Medicine Man's Affair Page 4

  “That’s not an answer,” Marilyn said.

  Jennifer stirred her coffee with more vigor than was necessary. “I had lunch with Lee Youngson yesterday,” she said casually.

  Marilyn was instantly alert. “That ballplayer? The Indian who just came to the Freedom this year?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Marilyn nodded slowly. “I saw him on the news when he signed his contract. He looked like Atahualpa come to life, all gleaming teeth and magnificent bone structure. Is he that picturesque in person, too?”

  “More so.”

  Marilyn’s hand froze in the act of reaching for the sugar bowl. “Oh-oh. I don’t like this. You’ve got that Bob Delaney look on your face again, Jen, and you know what that means.”

  “I know what that means,” Jennifer repeated miserably.

  “Did anything happen?” Marilyn asked, worried.

  “Oh, no, of course not, I just met the man. But he’s going to be around all year, and I have a feeling I’m in for a long siege.”

  Marilyn filled a teaspoon with sugar and then sifted some of it back into the bowl before adding the rest to her cup. “Has he asked you out yet?”

  “No. I thought that he was on the verge of doing so yesterday, but he seemed to decide against it.”

  “Uh-huh. You’re sure you weren’t giving off negative vibrations at the time?”

  Jennifer thought back to the scene when Lee had left her, the two of them unable to say anything intelligent, unable to part, either. “No, I would say that the vibes were very positive.”

  “Then,” Marilyn supplied. “But what about the rest of the day?”

  “Well, I did give him a bit of a hard time at lunch,” Jennifer admitted.

  “I’ll bet you did,” Marilyn said. “Can you wonder that the poor guy is confused?”

  “The poor guy,’ as you put it, is probably working on the third edition of his little black book right now, and is hardly lamenting his lack of success with me. Judging by the reaction of Dolores and the other women I’ve seen in his presence, they drop like flies at an encouraging word.”

  Marilyn nodded sagely. “It seems to me I’ve heard this song before,” she said. “As I recall, you said the same thing about Bob Delaney.”

  Jennifer drained the last of her coffee. “You’re right. I can’t fall into that trap again.”

  “Take it one step at a time,” Marilyn advised, standing and turning on the oven to preheat it for the roast. “If he’s interested, he’ll let you know.”

  “If he’s interested! I don’t know if I’m interested.”

  Marilyn favored her with a knowing look. “Ask me. I’ll tell you. It’s written all over your face.”

  Jennifer said nothing.

  “Be careful, Jen,” Marilyn said seriously. “Don’t set yourself up for another fall.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jennifer said. “I won’t.”

  She meant it.

  * * * *

  Jennifer buried herself in her work for the next two weeks, and successfully kept Lee Youngson out of her mind. She was flicking through the channels once on television, stopped short when she saw him being interviewed by a local sportscaster, and then forced herself to switch to another show.

  The Friday afternoon before the benefit game, Jennifer drove out to Westminster State College, where the Freedom had its summer camp, with a stack of papers for some of the players to sign. They had to be in the house mail on Monday morning, and the athletes were notoriously unreliable about getting things in on time, so Jennifer decided not to take any chances. She set out for the school right after lunch.

  It was a beautiful drive along the Philadelphia main line, and Jennifer enjoyed the scenery and the colonial landmarks along the way. It wasn’t long before she was pulling into one of the parking lots, scanning the practice field unconsciously for a glimpse of Lee. Her car made a curious whining sound as the motor died, and she frowned in momentary concern, but was too preoccupied with the business at hand to give it much thought.

  Jennifer walked out to the bleachers and asked one of the assistant coaches how long it would be before the team took a break. He looked at his watch and guessed about ten minutes. She sat on the bottom step and prepared to wait. They were currently on the system of “two a day,” which meant a practice from nine to eleven, a break until one, and then another practice in the afternoon. She would have to stick around until they paused in the middle of the second session. Nothing, short of a bomb falling, was permitted to interrupt the work at hand.

  She was the only woman in sight. Usually her appearance occasioned a few wolf whistles and catcalls, but the players were too absorbed in their practice to notice her arrival. She sat quietly and watched the various drills going on, which included her favorite, the “stomp” drill. During this exercise the team members ran in place as fast as possible, drumming their feet on the ground, and never failed to remind her of a crowd of oversized babies having a simultaneous tantrum.

  After a few minutes they split up, and Jennifer spotted Lee sprinting to the backfield with the quarterback, Joe Thornridge, a lanky kid two years out of Auburn. Joe was known as “Thunderbolt Thornridge” for the speed and accuracy of his passes. Lee was his favorite target, and as Jennifer watched the two men working out together, it was easy to see why. They moved with the intricate, perfectly timed synchronization of a Swiss watch. Again and again Lee took off down the field, and Joe rolled back, arm cocked behind his head, and fired off a pass that dropped into Lee’s waiting hands as if it were an apple falling off a tree. They made it look so easy, but Jennifer knew it wasn’t. These two would not be collecting the paychecks they were if everybody could do it.

  Lee was wearing the bottom part of an old uniform, complete with pads, and an ancient, ragged T-shirt, dampened now under the arms and in the hollow of his back from his exertions. Jennifer found herself wishing that he would take it off, and then shook her head, angry with herself. That sort of thinking was guaranteed to get her nowhere, fast.

  When the head coach blew his whistle and the team members filed slowly off the field, Jennifer opened her briefcase and took out the documents that needed signatures. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lee take a dipper of water from the container on the bench, swish it around in his mouth, and then spit it out. He stretched his arms over his head, the muscles flexing across his back under the clinging shirt. Deliberately, she turned her head.

  She managed to find all but one of the players she needed to see. Roy O’Grady told her that the missing man had been taken to a specialist for an examination for a possible torn ligament, but would be back by the end of the practice. Frustrated, Jennifer realized that she would have to hang around until the man returned. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to sit in the stands like some gawking groupie and watch Lee Youngson perform. She decided to take a drive and return when the time was right to see the last player and finish the job.

  This idea was abandoned when she couldn’t get her car to start All she heard when she turned the ignition key was an ominous grinding noise.

  Sighing, she walked back to the field and asked where there was a phone that she might use. She was directed inside the administration building of the college, where there was a pay phone in the lobby.

  Jennifer had no idea which garage to call, since the one she usually used was twenty miles away, and she was not familiar with any in Westminster. There was a telephone book attached to the booth by a chain, and she picked a name out of the yellow pages, dialing with one hand and searching for her VISA card with the other. She had exactly fifteen dollars in cash and the strong feeling that it wouldn’t be enough to cover a fraction of what this would cost her.

  It took her three tries before she could get a garage to send a mechanic out to her location, and then she waited thirty minutes for him to arrive.

  The person who finally showed up looked as though he should be incarcerated in a home for wayward boys. A pimply teenager in filt
hy overalls with a two days’ growth of scraggly beard, he took a bigger interest in Jennifer than in the state of her malfunctioning car. He stared at her legs while she tried to explain what had happened, and then stuck his head under the hood and poked a few things with a selection of greasy tools he had brought with him. Jennifer stood anxiously nearby, wondering how long this was going to take.

  He straightened and turned to face her. “Lady, this car has got to be towed. We can send somebody out for it later, and I can give you a ride back to the station in the truck.”

  That suggestion had little to recommend it The truck wasn’t in much better shape than its driver, and an excursion in the country with this lecherous adolescent wasn’t exactly what Jennifer had in mind. She was hesitating, trying to decide what to do, when she heard voices behind her.

  The practice had broken up, and the players were heading out to their cars. She saw Lee, walking in a group of three, talking to a husky guy at his side who was gesturing in the air, obviously delivering a punch line. Lee laughed, and turned his head, catching sight of Jennifer. He stopped, and she saw him say something to his companions, who then followed his progress towards Jennifer with their eyes.

  Lee took in the scene at a glance. “Hi, Jen,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  Jennifer was ashamed of how glad she was to see him. She had thought she was long past the point where she had to depend on a man to solve her problems, but Lee as an alternative to Greasy George was a no-choice situation. Lee would help her.

  “My car broke down, and the garage sent this man to take a look at it.”

  Lee took his wallet out of his pocket and handed the boy a folded bill before Jennifer could protest “Thanks for coming out,” he said. “I’ll take care of this now.”

  The boy shrugged and shambled off toward his truck. Lee turned his attention to Jennifer.

  “How’ve you been, paleface?” he asked, slamming the hood of her car. “Aside from this encounter with Tony’s Garage, that is.”

  “I wonder if that was Tony,” Jennifer said. “He doesn’t look old enough to drive.”

  “Or clean enough,” Lee added, and Jennifer smiled.

  “That’s better,” Lee said. “Now let’s see what we can do about this car.”

  He was pulling his own keys from his pocket when a black Corvette cruised past with two of Lee’s teammates in the front seat.

  “Look out, Chief,” one of them yelled.

  The other whistled shrilly and gave Lee the high sign, cackling madly. Then the driver honked the horn and the car sped away on screeching tires.

  Lee shook his head, and Jennifer could have sworn there was a faint tinge of red sweeping up his neck under that dusky skin. “Those guys,” he said. “I keep hoping they’ll grow up, but they keep disappointing me.”

  “Why do they call you ‘Chief’?”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Because I’m Norwegian, Jennifer.”

  Jennifer swallowed and tried again. It had come out wrong, the way everything always seemed to when she tried to talk to him.

  “I meant, why do you let them call you that? I would have thought you wouldn’t like it.”

  He glanced at her curiously. “Why wouldn’t I like it? They’re my friends. I’m not some hypersensitive loony with a chip on my shoulder, Jennifer. It only bothers me when I think somebody is trying to put me down because I’m an Indian.”

  “The way you thought I was when we first met,” Jennifer said, before she considered it Then she bit her lip. She hadn’t wanted to remind him of that.

  But he only smiled slightly. “That’s right.” He lounged back against the door of her car and folded his arms. “But now you can call me Chingachgook or Running Water for all I care.”

  Jennifer laughed, and he leaned forward to tilt her chin up with a long, brown forefinger. “Just as long as you call me.”

  She sobered and stared into his searching, depthless eyes. The shouting and horseplay of the departing players faded into the background, and it was as if they were alone in the parking lot She wanted to kiss him, had to restrain herself from doing so then and there, with all of his teammates milling around them. And he knew it His eyes became heavy lidded, slumberous, and his lips parted, as if in anticipation of a caress.

  “Hey, Chief, you posin’ for a statue?”

  The voice rang out behind them, and they sprang apart guiltily, as if caught in some misdeed. The Freedom’s quarterback sauntered up to them, grinning widely.

  “Jennifer, I’d like you to meet Joe Thornridge, my bodyguard,” Lee said sarcastically. “He substitutes for my mother when she isn’t available to keep an eye on me. Joe, Jennifer Gardiner.”

  Joe stuck his hand out to Jennifer, whose small one was lost in his huge, meaty palm. “How do, ma’am?” Joe said in a thick Southern accent. “I’ve seen you at the offices. Pretty hard to miss, I’d say. And I met your secretary, Dolores.”

  I’ll bet you did, Jennifer thought with amusement.

  “You better watch out for the Chief, here, little lady,” Joe said warningly. “He’s got all those fancy moves, ya know? If you need anybody to take over for him, somebody a little safer, say a Southern gentleman, you just let me know.”

  Jennifer smiled. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “I think your wife is calling you, Joe,” Lee said.

  Joe sent Lee a wounded look.

  “Scram, kid,” Lee said.

  Joe slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and ambled off, caroling, “Remember what I said,” back to Jennifer.

  “I’ll remember,” she answered.

  “I’d forget, if I were you,” Lee said darkly. “He’s got two kids already and a pregnant wife.”

  Jennifer glanced at him, amazed. He was only half kidding. Could he possibly be jealous? Joe had only indulged in some good-natured teasing. There was no reason for Lee’s testy reaction.

  They were alone in the lot now; the last of the men had left when Joe did.

  “Well, I guess we’d better see about this car,” Lee announced and turned to walk around it. His legs suddenly buckled under him and Jennifer had to rush to catch him, to keep him from falling to the ground.

  Despite his slim appearance, he was quite heavy, and she staggered under his weight. He clutched at her, and she eased him against the rear fender of her car.

  “That’s one of my fancier moves,” he grunted. “Trick knee, it gives out on me at the damndest times.”

  He was speaking directly into her ear, draped over her for support As she stepped back, he held her, pulling her into his arms.

  This was their first real physical contact, and it completely unraveled Jennifer. His body was lean, hard, and totally male. He ran his hands down her arms and across her back, molding her to him. She resisted the strong impulse to cling and refused to allow herself to melt into him. When he saw that she was not going to cooperate, he released her, and she moved away from him, flustered.

  “Are you all right now?” she asked faintly.

  “I was better a minute ago,” he answered, referring to their impromptu embrace.

  Jennifer wouldn’t discuss it. As far as she was concerned, it had been a mistake.

  “What causes that to happen?” she asked, moving to lock the doors of her car.

  He had no choice but to follow. “I’ve had three operations on that knee in five years,” he replied. “At this point, it’s held together with chewing gum. I just have to move the wrong way, and it collapses.”

  “Does it give way during games?” she asked.

  “Sure does,” he answered. “Especially since the other team knows it’s a weak point and aims straight at it That’s why there are always a lot of clipping fouls against me.”

  “Clipping?”

  He demonstrated. “When someone is going to tackle you, he comes in like this,” he said, lowering his head and aiming for her legs. “But if he catches you in the back of the knees, it’s a violation, cal
led clipping.” He made a chopping motion, as she had seen referees do during games. “With me, they’re always trying to nail that bad knee, and yet keep it legal at the same time, which is very hard to do.”

  Jennifer absorbed this in silence. My God, he was going into each game just waiting for a bunch of gorillas to launch themselves at him, like a human target on a firing range. Up to this point, she hadn’t thought of football players as especially courageous, but it took guts to do what he did every week of the season.

  He read her expression. “Don’t worry, paleface.

  You’re looking at one tough Injun. My people survived massacres, disease, westward expansion, and the reservation system. The NFL isn’t going to do me in.”

  Jennifer rolled up the last window and slammed the door. “What do you suggest doing about this?” she asked, jerking her thumb at the car.

  “I’ll give you a ride, and I’ll call my garage in Yardley to come and get it.”

  “Will they come so far?”

  He smiled grimly. “For me they will. I just spent a small fortune there on my wheels. They’d better not say no.”

  He opened the passenger door of his car for Jennifer and leaned in past her to shift some papers off the seat. His nearness set her pulse racing again. She waited until he got in beside her and said, to cover her nervousness, “What type of Indian are you?”

  He arched an eyebrow at her, starting the car. “Type?”

  Why did she always say the wrong thing? “Tribe, clan, I guess I don’t know the right word.”

  “Blackfoot,” he said. “It’s part of the Algonquian nation.”

  Ah, yes. She remembered that the sportswriters sometimes referred to him as the “Blackfoot Bullet.” Also the “Cawassa Comet.” They were very fond of tag lines.

  “What does Cawassa mean?” she asked.

  “It’s the town in Montana where I was born, on the reservation, about three miles northwest of Browning.”

  “What language is that?”

  “Pikuni. It’s a dialect of Ojibwa, spoken by the Blackfeet in that region, in the Northwest, and in Canada in the area of Lake Superior.”