Their voices carried easily over the open space. “How am I supposed to launch a rocket if you don’t throw me a strike?”
I smothered my laugh with my hand. “Just throw it back,” the mom called.
I watched her pitch one more, this one sailing right over the center of the plate. It was the perfect sweet spot, and the little kid took advantage. Thwack! His bat connected with the center of the ball and sent it sailing to the outfield as he raced around the bases. This place just might be alright.
I opened the back door of my truck and took out my bag before heading inside to check-in.
The large porch creaked beneath my shoes, and thuds echoed in the empty space. Warm light greeted me from the windowpanes in the door before I opened it. A deep groan escaped past my lips when I walked in. Something sweet with a hint of cinnamon was filling the air. My mouth watered, and I wanted to trail the scent until I found the source.
“Hey there.” A woman rounded the corner with a platter in her hands. My stomach grumbled loudly enough for her to hear. She chuckled, the laugh lines on her cheeks deepening. Her dark hair, with a few strands of gray, was swept back from her face and held together by a clip at the back of her head. I immediately knew she must’ve been the one to come up with the family slogan on the side. She looked like the mother that would wrap up all the neighborhood kids in a hug and feed them before sending them back out on their bikes. And, in that way, she reminded me of my mom. “Want one?” She held out the plate of cookies.
My hand reached out before I nodded, and I snagged a large, perfectly round, and perfectly golden snickerdoodle cookie topped with a chocolate peanut butter cup. I stuck half the cookie in my mouth and bit down. “Damn,” I whispered. “That’s good.”
“Thank you.” She set the plate on the front desk. “Are you checking in? Do you have a reservation?”
I nodded and glanced at the pile of cookies again.
“You can have another,” she said.
I smirked a little guiltily and looked away from the cookies to meet her gaze. She was smiling widely. I plucked two from the plate. “Your cookies are fantastic.”
“My daughter made them. She’s the chef here.” She stood a little taller with each word. I nodded.
“She’s a master. My reservation is under Gentry. Gunner Gentry.”
“I swear I’ve heard that name before,” she said as she typed on the sleek laptop in front of her. I didn’t respond. I was recognized by baseball fans, even if they weren’t fans of the team I played for, but I never outright told someone who I was. In the summers, when I wore short sleeves, my burned arm—something reporters harped on—was a dead giveaway, but now that the season was cooling the temperature, I stayed in long sleeves. “Are you from around here?”
“I am. Mom’s still here, but I haven’t lived in the area for a long time.”
“That must be it,” she said and snapped her fingers as she shot me a smile. “I found you. A single-cabin rental for four months? Is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I slid my card across the desk. She swiped it through the machine and handed it back to me with a set of keys. A real key, not a card with a magnetic strip. It wasn’t anything I was used to, and I spent half of my year on the road and in hotel rooms.
“For a long-term rental, our cleaning staff cleans three times a week instead of every day, but if you need more of something, just holler and we’ll pop right over. I put you in one of the last cabins for some seclusion. Is that alright?” She had a hand propped on her hip, and her smile hadn’t dimmed even slightly. A small-town Texas twang had made an appearance with a few of her words. As she snagged a white paper sack from beneath the desk and loaded in a few cookies for me, showcasing her hospitality, it sank in even more. I was home.
“It’s great.”
“It’s at the end of the trail, so it’s a short walk, or I can drive you in one of the golf carts. If you need us to pick you up in the morning and take you to your car or the restaurant on-site, just call and we’ll swing by to get you.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine walking, but thank you.”
“I’m Gayle. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks. Night, Gayle.”
I walked out into the night. Within the few minutes I’d been inside, the sun had set, and trail lights now lit the way. My mom had plans to meet me here tomorrow, and I would finally be able to drag the reason she’d wanted me to come home out of her. She’d talked to me about it as the season had wrapped up and I’d started talking about my plans for the off-season, but she’d been vague. She’d said it was important, but I wondered if she just thought it was time to face Hawk Valley.
Chapter 2
Delilah
My gut churned and I scratched out the words I’d just written before I’d thrown the pen onto the desk. I’d started this letter journal just in case Shayla got clean, came home, and wanted to be a mom to Tucker. I started writing letters to her the day we brought Tucker home from the hospital, which was the same day she skipped town.
I wanted to record every little gurgle, sigh, and smile Tuck made. I didn’t want her to miss any of it, so I wrote it all down in detail. As time went on, the letters got a little snippy. How could she leave Tuck behind? How could she leave this precious boy?
The first time he called me Mama was when I wrote my first truly angry letter. I didn’t want her to come back. I wanted her to stay far away from Tuck and me. I raised him. He’s my son. I don’t care if I didn’t carry him; I’ve been there for every day of his life. Hell, every hour. Every minute. Every second.
I bandaged up every booboo. I sat in the principal’s office with embarrassed red cheeks after I got a call about him biting a boy in kindergarten. It was me who potty trained him and got sprayed when I changed his diapers. Every late night, every scare, every laugh. All of it. They’re mine. He’s mine.
She hadn’t been around for eight years, while I sacrificed and worked my way through culinary school with a baby. And now she wanted to come back?
Her handwritten note, on greasy, food-stained paper, was filled with threats. The first paragraph stated she wanted to come home and be in her son’s life. And why? After all this time? After eight years? What had prompted this change in her? My heart dropped to the floor and tears sprang to my eyes. As I read on, my cheeks flamed with anger and my heart rate increased along with my irritation.
Somewhere along the way she went from zero to sixty in a nanosecond. She threatened to take him in the middle of the night if I didn’t meet her demands. She promised she’d see me in court if I didn’t give her access. And she swore, no matter what, I’d never see him again.
“It will be over my dead body that you ever see my boy again.”
I read that line over and over, consumed with fear over the very thought of missing anything in his life. The rational and logical part of me that knew no judge would grant her custody had fled the building, and in its place was every irrational and anxious thought.
I grabbed the pen, flipped to a new blank page, and scrawled the words as I batted away tears with my other hand.