The Baseball Card Boyfriend (Starrycard Creek Bachelors #3)
Chapter 3
13%
Chapter
Three
CHRISTIAN
Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!
Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!
“Hey!” he shouted, sprinting toward the pair. “You’ve got to get back! The train can’t stop!”
She didn’t acknowledge him. She probably couldn’t hear him over the blaring whistle and rumble of the approaching train. He took note of its location and speed. They had ninety seconds—maybe a little more, but not much to get the hell out of its path. He turned his attention to the trespassers. The woman was slight. Her halo of reddish-blond hair blew wildly in the wind. She’d dropped to her knees, bent over what looked like a skinny black lab. And Christ, the poor canine was in a tight spot. Trapped in a precarious downward dog position, with its head and neck pressed to the center of the track and its rear in the air, the animal was pinned to one of the wooden slats.
The train’s whistle screamed. There was no more time to think.
He had to act.
He shook the woman’s shoulder. She turned toward him, her hair whipping across her face, concealing her features.
He narrowed his gaze. Did he know her?
“Help me!” she called above the rhythmic clatter and the whooshing wind. “We can’t leave him on the tracks. He’s stuck.”
Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!
Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!
“Is this your dog?” he hollered.
“Can you help us?” she cried, her hair flying in all directions.
“Yeah, yes, of course.” He dropped to his knees beside her and examined the dog. The scrawny creature’s eyes were wide with fear and confusion as he struggled in vain.
“He keeps pulling,” the woman yelled. “I can’t get his collar off. It’s too tight, and I need him to let up and give me some slack to unfasten the buckle. But he’s scared. I can’t get him to calm down. His collar is caught on something. I can feel it. We’ve got to pull it out. I’ve been trying but can’t get it to budge.”
The animal whimpered and wiggled. They didn’t have time to earn its trust and get it to settle. Luckily, while the animal was anxious, it didn’t appear vicious.
“Easy, now,” he said to the pup.
He worked his hand beneath the trapped creature, and his fingers found the culprit: a bent nail. The rusty metal hooked around the collar like a curved finger. As a pro athlete, he’d been in plenty of clutch situations, but this was his first do-or-die scenario. Still, his body took over and followed the familiar steps.
Focus. Plan. Execute. Succeed.
The train’s whistle grew louder, but he blocked out the noise. He regulated his breathing, then leaned toward the woman so she could hear him over the roaring rumble and punishing winds. “Hold the dog. He’s stuck on a nail. I’ll pull it out. Once he’s free, I’ll get us off the tracks. Say you understand.”
She peered at the barreling train. “It’s so close!”
They had twenty seconds at best.
He got closer to her, his lips a breath away from her ear. “Forget about the train. Say you understand. Come on, we’re a team. We do this together. Every storm passes. Now, say you understand.”
“I understand,” she replied, her voice steady.
“Hold on to him!”
“Lucky,” she said as she encircled the creature.
“What?”
“It says Lucky on the collar. It must be his name.”
He got a glimpse of a tarnished gold plate on the leather collar. Sure enough, the unluckiest dog on the planet appeared to be named Lucky. “Okay, hold on to Lucky.” He slipped his right hand beneath the dog’s neck and pinched the rusty piece of iron. “I’ve got the nail,” he called as the seconds ticked away. He gave it a few tugs, but the damned thing wouldn’t budge. He required better leverage. He wrapped his left arm, his damaged arm, around the woman. Anchoring himself to her, he channeled every ounce of force into his right hand. Inhaling, he summoned his strength and heaved the metal upward. The train’s roar was now deafening, its vibrations shaking the ground beneath him.
“Every storm passes. Every storm passes,” she repeated over the thunderous sound.
While she’d only echoed what he’d said, hearing her say it triggered something inside of him—a reserve of strength, a well of resilience. With a swift, decisive motion, he pulled. And there it was. That little bit of movement, that oomph, that last bit of might—ever so slight, but the motion that tipped the scales. He dug deeper. “Come on,” he cried, pleading with the piece of old wood. And holy shit, the damned slat listened. The metal parted ways with the weathered board with a final, furious tug.
“He’s free,” he cried.
Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!
Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!
The woman scooped the pup into her arms. “I’ve got him!”
Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!
Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!
The train’s shadow loomed over them.
Christian tightened his hold on her, and she buried her head in the crook of his neck with the dog cradled in her arms.
It was time to fucking move.
The roar grew deafening. The earth quaked beneath their feet, each tremor a deafening, heart-pounding reminder of the train’s unstoppable power. The blaring horn reached an earsplitting crescendo. It reverberated through his body, shaking him to the core.
Toooot!
This was it.
With his heart pounding and muscles straining, he summoned every ounce of strength. He bolted to his feet and whisked them off the tracks. Like a lynx, he lunged back as the train thundered past, inches from where they stood. The lightning-sharp clackity-clack-clack crackled in his ears. The heat from the chugging engine whirled through the air. Gravel and dust scraped against his bare skin. He stumbled back a few more paces, his heart galloping in his chest, every nerve electrified. He turned his back to the tracks, shielding the woman and dog as his breath came in ragged gasps.
“We’re okay. We’re safe,” he said, relief infused into the words.
He rested his chin on the crown of her head and tightened his hold on the trespassers. This activity wasn’t what the doctors had in mind when they told him he could begin to use his left arm for everyday tasks, but he wasn’t in pain, and he sure as hell couldn’t— wouldn’t —let go. He continued back a few more paces, then dropped to his knees, allowing his legs to bear the brunt of the load. Taking his first even breath, he looked over his shoulder as the end of the freight train drew closer and spied another engine. It wasn’t surprising. To traverse the mountains, lines of boxcars were bookended by engines, the front engines pulling while the back pushed. A train operator craned his head out the window. Christian waved, and the man theatrically wiped his brow—providing the universal phew gesture.
Phew was right. Jesus, that was a close call. Had they waited another second—another half second—it would have been over for the three of them.
Christ, he’d almost died with a stranger and a stray dog on a railroad track.
But he didn’t. And the storm passed.
“Are we alive? Are we really, really alive? Like one hundred percent alive?” the woman stammered, her voice laced with panic.
He shifted the bulk of his companions’ weight to his right arm. “Yes, we’re okay. Just breathe. I’ve got you,” he said softly, holding her to his bare chest, feeling her lithe body tremble in his arms.
“I can’t open my eyes. They’re sealed shut. I can’t move. I’m frozen. I’m immobilized. I might be stuck like this permanently,” she rattled off, then, contrary to what she’d stated, she shifted slightly, brushing her bare arm against his exposed torso. “Um…sir?” she said meekly.
“Yeah?”
“Were you always shirtless?”
He couldn’t help but smile—and an ease he hadn’t known in ages radiated through his body. “Yes, on the shirtless part. But I don’t usually run around half-naked saving dogs and damsels in distress from runaway trains like some half-dressed romance book cover model. However, I do have some good news for you.”
“And what’s that?” she asked as the roar of the freight train became a distant thrum.
“You’re not completely immobilized. Your mouth appears to work,” he said as the howling winds followed the locomotive and the world stilled.
She chuckled. Her breath tickled his skin as she smiled against his neck. The sensation of her cheek muscles moving sent a ripple of heat through him, and his entire being became attuned to the nearness of her presence. She relaxed into his embrace, and time ceased to exist. In that quiet, relief-laden moment, nothing else mattered. It was just the two of them—well, the three of them, united by their profound connection. Thank God they’d survived. He closed his eyes and held her as gratitude washed over him—a gentle wave, soothing and all-encompassing. Damn, it felt good to feel something besides rage and clawing disappointment. He settled into the moment and inhaled notes of maple and cinnamon—her scent.
It was as if he’d rescued the goddess of fall and her skinny canine companion.
“We’re alive, and I can talk,” she said, continuing her adrenaline-fueled stream of conscious chatter. “That’s good. That’s probably the best outcome—being alive and not splattered across the tracks. Yikes, that’s quite a visual. And sorry about the verbal vomit fest. I did that with the queens, too.”
“Queens?” he repeated. He must have misheard her.
“Yep, queens. You see, I’m a nervous talker. I talk when I’m anxious. I guess that means the same thing. You get it, though, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, spellbound by the woman.
“And sometimes, I talk to myself,” she continued. “Okay, a lot of times I talk to myself. I’m alone quite a bit. So, heaps of solitude. But I’ll stop talking. Or maybe we could keep talking but change the subject. Or maybe my brain is about to explode, and I should reserve as much oxygen as possible and shut my trap, but I don’t think that’s how brains work, so there’s that.” She paused. “And—I must emphasize this—I can’t tell you how much I wish I could jam a giant slice of pie in my mouth to stop this stream of blathering. Oh my gosh, another jarring visual. And if you feel something sticky, I might have pie in my hair. But for the record, pie does make everything better.”
Damn, she could talk.
He lowered his head. “I agree with you about pie making everything better. I don’t detect anything sticky, but I smell cinnamon and…” He paused. “Maybe maple syrup?”
“Wow, you’ve got a good nose. I’m sort of covered in maple pumpkin pie. It’s one of the best pumpkin pie flavors, in my opinion. Top five, possibly top three. There are so many delicious ways to make a pumpkin pie that it’s hard to rank them. But it sounds like I just did. Okay, I’m closing my mouth.”
Her off-the-rails pie commentary was adorable, but it wasn’t all pie jabbering. He caught the part about her being alone. Her words struck a chord within him, awakening what felt a hell of a lot like a tiny fragment of his past self—the part that cared, the part that never gave up.
“You’re okay. You’re safe,” he said, rubbing lazy circles on her back. “You’re coming down from an adrenaline high. It can make you do strange things, feel strange things, see strange things?—”
“What about say strange things?”
“That, too. It’s a normal physiological reaction,” he answered, then gasped as something warm and moist tickled his side. “And when I mentioned feeling strange things, it’s like whatever’s going on against my ribs.”
“Oh, that’s licking, but it’s not me. I’m not a licker. Sorry, I am a licker—especially with whipped cream or ice cream, which are delicious served with pie or on top of pie. Pie à la mode. Oh my God! I don’t know what’s happening with my mouth. But I promise, I’m not licking you.”
He continued making slow circles to help her unwind. “Don’t worry. I never pegged you as the licker. You’re clearly too busy talking to get in any licking. How is Lucky? I assume he’s the culprit.”
She relaxed and laughed a light and airy sound. “This guy is quite a little lover. Let’s get a better look at you, Mr. Lucky.” She straightened slightly, and something—no, a couple of items—fell from her pocket. They tapped his leg, then hit the ground.
He started to look just as the dog’s coal-colored nose peeked out from beneath her curtain of tousled hair. “Hey, little guy,” he said, directing his attention to the jet-black animal’s soulful brown eyes.
She scratched behind his ears. “Are you okay, buddy? I don’t think you’re hurt. You don’t seem to be in pain. That was scary, wasn’t it? But you are such a brave, good boy,” she cooed.
Again, Christian couldn’t wipe the damn grin off his face. She had the kind of voice that tugged at something deep inside him. He could listen to this woman read the phonebook and deem it time well spent. He tried to get a look at his damsel, this enchanting stranger, but that curtain of strawberry-blond hair still hid her face. It seemed almost surreal that he couldn’t describe the appearance of the person he’d shared a life-or-death experience with, yet there was something thrilling about the mystery—an intriguing allure.
And speaking of allure…Lucky’s allure appeared to be his puppy-dog eyes and enthusiasm for tasting everything within range of his little pink tongue. Christian studied the canine train enthusiast as the dog went to town on his shoulder. Lucky resembled a lab mix. He had to be around thirty or thirty-five pounds. He wasn’t a puppy but didn’t seem fully grown, either.
Christian patted the dog. “He’s scrawny and could use a meal and a bath, but he’s?—”
“No worse for wear,” she said, her words matching and overlapping with his.
And holy hell, what was going on? Were they already finishing each other’s sentences?
She trembled in his arms.
Had she felt it, too?
“I can’t thank you enough for what you did. You saved me. You saved us,” she said softly.
She shifted in his lap. Turning into him, she raised her chin, and his pulse kicked up as her strawberry-blond locks parted. The fall sun lit her face, and his heart leaped into his throat.
No way!
He blinked, thinking the light was playing tricks on him, but it wasn’t. He was face-to-face with the woman he believed only lived in his dreams. He studied her features. Her cheeks glowed with a natural warmth, and her button nose gave her a subtle charm—just like in his dreams. Perhaps it was a trick of his subconscious, but in his dreams, he didn’t know her eye color. Still, something inside him knew if he had identified them in his slumber, they would have looked like this—a dazzling hazel, flecked with mesmerizing shades of greens and golds.
“It’s you. How can it be you?” he whispered, overwhelmed by the realization that his dream girl was right in front of him.
“How can it be you ?” she shrieked, wide-eyed. She bolted from his lap, moving so abruptly her elbow collided with his left eye.
And Christ, she had some power for such a tiny thing. His face ached, but the possibility of a black eye was the least of his concerns. His mystery woman clung to the dog, holding him close.
She took a step back. “I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t realize…” She peered at his chest. “I didn’t know you had a tattoo. Give what you love everything you’ve got,” she said, reading the words he’d had inked above his heart.
Words he’d been trying to forget.
She shook her head as if to order her jumbled thoughts. “What are you doing here?”
What was she up to?
He watched her closely. “I live here.”
“You live in Starrycard Creek. Everyone knows that. You’re Christian Starrycard.”
He frowned. This was getting stranger by the second. “Lady, you’re in Starrycard Creek.”
“No, I hadn’t arrived yet.”
Was she okay? Was he?
Perhaps the surge of adrenaline, mixed with the meds and alcohol in his system, had caused him to hallucinate. He caught a glint out of the corner of his eye. He peered at the ground and noticed a stone that wouldn’t be found out here by the tracks and a baseball card—his college card from RMU. These had to be the items that had fallen from her pocket, and his need to know who this woman was grew stronger by the minute.
The card was rare—only a limited quantity were printed. But the rock glinting in the sun next to it was the true mystery. He’d brushed a similar stone off his bedside table. Starry quartzite—the unique stone found only around Starrycard Creek. But this wasn’t any starry quartzite stone.
This one was marked.
The rock alone would have been curious but not jaw-dropping. It was the two lines carved down the center that left him speechless. Add in that, until thirty seconds ago, he believed a woman who looked exactly like the one standing before him was merely a figment of his imagination, and boom. This had to be the definition of a complete mind fuck.
They stared at each other, disbelief radiating between them. It was as if everything in their lives had led to this moment.
He walked toward her as if an invisible force called him to her. “Who are you? How do you have these things?” He lifted his hand and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, needing to touch her again to make sure she was real. His hand lingered on her neck. Her pulse beat a rapid rhythm that echoed in his racing heart. And that wasn’t all. Her skin was impossibly soft. It was as if he already knew every curve, every contour.
Tangible energy thrummed between them, bringing with it an understanding that settled into his soul—this woman, the person in his dreams, was real and meant to be his.
“I’m Maggie,” she said softly, blushing the most beguiling shade of pink, then gifted him with a smile he’d only known in his dreams.
“Maggie,” he repeated, saying the word like a prayer. The two syllables curled around him like an embrace. “How is this real? How are you real?” he asked, holding her hazel gaze.
“Chris, Christian!” came a voice—his brother Owen’s voice.
The man’s panicked cries popped the bubble of wonder and awe. Maggie startled, then took a step back with the dog wriggling in her arms. She wobbled on the loose rock.
“It’s okay. It’s my brother.” He picked up the card and the stone. “What are you doing with these? Why are you here?”
“I’m here because?—”
“Jesus, Chris, your arm!” Owen exclaimed, fear and exasperation shining in his eyes. “Are you okay? I saw what happened from the road. Did you jack up your arm? Should we call the doctor?”
Christian pocketed the items. “I’m okay. Calm down, O.”
“And you, miss. That was insane. The train just missed you,” Owen continued, looking her over. “Are you hurt? Is the dog all right?”
“We’re fine,” she replied. Her blush had faded, and she’d turned ghostly pale.
“You’re shaking. You should sit. Both of you should sit. Chris, are you in pain?” Owen went on, going into older brother mode. “Miss, I can take the dog from you. Here, let me help.” He reached for the animal, but Lucky wasn’t having it. The pup wriggled, worming into Maggie’s embrace. She wobbled back a few more steps to counter the animal’s frantic movements.
Christian zeroed in on the rocks behind her. “Don’t move! Don’t take another step!” he shouted, urgency coating his words.
The dog twisted and struggled in her arms. She inhaled sharply and swayed, her body arching toward the tracks.
She was going down.
Instinct took over. He sprang forward. He nearly had her. He was so damned close, but she slipped through his grasp. Their eyes met for a fleeting second before her head struck the iron edge of the railroad track with a sickening thud. The dog scrambled to his feet, whimpering as he licked her face, but she didn’t respond—didn’t open her eyes, didn’t move a muscle.
Christian dove to the ground. Panic tore through him as he knelt beside her. Her chest rose and fell slowly. She was breathing—at least there was that—but she was unconscious. And there was blood coming from the back of her head. Playing ball, he knew a thing or two about head injuries. They could be bad, life-altering. He gathered her into his arms. “Owen, call for help! And give me your jacket. She’s bleeding. I need to stop it.”
His brother hesitated, his attention darting between Christian and the unconscious woman. “I didn’t mean to scare her,” he stammered, anguish etched on his face.
“Owen, call for help. I don’t have my phone. We need an ambulance. And give me your jacket now. I have to put pressure on her head to stop the bleeding.”
“Yeah, of course.” He whipped off his coat, handed it over, then pulled his cell from his pocket. “We have a medical emergency at the Donnelly Ranch. A woman hit her head and is unconscious. Send an ambulance.” He stilled, listening to the dispatcher. “Her name? Chris, what’s her name?”
Christian cradled Maggie’s head in his lap. He looked up to find his brother gazing at her. The man seemed just as struck by her as he was.
“Chris, who is she? What’s her name?” Owen repeated, anxiety coating his words.
Christian peered at the woman from his dreams—at the face that had given him peace these last few torturous months. He couldn’t lose her. Not like this. Not at all.
“Her name is Maggie.”
“The name on her apron?” Owen asked.
Christian spied the green letters. He hadn’t even noticed them. “Yeah.”
Owen nodded and continued the call.
Christian pressed the jacket against the gash on her head. “Maggie,” he rasped, his heart lodged in his throat. “Breathe, Maggie. Keep breathing.” He stroked her cheek, the warmth of her skin a fragile lifeline. Her arrival with the stone and his baseball card had to mean something. He felt it. His heart knew it. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I’m here, Maggie. You’re not alone. I just found you, and I can’t lose you.”