Scrimmage Gone South (Crimson Romance) Read online

  Scrimmage Gone South

  Alicia Hunter Pace, author of Sweet Gone South

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Jean Hovey and Stephanie Jones

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-6263-6

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6263-1

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-6264-4

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6264-8

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 123rf.com; istockphoto.com/Anne Baek Pedersen

  To Jack Duffey, the football hero of my heart. — J.P.H.

  To my daddy, the man who first taught me to love football. — S.L.J.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  More From This Author

  Also Available

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to —

  Our fabulous plotting partners, Lynn Raye Harris and Janette Kenny, who made us “hurt them just a little bit more.”

  Keith Brown, Eric Malone, and Dwayne Sisk, who played high school and college ball. They also hurt their knees, lived in athletic dorms, and patiently relived it all for us.

  Jennifer Lawler and Jessica Verdi, who always make it a better book.

  Our readers who love Merritt and have said they can’t wait to go there again.

  Chapter One

  Tolly Lee parked her Mercedes in front of the house that was the shining star on a rundown street. She lifted the baked ham from her trunk and made sure the card that read, With Sympathy, Bragg and Lee, Attorneys at Law was firmly attached to the aluminum foil. For the life of her, Tolly could not understand what good a ham was going to do. She’d wanted to bring a gallon of martinis but her cousin’s wife, Missy Bragg, had said that would be in bad taste. The deceased, Eula Lawson, had been the biggest teetotaler to ever live and die in Merritt, Alabama. Everybody knew that.

  Well. Everybody seemed to always know a lot of things that Tolly didn’t.

  Eula’s marigolds hadn’t gotten the news that it was October. They framed the neat little shingled house as if they had the most important job in the world.

  The front door was standing open so Tolly balanced the ham on her hip and let herself in the screen door. The tiny living room was choking with people.

  “Right through here, honey.” A plump woman wearing an apron, who was obviously in charge of people bearing food, led her down a short hallway to a neat utilitarian kitchen. “Now, do we need to put your name on your plate so we can get it back to you?” She took the ham but Tolly couldn’t imagine where she was going to put it. The counters and table were already filled with cakes, pies, deviled eggs, and casseroles.

  “No. It’s in a disposable pan.” There were a half dozen matronly women milling around, some who had clearly been crying.

  “That’s so thoughtful. Could we offer you some coffee? Or some iced tea?” The woman set the ham on the stovetop beside a platter of fried chicken.

  “No, thank you,” Tolly answered. “I am so sorry about Miss Eula. Was she related to you?”

  “Only by love,” the ringleader said, wiping her eyes with the edge of apron. “She was in our mission group at Wesley Methodist.”

  “Well. I am sorry.” What was she supposed to do now? If only Missy had come with her. Or Harris. They always knew what to do. But Harris was in court and Missy had to take three-year-old Beau to the doctor.

  One of the other women seemed to sense her discomfort and stepped forward. “You’re Tolly Lee, aren’t you? The lawyer that Kirby works for?”

  “Yes. Kirby started working for my cousin Harris and me last summer.” He was smart and good at his job, though lately he was only able to come in for an hour a day during his free period at school. She would be glad when football season was over.

  “He’s in the living room if you’d like to speak to him.”

  Yes. That was the thing to do. Speak to Kirby. After all, he was the reason she was here. As she exited the kitchen, Tolly heard one of the women say, “What is that boy going to do now that his grandmother is gone?”

  Good question, but not hers to answer. Kirby’s parents had been killed when he was two, and he had gone to live with his grandparents. Miss Eula’s husband had died a few years later and it had been just her and Kirby ever since.

  A wailing woman wearing an orange sweater two sizes too small dominated the sofa and, really, the whole living room. This must be the daughter from Ohio, Kirby’s aunt, and maybe, new guardian. A bored looking man dressed in a tank top and jeans sat to her right, drinking a beer. That would be her husband. The Methodist minister, Dr. James Carlyle, sat to the woman’s left, offering comfort. Tolly had written Dr. Carlyle’s will last year after he had a heart scare that turned out to be indigestion, which proved that tamales could be good for business. He met Tolly’s eye and inclined his head toward the back of the room. She looked over the sea of mostly gray heads and saw the shaggy dark haired one she was looking for.

  Kirby Lawson stood against the wall next to a console television, perfectly erect and perfectly alone. He wore pressed khakis, a blue oxford cloth shirt, and navy blue tie. At seventeen, he was poised beyond his years. Poise was a byproduct of grief, she supposed.

  “Kirby,” she said quietly.

  He swung his red rimmed eyes, which were the color of faded denim, to meet hers. They were wild with fear and grief. Eula had died unexpectedly while making a cake and Kirby had found her when he’d come home from football practice yesterday.

  “Oh, Miss Tolly! Hello. I won’t be able to come to work tomorrow. I hate to let you down. But the funeral — ”

  Tolly laid her hand on his arm. “Oh, honey. Of course, not. And don’t you even think about coming today either. Harris and I won’t be there tomorrow afternoon, anyway. We’re closing the office to come to your grandmother’s funer
al.”

  “You are?” His eyes filled but he quickly blinked the tears away and Tolly pretended not to notice.

  “Of course, we are. And Harris said to tell you he’d be here right now but he had to go to court. He’ll be by later.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I appreciate it.” He looked at the floor.

  What to say now? Tolly had never had anyone close to her die but she’d heard it was good to make the bereaved think of something happy. And Kirby Lawson was a good boy. He deserved to think of something happy.

  “Kirby, your grandmother was a wonderful woman. I bet there’s not a person in Merritt who hasn’t had her cake on at least one birthday.” Eula had baked special occasion cakes to supplement their income. Kirby had brought Eula’s famous red velvet cake to the office on Tolly’s birthday in June.

  Kirby grinned. “The McGowan twins.”

  “Pardon?” Tolly asked.

  “The McGowan twins. They never had her cake. Their birthday is in January, the same day as mine. Mrs. McGowan kept asking, but Granna always said she only baked one cake on that day and it was for me.” His grin became a full fledged smile, though it was a little sad around the edges. “To tell the truth, that suited me fine. I never liked them.”

  “Why, Kirby Lawson.” Tolly patted his hand and gave him the best smile she could come up with. And if anyone needed a little wink, Kirby did, so she supplied that too. “I believe that’s the first negative thing I’ve ever heard you say about anyone.”

  His smile faded and his mouth went hard. “I could fill your ear full of plenty of bad right now.” He looked toward the sofa where his aunt continued to wail and his uncle had opened another beer.

  “Go right ahead, honey. Say anything you need to and I won’t tell a soul. Even if it’s not fair. You don’t have to give out fair today.”

  “Well.” He inclined his head to her ear. “My aunt. She never hardly even called Granna. And now she’s acting like she doesn’t know how she’s going to keep living. It’s been like that ever since they got in from Ohio at four o’clock this morning. Plus my cousins Randy and Carlene didn’t even come. I guess they couldn’t be bothered.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tolly took his hand in hers.

  “And, Miss Tolly — ” He swallowed and this time didn’t try to hide his filling eyes.

  “What, baby? Tell me.”

  “Granna was fixing a cake for a baby shower. It was nearly done when she — ” He closed his eyes and tried to regain his composure.

  “Yes, Kirby. I’d heard that.”

  “And they — ” He cast a murderous look toward the sofa. “You won’t believe what they did. I came in here this morning and they were eating that cake. I took it from them and told them they had no manners and no feelings. I’m not their favorite person right now. Was that bad of me?” His face that had looked so much like a man’s a bare second ago was now a child’s.

  “Oh, honey. No.” Tolly held out her arms and he came into them. He had to bend over to lay his head against her shoulder.

  Tolly sensed that someone had walked up behind her. She felt a hand clamp around her upper arm, just above the elbow. She would have known that hand anywhere, even through the silk of her blouse, even after all this time. She tried to shake loose but the grip just got tighter. It was not a grip of affection.

  “Coach.” Kirby raised his head from Tolly’s shoulder and stepped out of her embrace.

  “Seven.”

  Seven. Ah, she had almost forgotten that football people often called each other by their jersey numbers. Would it have killed Nathan Scott to call Kirby by his name today, of all days? Harris and Nathan had played college ball together and they still occasionally called each other twelve and eighty-five — especially if they had a few beers in them.

  “You doing all right, son?” Nathan did not look at Tolly but neither did he loosen his death grip on her arm. She tried to free herself without attracting attention, but he only clamped down harder. Too bad they were in a house of bereavement. She’d bet everything she owned that he would let go if she bit him. Her jaws ached to make him bleed all over his white polo shirt. She could do it too, provided she didn’t break her teeth on his arm — which was a real possibility since he was as muscular as he’d been in his college playing days, when she had first met him. And he was just as good looking as he’d been then, probably more so. His straight caramel blond hair was variegated with white sun streaks and, suddenly, she remembered how silky it had felt. She tried to jerk away again and, though he still did not look at her, his jaw tightened right along with his hand.

  “I’m okay, Coach,” Kirby said. “Doing pretty good.” Did Kirby believe that? Did Nathan?

  “Yeah? That’s good.” Apparently Nathan did believe him. Wasn’t that just like a man? Asked and answered, move on.

  “Coach, do you know Miss Tolly?”

  “Oh, yeah, Seven. I know Miss Tolly.” Nathan employed the tactic they’d both used since his arrival in town last January. Though they often found themselves in social situations together, they never spoke one word directly to each other. They both liked it that way, so why wouldn’t he let go of her? She tried again, and failed, to break away. What the hell? Clearly, he didn’t want her to get away, but why? All they had done since landing in the same town was walk away from each other. Crap almighty, she should have never moved to Merritt after graduating law school, and she wouldn’t have if there had been any indication that Nathan would ever return to his hometown. But Missy was from here, and Harris had followed her. Four years later, she had followed Harris to practice with him. And here she was.

  No one ever noticed the iciness between her and Nathan because they spoke at and around each other and no one, not even Harris, had any idea they had ever met before Nathan moved back to Merritt. Last summer, when they’d been goaded into dancing together at Luke and Lanie Avery’s wedding, they’d brought down the house but they’d not broken the icy crystal silence. And that’s how Tolly liked it.

  Tolly drew Kirby into her gaze and smiled and nodded.

  “I’ll be at practice this afternoon, Coach,” Kirby said.

  “Yeah?” At least Nathan had the good grace to frown a little. “Is that what you want to do?”

  Kirby looked across the room to where his aunt had launched herself into the arms of one of the kitchen ladies.

  “Yes, sir. That’s what I want.”

  Nathan’s brown eyes followed the path that Kirby’s had blazed and then looked back at Kirby. “All right, then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You need anything, Seven? Anything I can do for you? Short of committing murder, that is.” Nathan glanced at the aunt again.

  “No, sir.” A little smile played with Kirby’s mouth.

  “Then we are going to go now.” Nathan increased the pressure on Tolly’s arm, just in case she didn’t know what we meant.

  “Kirby, honey,” Tolly said, “call me if you need anything. Or if you just want to talk. I mean it. Call me at the office or at home.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I appreciate it.”

  “Bye, Seven.”

  And before Tolly could speak another word, Nathan propelled her in front of him and drove her through the crowd like she was a trolling motor on a bass boat.

  Once on the front porch, she spoke the first words she’d said to him in over a decade — thirteen years to be exact, almost to the day.

  “Nathan, let me go!”

  And for the first time in as many years, he answered her. “Townshend, you are coming with me.”

  Townshend. She’d almost forgotten that he used to call her by her real name, not the baby name that four-year-old Harris had christened her with because he couldn’t say Townshend. No one, not even teachers, had ever called her anything but Tolly — no one but Nathan. He h
ad called her that because that was how she’d introduced herself that night so long ago when she’d wanted to be daring and do something unexpected, instead of being the eternal good girl.

  “Where do you think you’re taking me?” she demanded.

  “I don’t think anything. I know we’re going to sit in my truck and have a little chat.” He pulled her down the steps, none too slow and none too gently. She stumbled and he caught her.

  “Hey. Stilettos here,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “That’ll teach you to wear shoes that won’t take you where you need to go.”

  “I don’t need to go anywhere with you.”

  He stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. “The day is done when I care what you need. What you are going to do is march yourself over to my pickup truck and climb in. I’ve got some things to say to you.” He pointed down the block to where his big black truck was parked.

  So, finally, after all this time. She had half expected this when he had first moved back here to replace the recently fired Merritt High head football coach. But he’d remained silent and she’d relaxed — apparently too soon.

  “My car is closer,” she offered.

  “So it is.” He made to move her toward his truck but she planted her feet.

  She could refuse. A carload of Methodists had just pulled up and were unloading casserole dishes. Dr. Carlyle was emerging from the house. They would save her, even though she was Episcopalian. She was sure of it.

  “Townshend,” Nathan said. It was only then that she noticed just how far beyond angry he was — he was shaking livid. “Get your butt down that street and into my truck or I will make a scene that will get me fired and land us both in jail. I swear I will do it.”

  She believed him. And a scene was the last thing she wanted. Airing her dirty linen in public — especially this dirty linen — would be the worst thing in Bad City. If the people of Merritt found out what she’d done, what she had cost their hometown hero, life here would be over.

  But why the confrontation now? Until today, he’d seemed as eager as she to keep their past a secret. And why was he, all of a sudden, so mad? He’d been mad thirteen years ago, sure. But since, there had only been cold distance. Maybe it was the ham she’d brought that set him off. Maybe he thought pot roast was a more appropriate bereavement food. That made as much sense as anything.