying her. Nervously, she got to her feet, somewhat amazed that she could stand without weaving. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pat-warren/bright-hopes/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.