Home Field Advantage (4 page)

"Yeah, I'm breeding
Arabians. I guess I should get Emma a pony of her own. She'd enjoy that,
wouldn't she?"

The words hurt, but Marian
made herself say them. "I may have to find a home for Snowball. I wanted
to wait until the last minute, but if you're interested I know Emma would be
good to him—"

He interrupted again.
"Why do you have to get rid of him? Your own kids are just getting to the
age where they'd enjoy a pony."

"I know." Marian
blinked back tears. "But we have to move shortly. Finding a rental with
property is next-to-impossible. And I can't afford to board him."

"Does that mean the
goat, too?"

She laughed shakily.
"Any chance you want a goat for Emma?"

There was a moment's silence
before he said thoughtfully, "I can see the problem. I didn't realize you
were renting."

"Unfortunately. The
owners are planning to build condominiums here. I can understand... But I've
lived here six years and it's home. Oh, damn..." She swiped at suddenly
wet cheeks. What had gotten into her? "I'm sorry," she said more
formally. "You don't need to hear my troubles. Especially after a long
weekend. You must be tired."

"I am," he
admitted, sounding it. "The traveling wears me down. Different time zones,
too many restaurants and hotels...and now an hour-and-a-half drive. You'd think
I'd be used to it." His laugh was rueful. "Hey, listen to me. I've
had a long two days and I'm asking for sympathy from a woman who has six kids,
twelve hours a day, week in and week out!"

"You'd be surprised how
many people think I don't really work for a living," she said. "I'm
home, right? That must mean I have plenty of time to bake cookies for the
bazaar or run over to let the repairman into somebody's house."

"Don't you have anyone
who can give you a break?"

The compassion in his
rough-edged voice made Marian realize how she must have sounded. He was too
easy to talk to. No, it wasn't him; if he'd been sitting here, watching her
with those perceptive gray eyes, distracting her with his intensely masculine
presence, she wouldn't have found him so easy to talk to. It had to be the
telephone, the anonymity. The modern confessional.

Forcing amusement into her
voice, she said. "Oh, don't listen to me right now. I'm tired, too. I love
kids and I enjoy them most of the time. It's the parents..."

"Watch yourself!"
he said humorously.

She chuckled. "Well,
you're not a regular."

There was a pause. "No.
Listen, I'm probably keeping you up. Thanks for listening. Sometimes I miss
coming home from trips and having someone to talk to. Someone above three feet
tall, that is."

"I know what you mean.
That's the hardest part..." Marian broke off. What an odd conversation.
She didn't even know this man, and here they were baring their souls. Well,
not quite, thank goodness. She made herself sound more reserved. "Shall we
see you in the morning?"

"Yes. Seven-thirty,
eight o'clock? That's not too early for you?"

She laughed again. "Are
you kidding? The hordes will have already descended!"

"Then I'd better come
and snatch Emma from the eye of the storm. She has school, anyway," he
added practically. "You might remind her."

"So she doesn't wear
those jeans with the holes in the knees? No problem. See you in the
morning."

Marian hung up the receiver,
then very slowly sank down into the chair again. The house was so quiet around
her that she strained to hear the small, familiar night sounds: the clink of
tags as one of the dogs moved restlessly, a sleepy sigh, the rustle of
bedcovers. Nothing. She felt...alone. Was it John McRae's sympathy that had
undermined her defenses? Or the attraction she couldn't deny she felt for him?

It had been so long. She
remembered how it was to fall in love. To share laughter and sadness, silliness
and pain, with someone who cared. To weaken with passion, to make the earth
move for someone else. To be able to lay your head on a strong chest and cry.

She was contented with her
life; of course she was. Anna and Jesse were her joy. But she was all they had
to lean on, and she had nobody. Oh, she talked to her father once a month, but
he was a remote man who had never been interested in his own children, far less
his grandchildren. And she had friends, some of whom had been very supportive,
but, at best, the closeness had begun to slip away in the last two years.
Friendships only prospered when you had time to invest in them.

Sometimes Marian longed
desperately just to be able to lay her burden down and walk away, only for a
few hours, to think her own thoughts, to please herself. Sometimes, at night,
she wondered what it would have been like if Mark had stayed. If he'd been here
to hold the babies, to give them bottles and change their diapers and make them
laugh. Would the marriage have lasted if she hadn't gotten pregnant? Or if it
hadn't been with twins?

She could scarcely picture
Mark's face anymore, although sometimes it looked back at her when Jesse's eyes
twinkled with mischief or when Anna scowled. Did Mark ever think about her, or
about the children? Did he ever wonder what he had missed?

But she knew better. Her
pensive mood vanished in a rush of anger. If Mark had cared at all, if he'd
harbored even the tiniest amount of regret, he would have at least paid child support.
He wouldn't have deserted her so utterly.

Marian was grateful for the
sting of anger. It carried her through her last tasks and to bed, just as it
had given her the strength to cope these last three years. Where would she be
without that anger?

Probably waiting for Prince
Charming to rescue her, she thought impatiently, tugging the covers up around
her shoulders. When John McRae immediately appeared in her mind's eye, she
groaned and rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. The first attractive
single man she'd met in years, and she was ready to knight him.

Well, this candidate might
look the part, but he was missing a few qualifications for the job. Otherwise,
why was his daughter asleep in Marian's extra bedroom?

*****

Weary as he was after getting
in at nearly midnight, John had trouble sleeping that night. The house felt
too damned empty without Emma in it. Or maybe he was the one who felt empty,
without the purpose she gave his life.

At an ungodly hour the next
morning, he gave up and headed into the bathroom to shave. The face that stared
back at him from the mirror was disconcerting. Today he showed his age. The
lines on his forehead and beside his eyes were carved deeper and his mouth had
a cynical tilt. The Monday morning blues, he thought. He felt as battered as he
had when he'd been on the field taking punishment. Now he didn't even have that
excuse. Shaking his head, he reached for the razor.

Half an hour later, but
considerably earlier than he had told her to expect him, John parked the car in
Marian's dirt lane. His long strides carried him to the front door, where he
knocked, producing the expected uproar. As he waited for the door to open, he
wondered about his eagerness. Was it only Emma he couldn't wait to see?

When Marian appeared in the
doorway, her dark hair confined in a fat braid that flopped over her slender
shoulder, John knew the answer by the tightening he felt in his chest. Yes,
he'd missed his daughter, but he'd also wanted very badly to see Marian again.

The quick smile she offered
was warm and, for the first time, all for him. A wave of raw hunger hit him,
making his voice a notch huskier.

"I hope I'm not too
early?"

"No, no, of course
not," she said, her attention distracted. "For heaven's sake, Rhodo,
hush!" She sighed and stood back. "Emma's still eating. Come on
in."

Bending automatically to pet
the two dogs, he followed her. She wore jeans again, with a loose-fitting
cotton shirt tucked in that emphasized a tiny waist that his hands ached to span.

Unfortunately, he saw no sign
whatsoever that she was physically conscious of him. Unless her very casualness
as she hurried into the kitchen ahead of him qualified.

"Lizzie, Joshua doesn't
want you to feed him! He can feed himself."

The little girl, who was
trying to cram a spoonful of oatmeal into a toddler's mouth, reluctantly
stopped. "Do dogs like oatmeal?"

"No, they don't,"
Marian said firmly.

In the mob of six—no,
seven—kids at the table, it took John a moment to spot his own daughter.

"Daddy!" Emma
leaped out of her chair and into his arms, which closed tightly around her
small body.

"I missed you,
honey," he murmured, for an instant forgetting the dark-eyed woman who
stood watching them. At last he let Emma go and leaned over to plant a kiss on
top of her head. "Go ahead and finish your breakfast. We're not in any
hurry."

"Have you had
breakfast?" Marian asked, from the other side of the table. "There's
plenty."

"Maybe a piece of
toast," he said. "Thanks." Taking one from the platter, he used
Emma's knife to slather it with jam. Raspberry, he discovered, taking a bite.
And obviously homemade.

After he had swallowed, he
said appreciatively,"A woman of many talents." Lifting the toast in
mock salute, he strolled into the kitchen and leaned against the counter beside
her.

She wrinkled her nose.
"The hardest part of making jam is picking the darn berries. I can't
claim cooking as one of my talents."

"No? Then what is?"

A shadow seemed to cross her
face, although her voice stayed light. "I'm good with kids. Speaking of
which... Lizzie, please don't feed the dog. He shouldn't eat people food."

"But he likes it."

"Do I need to put Aja
and Rhodo out?"

The littie girl pouted, but
she shook her head.

"Thank you," Marian
said gently. Catching the amusement in John's gaze, she rolled her eyes.
"Maybe I'd make a good drill sergeant. What do you think?"

"There's not enough snap
in your voice."

"I can scream with the
best of 'em."

He swallowed the last of his
toast. "Since we're back to the subject of your talents... Tell me, did
you make that quilt in your bedroom?"

Her cheeks warmed, as though
the mention of her bedroom held enough intimacy to make her self-conscious.
Nodding, she said, "I'll have you know, it took me about ten years, at one
square a year. Worse than having a baby."

"It's beautiful."
He lifted his voice. "Emma, if you're done, why don't you go collect your
things?"

"I'm done, too,"
Lizzie announced.

"Me, too," Jesse
said.

"Done," Anna
agreed, then stood precariously in her high chair. Only John heard Marian's
faint sigh. As she rescued her daughter and began washing hands and sticky
faces, John started carrying dirty dishes to the sink. He glanced around the
kitchen, astonished not to see a dishwasher; but something told him that Marian
wouldn't appreciate comment on the fact. After going back for another pile, he
started rinsing plates off.

Marian looked up, startled.
"Oh, you don't have to…

"I don't like to stand
around," he said, his tone not allowing for argument. A minute later he
began running soapy water into the sink.

The children all vanished
into the living room, where they happily squabbled over who got what coloring
book. Marian carried the last dishes in. "Please, you don't need
to..." When he frowned, she stopped, then cleared her throat.
"Uh...do you know how?”

John grinned. "Do I
detect a little sex stereotyping here?"

An enchanting pair of dimples
appeared when she laughed. "Let's just say it's a first for me."

"Hey, I'm a prince among
men," he said loftily, wanting very badly to capture the vivacity on her
face, to hear that delicious chuckle again. But it appeared he'd failed,
because her smile slowly faded. "Did I say something wrong?" he
asked.

She worried at her soft lower
lip as her dark eyes searched his. "Nothing, really. You just...oh,
reminded me of something." She turned away to reach for a dish towel and
added in what he guessed was meant to be an offhand tone, "Tell me, do all
men imagine themselves as a prince in disguise, sweeping a woman away?"

"Lord, no," he
said, hiding his shock. Because, damn it, he'd just discovered that that's
exactly what he'd like to be. Her prince. The ogres he wanted to sweep her away
from were dirty dishes and other people's children, bills he doubted she could
pay, and worries she pretended not to have.

He did his best to keep his
face impassive as he added, "But you remind me of an offer I do want to
make you."

Reaching for a clean plate,
she said warily, "An offer?"

"It's about Snowball.
Instead of buying him, I'd like to board him for you. No charge." He
lifted a hand as she started to interrupt. "No, let me finish. I have
twenty-five horses already. We wouldn't even notice the addition of one
pint-size one. You could bring your kids to ride him anytime. While he's with
us, Emma would have the privilege of riding him. That way, we'd both get what
we want. I wouldn't have to buy a pony that Emma would outgrow in just a couple
of years, and you'd be able to hold on to Snowball. And I could be talked into
the goat with the same arrangement."