Bright Hopes. Pat Warren
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wasn’t really spying, Patrick told himself as he placed Pam’s file on the principal’s desk. It was protecting.
Digging in the pocket of his jeans for his keys, Patrick left the office whistling.
* * *
A RAINBOW. Pam Casals glanced to the right as she drove along the country road, and smiled. Slowing, she pulled to a stop by a wooden fence bordering pastureland. Shifting into park, she slid out of her sporty white convertible and went to lean on the weathered fence.
It had been raining that morning when she set out from Chicago, a light drizzling summer rain. Wisconsin being north of Illinois, it wasn’t quite as warm here. Fall would be along all too soon.
The rainbow shimmered in the sky, where the last of the clouds were moving off to the east. Rainbows were a sign of good luck—Pam remembered reading that somewhere. She certainly hoped so. It was time for a bit of luck.
On an impulse, she made a wish. “I wish that I might find happiness in Tyler,” she said aloud.
A small herd of cows grazing nearby, brown shapes on a field of still-damp green grass, didn’t even glance her way. She breathed in deeply, air so fresh it almost hurt to inhale. No automobile fumes, no pollution or even smoke. On the drive she’d passed dairy farms, many with large wooden barns, as well as cornfields, orchards and several horse farms. She’d taken the scenic route instead of the highway, enjoying the twisting rural roads and the lakes tucked in among rolling green hills. The clean country atmosphere was a welcome change from the city she’d left behind.
She’d left a lot of things behind, or so she hoped. Pain and confusion and doubt. Frustration and anger and broken dreams. And a shattered love affair. A few good things, too, like her father, Julian Casals, still living in the family home in a suburb of Chicago. And her two married brothers, Don and Ramon, who’d taught her so much more than football.
Pam swung around, leaning her elbows on the fence. She was only a short distance from Tyler, and she hoped there were more two-lane roads like this one around. It was a perfect place to run—smooth blacktop, very little traffic. And run she must, while she could. For her health and her mental well-being and the sheer, physical pleasure of it.
A low-throated bark drew her attention to her car, and she grinned. Her old, white, long-haired English sheepdog sat in the back seat, his head cocked in her direction, his pink tongue hanging low. “All right, Samson,” she said, slipping behind the wheel again. “I know you’re impatient to get going.” With another glance at the rainbow, Pam shifted into drive. “I’m anxious to check out our new home, too.”
Flipping on the radio as she pulled away, she heard Willie Nelson’s unmistakable voice ring out. “On the road again...”
Pam glanced back at Samson, whose ears were blowing in the breeze. “That’s us, pal. On the road again.” Laughing for no apparent reason except a sudden happy sense of anticipation, she headed for Tyler.
* * *
IT WAS EXACTLY two o’clock when she arrived in the middle of town. There was a central square—an open, grassy area with huge old oak trees and well-maintained flower beds. The downtown business section consisted of a few blocks of two-story brick buildings, predictably lining Main Street. The small-town atmosphere pleased Pam as she pulled up in front of the post office. High on its pole, the flag rippled in the wind, but the building had a Saturday-afternoon-deserted look. Stretching, she got out of the car.
According to the map Rosemary Dusold had sent her, she was only a couple of blocks from her friend’s house. But there was no time like the present to get oriented. Across the way, she spotted the Tyler library and the brick town hall. On the opposite corner was a beauty shop, the sign heralding it as the Hair Affair. Cute, Pam thought.
Around a corner, she saw a sign for Marge’s Diner. She patted Samson’s shaggy head. “I’ll be right back, fella,” she said as she headed for the square.
A bank on another corner featured a tower clock. The usual array of grocery store, drugstore, cleaners and so on filled out that side of the block. She walked on.
A couple of older ladies seated on a park bench smiled up at Pam as she approached, giving her a feeling of friendly welcome. A handful of youngsters were playing tag on the far side. In the center of the green, she spotted several adults involved in a loosely organized game of touch football. Her interest heightened, Pam stepped closer.
Watching took her back in time to her early teens, when she and her father and two brothers would spend many an autumn afternoon tossing the pigskin. Soon, playing catch hadn’t been enough for Pam, so she’d organized a group of neighbors and divided them into two teams. Then she’d mapped out strategies for her side, trying to make up for her size by outwitting the opponents. Much to her brothers’ surprise, her maneuvers worked more often than they failed. Their respect had spurred her on to try even harder.
She’d already been running then, her dreams focusing on the future Olympics. But her love of football had never died. She’d learned the game first by playing, then by watching the college teams on television, as well as the pros. Fun times, Pam thought. Times that had bonded their small family closer after the devastation of her mother’s early death. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her white slacks, she leaned against a tree.
There was one big guy, a solid wall of muscle, who wasn’t much on speed but nearly impossible to get past due to his size. She noticed a woman about her age with dark hair, a tall rugged outdoor-type man with black curly hair and, to Pam’s surprise, her friend and new roommate, Rosemary Dusold, leaping high to catch a pass, her blond ponytail bobbing. Smiling, Pam stepped out of the shade, hoping Rosemary would notice her.
As she stood on the edge of the green, she saw a wild throw coming her way. No player was out this far. Forgetting herself, she ran a few steps, jumped up and caught the ball. Acting instinctively, Pam began to run toward the makeshift goal line, hotly pursued by two or three players she heard running behind her.
Exhilarated, the ball tucked close to her body, she picked up speed. Almost there, she thought. Then she felt the hit. Strong arms settled around her waist, sliding lower to her knees, taking her down. Her tackler rolled, cushioning the fall with his lean, hard body, letting her land on him rather than on the unforgiving ground.
“Touchdown!” someone called out from behind as thundering feet arrived.
“She fell short,” yelled a dissident.
Still clutching the ball, Pam eased from the grip that held her and scrambled to her feet. Her opponent rose, too, and she found herself looking up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Unexpectedly, her heart missed a beat and she found herself swallowing on a dry throat.
He was several inches over six feet, with curly black hair falling onto a lean face etched with laugh lines at the corners of those incredible eyes. He smiled then, his features softening as he reached out to brush leaves and grass from her shoulder. Pam’s reaction to his light touch was on a parallel with the way she’d felt when her gaze had locked with his. Dizzying. She took a step backward.
“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” he said. She was lovely, with warm brown eyes and skin the color of a pale peach. Who was she? Patrick wondered.
“No, I’m fine.”
She had on baggy white slacks and a comfortably faded green-and-white Jets football jersey with the number 12 on the back. “I see you’re a Joe Namath fan.”
“I was.” She couldn’t seem to stop staring into his eyes.
Strangers in Tyler—especially strangers who joined in impromptu games—were uncommon. There was something familiar about her, Patrick thought, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. “That was a great catch.”
“Thanks,” Pam said, giving him the football.
“I’m Patrick Kelsey.” He offered his hand.
Politely she slid her own hand into