The Return of Caine O'Halloran Page 2

  "It was the damn tree," Gunnar insisted, flinching when Nora experimentally jiggled the hook. "It got in the way."

  "Watch your mouth, boy," Karl advised. "Your mama's not gonna let you keep fishing with me if she thinks I'm teaching you how to cuss."

  "But that's what you said when the line got tangled in the first place," Gunnar argued. "Ow!"

  "Those trees are infamous for eating fishing lines," Nora assured the boy, who'd gone pale.

  "I suspect you heard about Caine," Karl Larstrom offered.

  A spot of bright red blood beaded where the now freed hook had entered the skin. Nora swabbed at the minuscule hole with alcohol.

  "Several times. All done," she declared, hoping to forestall any more conversation concerning Caine.

  "Joe Bob Carroll saw him driving toward town around noon."

  "Really?" Nora asked in a tone of absolute disinterest.

  "Yup." Karl had never been one to pick up on subtlety. "He was driving one of them fancy Eye-talian sports cars." He reached into his pocket and pulled out some bills.

  "So Eric told me." Nora put the rumpled money in the cashbox she kept in the top drawer. Instead of gasoline, these dollar bills smelled vaguely of fish. "He said it looked like a Batmobile."

  •'Yup," Karl said after chewing the description over for a moment. "I reckon it does, at that. Did Eric tell you about him playing chicken with Harmon Olson's log truck?"

  Despite her determination to ignore every bit of unwelcome news about her former husband, that particular tidbit earned her reluctant attention.

  "He wasn't!"

  "Joe Bob Carroll was right behind Harmon's Peterbilt in his Bronco." Karl's eyes brightened when he realized he'd finally hit on a piece of information Nora hadn't already heard.

  "I thought you and Gunnar were out fishing all day."

  "We were. But word gets around."

  "Tell me about it," she murmured.

  Gossip is the motherlode of small towns and in this case, Tribulation's grapevine was obviously working at warp speed.

  "Caine was riding the centerline, just the way he did back when he was workin' overtime to be the town hellion, and from the way Joe Bob tells it, it looked like he wasn't gonna move, come hell or high water."

  Obviously, Caine hadn't changed one little bit. Not that she would have expected him to.

  Stupid reckless idiot!

  Although she told herself that she didn't care what happened to Caine, Nora had spent too many years in the chaos of emergency rooms, trying to save lives, to stand for anyone foolish enough to risk throwing his life away.

  "I take it Harmon gave in."

  "Yup. I expect Caine'll drop in at The Log Cabin to have a drink with his old friends. In case you wanna stop by," he added slyly.

  Just what she needed—another matchmaker. Nora quickly declined but after Karl and Gunner had left she couldn't stop her troubled thoughts from drifting to The Log Cabin and to Caine O'Halloran.

  2

  If Tribulation, Washington, brought to mind the type of neat little New England villages that had proliferated at the turn of the century, it was because the residents preferred to keep it that way. It was a town of Nordic cleanliness, where shop owners still swept the sidewalks each morning and the streets remained as clean as a Swedish kitchen.

  A traveler leaving the interstate would find no franchise restaurants in Tribulation; there were more churches—three—than taverns—one—and the movie theater was only open on weekend nights. The crack of Little League bats was heard on Saturday mornings, the chime of church bells on Sundays.

  When he'd first arrived in America from his native Sweden, Olaf Anderson, one of the founders of Tribulation, had worked as a lumberjack in the forests of Maine. During those frigid winter months when logging came to a standstill, he would migrate down to Massachusetts, or Vermont, where he worked as a handyman. Eventually, he'd made his way to Washington.

  Since he'd thoroughly enjoyed his time in the East, it had seemed a reasonable idea to build a replica of a New England village in this wild Western territory.

  Olafs best friend, Darcy (XHalloran, a wild Irish, hard-drinking Saturday-night brawler and jig dancer, had argued that the unruly land cloaked in a tangle of forests, steep mountains and deeply glaciated valleys bore scant resemblance to New England.

  But Olaf had a very clear vision of the town he and Darcy would build together. A town that Olaf planned to name New Stockholm, while Darcy held out for New Dublin.

  For a time it seemed the settlement of loggers, miners and fishermen would go nameless. Finally, after they'd been arguing for nearly a year, one frustrated citizen suggested they call the town Tribulation. The moniker, Olaf and Darcy decided, fitted nicely in a region that already boasted a Mount Despair, Mount Triumph, Torment, Forbidden, and Paradise.

  More than a century later, the centerpiece of Tribulation remained a wide, grassy, green square. A fountain bubbled at one end of the green, a horseshoe pit was at the other. A clock tower, made of dark red brick that had weathered to a dusky pink over the century, could be spotted for miles in all directions.

  In the middle of the green square was a lacy white Victorian bandstand, erected in the early 1900s by an O'Halloran ancestor who'd believed that every town needed a band. Beside the bandstand was a laiger-than-life-size wooden statue of Olaf Anderson, erected by one of his descendants in the 1940s. A woodpecker, displaying uncanny precision, had pecked a hole in the statue's posterior.

  Across from the square, between the post office and the fire station, was the gray-stone three-story city hall, the tallest structure, save for the clock tower, in town. The bronze plaque on the cornerstone revealed that the building had been erected in 1899. It also named the mayor of Tribulation at the time, Lars Anderson, and the builder, Donovan O'Halloran.

  Although he'd been bom into one of the town's founding families, Caine's ambition had always been to get out. Firmly believing that he was meant for life in the fast lane, he'd always found Tribulation's slow pace and old-fashioned, unchanging ways suffocating.

  Slate clouds threatened in a darkening gray sky as Caine drove through the two-block downtown area, through a residential neighborhood of neat frame houses trimmed with colorful shutters, then turned onto the graded road out of town.

  Drawn by emotions too complex to consider, he stopped the Ferrari in front of the wrought-iron gates of the Pioneer Cemetery, cut the engine and sat there, his hands draped over the steering wheel.

  A rush of unbidden, unwanted memories flooded his mind. Memories of a little boy, plump cheeks pink from the brisk spring winds, smiling mouth stained with strawberries, a beloved green-and-yellow Oakland A's cap perched rakishly atop his blond curls, his husky legs pumping away as he ran toward the front door, eager, as always, to go anywhere with his daddy.

  Daddy. The word tore at Caine, even now, years later. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, shook out a cigarette, lighted it with the dashboard lighter, then slumped back into the leather seat and drew the acrid, yet soothing smoke deep into his lungs.

  He sure as hell hadn't planned for Nora Anderson to get pregnant. On his way from a farm team in Montana to his new Triple A team in Tacoma, Caine had made the fetal mistake of stopping off in Tribulation the night of the Midsummer Eve festival.

  Nora, a senior at the University of Washington at the time, had also been home for the weekend; at first Caine hadn't recognized his best friend's little sister.

  The heavy, dark-framed glasses that had always made her look like a studious little owl had been replaced by contacts, the ugly metal braces had come off, leaving behind straight, dazzling-white teeth, and although she could never have been called voluptuous, the skinny angles he'd remembered had been replaced by slender curves in all the right places.

  The young woman Nora had become had proved different from the sex-crazed baseball Annies Caine was accustomed to. Not only was she gorgeous in a quiet, understated way, she was
also sweet and intelligent. And she'd smelled damn good, too.

  Caine had offered to drive Nora home. When he'd taken a detour to his cabin, she hadn't offered a word of complaint.

  And when he'd drawn her into his arms, she'd come. Willingly. Eagerly.

  When he'd left Tribulation the following morning, Caine hadn't expected to see Nora again. After all, he had his rising career, and she'd soon be off to medical school.

  Six weeks later, Caine's mother, of all people, had called him with the unwelcome news.

  He'd definitely been less than thrilled when he'd learned he was going to be a father, but baseball players were supposed to at least appear to be wholesome, upstanding role models for America's youth. And as much as he'd hated the idea of giving up his carefree sexual lifestyle, Caine had known that knocking up, and then abandoning some innocent hometown girl just didn't fit the image.

  Nora had been no more eager to marry than he was. But after some painfully stilted discussion and not a little coaxing from both families, they'd reluctantly decided that marriage would be in the best interests of their unborn child. After the baby was bom, they would divorce and go their separate ways.

  The kicker had come when Nora had argued against allowing possible emotional entanglements to interfere with what was nothing more than a legal contrivance. And although Caine hadn't been wild about the prospect of celibate cohabitation, he'd agreed to her condition.

  So he'd done his duty, albeit grudgingly. And although he hadn't exactly been husband of the year, neither had he ever—despite Nora's frequent angry accusations—been unfaithful.

  Then, six months after their shotgun marriage, Dylan had come crashing into his life, all eight pounds, twelve ounces of him, and Caine had fallen head over heels in love.

  Exhaling a long, weary breath, Caine leaned his head back against the car seat, closed his eyes and pressed his fingers tightly against his lids, trying to block out memories too painful to remember. But the indelible images remained, reaching out across the intervening years.

  Sixteen months after Dylan's birth, Caine had been called up to the majors. He'd packed a case of beer, cold cuts from the deli and his son into the car and headed off to his cabin for a poker game with his teammates to celebrate having finally achieved his lifelong dream.

  He was going to The Show.

  "Hot damn, Dylan," he'd said, buckling the baby into the padded car seat. "Your daddy's gonna be a big leaguer! What do you think about that?"

  "Bid beaded" Dylan had clapped his hands, picking up on his father's good mood.

  Caine had laughed. God, how he'd loved his son!

  Two hours later, Dylan was gone—taken away by a cruel twist of fate and a drunk driver. In that one fleeting second, Caine's entire life had fallen apart.

  And nine years later, he still hadn't figured out how to deal with the loss.

  Cursing viciously, Caine crushed his cigarette into the ashtray, then twisted the key in the ignition; tires squealed as he slammed down on the accelerator, ignoring the posted speed limit. He needed a drink, dammit. And he needed it now. Less than five minutes later, he pulled the Ferrari into the parking lot of The Log Cabin, spraying gravel in all directions.

  Like everything else about Tribulation, The Log Cabin hadn't changed. Oley Severson was still behind the bar, where he'd been for as long as anyone could remember.

  Caine stood just inside the doorway for a moment, allowing his eyes to adapt to the lighting that was purposefully dim to keep customers from complaining about smudges on the bar glasses. Not that any of the locals would dare, but there were more and more tourists these days and everyone knew that city folk tended to be finicky.

  Neon signs advertising a variety of beers glowed in the smoky haze. Mounted trophy-size steelhead trout and salmon Oley had pulled in from northwestern streams and the Pacific Ocean adorned the knotty-pine walls. Along with the fish were antique signs dating from when ©ley's great-grandfather had opened the tavern designed to serve the needs of thirsty timbermen.

  One hand-carved wooden sign, hearkening back to the days when a drunken logger could rent a cot in the back room to sleep it off, advised that lumberjacks must remove boots before getting into bed. Another instructed patrons to check their firearms with the bartender.

  "Come on in, boy," Oley greeted Caine. "We're all waiting to hear about your tussle with Harmon Olson's new Peterbilt."

  All was certainly the definitive word, Caine decided, glancing around the smoky tavern. Nearly the entire male population of Tribulation was sitting around the scarred wooden tables or perched atop the barstools.

  Most of the men were wearing the traditional logger's uniform—plaid, striped or denim shirt; red suspenders; denim pants cut off midcalf to prevent snagging in the underbrush; and leather high-topped, hobnailed calk boots.

  Either everyone was out of work or they'd quit early to watch Hannon Olson beat the tar out of him. Entertainment being what it was around these parts, Caine couldn't really blame them.

  "News gets around fast," he said, trying not to reveal his concern to learn that it had been Olson's truck he'd been playing chicken with. Every one of the Olson boys was the size of a redwood and their tempers were legendary.

  "Joe Bob, here, was followin' Harmon to Forks in his Bronco." Oley nodded toward a redheaded man on a nearby stool as he filled a mug with draft beer. "When he saw you, he hightailed it back here to spread the word."

  Despite the pain behind his eyes, Caine managed a lopsided grin for his old high school teammate as he crossed the sawdust-covered floor. Joe Bob Carroll had been his catcher on the Tribulation Loggers.

  "I thought you looked familiar." Caine slapped his old friend on the back. "But I was goin' too fast to get a decent look at you."

  And if he'd only gotten a better look at Harmon Olson, he'd be out scrounging up a thick piece of timber for self-protection.

  "You were movin' like a bat outta hell," Joe Bob said, a smile splitting his face. "There sure wouldn't've been much left of you or that fancy car, if Harmon hadn't chickened out."

  There were eleven rickety stools in front of the L-shaped bar. Ten were occupied; the eleventh, Caine determined, had been saved for him. He climbed up beside Joe Bob and hooked the heels of his cowboy boots over the pine rung encircling the stool.

  "But he did chicken out," Caine said.

  "Seems he did," Joe Bob agreed. "For now." His tone was that of a man who'd witnessed the lighting of the fuse and was now waiting patiently for the TNT to blow sky-high.

  "But I gotta warn you, Caine, Harmon does tend to think right highly of that new truck. I wouldn't want to be the guy who caused it to get all those fresh gravel dings."

  There was a murmur of agreement from the other men in the bar, all of whom had had their own hassles with the Olson boys.

  "No point in borrowin' trouble." Oley pushed the beer toward Caine. Foam spilled down the side of the mug, puddled on the bar and went ignored. The Log Cabin had never been the type of place to hand out cocktail napkins.

  Caine took a long drink of the icy brew, then put the mug down on the bar, making a new ring. He wiped the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand and lit a cigarette.

  "Real good to have you back home again," a man next to Joe Bob offered.

  "Hiya, Johnny," Caine greeted his cousin. "It's good to be home." He nodded toward Dana Anderson, who'd once been his brother-in-law and had stayed his friend. "Dana."

  "Caine. Good to have you back.... Heard the "Yankees cut you," Dana said carefully. They'd drawn straws before Caine had arrived to see who'd broach the sensitive subject, and he had unluckily drawn the short one. "We're all sorry about that."

  Caine downed the beer in thirsty swallows and pushed the empty mug toward Oley, who filled it to the brim. Just as he didn't spend money needlessly on cocktail napkins, Oley had never believed in wasting a fresh glass every time a customer wanted a refill. He took Caine's money and put it away in the King Edward cigar box
he used as a cash register.

  "It's not that big a deal," Caine insisted. "The feeling in my arm is coming back more every day. I figure I'll be back on the mound before the All-Star break."

  "For what team?" a man in the back of the bar dared ask.

  Caine shot a quick glare through the haze. "Any team that needs a championship," he retorted.

  "Well," Tom Anderson, Dana's twin brother, said, "we're all rootin' for you, Caine."

  A murmur of agreement went around the room. "So," Joe Bob said, bravely forging his way deeper into dangerous conversational waters, "is it true what the papers are sayin'? That you shocked yourself with an electric drill?"

  "Although it's embarrassing as hell, that's what happened," Caine said. "At first I had some weakness in my arm. But I've been working out and the strength's coming back."

  He took another drink. Talking about his accident made Caine thirsty. "I'll be back to one hundred percent in no time."

  "Is that what the doctors say?" Joe Bob ventured carefully.

  Caine frowned down at the white foam topping his beer. "You know doctors," he said finally. "They won't commit to anything for fear of getting a malpractice suit, I guess. But I know my body better than any damn doctor and I say it's getting better."

  He chugged the beer down, seeking alcohol's soothing properties. "Injuries are part of the game," he muttered. "Everyone knows that. The problem is that too many sports writers and owners and managers—hell, even some fans—all want to be the first to predict the end of a guy's career."

  A low murmur of sympathetic agreement circled the room. Caine slammed the mug down on the bar with more force them necessary. "When I retire, it's going to be because I want to. Because playing baseball isn't any fun anymore, or maybe even because I can't win."

  His tone implied that he considered that alternative a major impossibility. "And no owner or manager or sports writer or goddamn quack doctor is going to make that decision for me."

  Silence descended.

  "Hey, Oley," Caine called out, realizing that he was to blame for the dark mood. "How about a round of drinks to celebrate the prodigal's return?"