Sunday, July 21, 2024
⚾️🎅🎆🎄Sunday's Sport Stats-Xmas in July🎄🎆🎅⚾️: In Another Life & Eight Days by Cardeno C
IN ANOTHER LIFE
At age eighteen, Shiloh Raben is tired. He no longer has the energy to deal with mean classmates, inner doubt, and fear of familial rejection, so he takes a razor to his wrist. When he wakes up in the hospital, Shiloh meets Travis Kahn, the EMT who saved him and didn’t leave his side.
Travis is handsome, smart, and funny—the type of guy Shiloh would never be brave enough to approach. But his near-death experience has an unusual side effect: the life that flashed before his eyes wasn’t the one he had already lived, but rather the one he could live. With visions of a future by Travis’s side, Shiloh will find the strength to confront his fears and build a life worth fighting for.
EIGHT DAYS
Childhood family friends, Maccabe Fried and Josh Segal have always gotten along despite having nothing in common. Maccabe is an athlete with dreams of playing professional baseball. Josh is an aspiring architect with dreams of being with Maccabe. Despite all odds, both dreams come true.
Maccabe and Josh fall into a long-distance romance, which is everything Josh thought he wanted. But after years of hiding from the world, Josh wants to bring their relationship into the open. When Maccabe refuses, Josh is faced with a tough decision: stay with the man he loves or live the life he deserves. No matter the choice, somebody’s bound to get hurt. Thankfully, in the season of miracles, there’s always hope for a happy ending.
In Another Life
Prologue
Shiloh, Age 18
Prologue
Shiloh, Age 18
You know how they say when you’re about to die your whole life flashes before your eyes? Well, as it turns out, it’s true. But it’s not like what you think. At least, for me it wasn’t. Because the life I saw as I lay in the bathtub taking my last breath wasn’t the one I had lived during the eighteen years I’d been on this earth. Instead, the life I saw was the one I would be missing for the next eighteen.
Funny how I had wanted to die for years, had been gathering the courage to do it, and then when the moment was finally upon me and I felt the last bit of life drain from my body, well, that was when I realized there had been something to live for all along. Or maybe I should say someone.
Me.
Chapter 1
Shiloh, Age 36
“Do you have a light?” a deep, disembodied voice asked when I stepped out of the gymnasium to get some fresh air.
I squinted at the dark corner where he was standing. I couldn’t make out his features, but I could see that he was tall, broad, and holding a cigarette.
“No, but you should give those up anyway. Smoking’s bad for you.”
“That’s brand-new information.” He coughed. “Thanks for enlightening me.”
He put the cigarette behind his ear and patted his pockets—front of his pants, back of his pants, shirt—and when he came up empty, he grumbled something angry-sounding under his breath. Then he stomped out of the corner and said, “I bet I have a lighter in my car.”
When he walked by me, I grasped his arm, looked up at him, and said, “Tobacco products aren’t allowed on school property, so even if you don’t care about your health, you can’t smoke here.”
“What about liquor?” he barked and shook off my hand. “Because I’m going to need a smoke or a drink before I can go back in there.” He drew in a shaky breath and tilted his chin toward the gym, which was at that moment full of teenagers enjoying the Halloween Dance.
I couldn’t hold back my chuckle. “I take it this is your first time as a parent chaperone?”
It was the Friday after Halloween, but dances midweek were against school policy, so we usually celebrated on the closest Friday night. If the turnout and elaborate costumes were any indication, the kids didn’t seem to mind, but I could understand how someone new to the tradition could find it a bit overwhelming.
“Uncle chaperone, and yes, it’s my first time.” He paused, dragged his gaze down my body and said, “Why? You come here often?”
My brain knew the comment was intended as funny banter, but my body trembled in reaction to the perceived come-on from a gorgeous man. And he was gorgeous. We were standing close enough by then for me to see his muscular body, strong jawline, emerald-green eyes, and sandy-blond hair.
I forced myself to stop lusting after the built, handsome stranger and said, “Afraid so. I’m the guidance counselor, so it’s part of the job description.”
“I don’t know how you do it.” He glared at the building. “I couldn’t stand being around high school kids when I was in high school. If I had to spend all day with them now, I’d lose my mind.”
“They’re not so bad most of the time,” I said with a shrug. “The masks seem to make it worse. So what put you over the edge? Was it the soulless music, the inane chatter, or the inappropriately flirtatious teenage girls?”
“Uh, none of the above.” He scowled. “It’s the pissant boys who think their teasing is funny.”
“Are they teasing your nephew? Is it serious? Is this the first time or do they tease him regularly? Are they fixating on something in particular? Has it escalated to threats of violence? Have they ever laid hands on him? What’s your nephew’s name?”
“Whoa! Slow down there, hot rod.” He rubbed his large hands up and down my arms. “Breathe.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, so I looked down and tried to get my emotions under control. At age thirty-six, I’d long since graduated from high school, but the memories of how hard it had been, how wrong I had felt, and how often I had wanted to stay in bed and avoid the world were still piercingly strong. I didn’t need a therapist to tell me that was why I had chosen a career designed to help kids that age. Of course, a therapist or three had told me that very thing, but I hadn’t needed them to say it.
“Sorry,” I said without making eye contact. “I didn’t mean to jump all over you, but I take the emotional and physical safety of our students very seriously.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, his voice sounding soft for the first time. “You know, I just realized I didn’t catch your name.” He held his hand out. “I’m Travis Kahn.”
“Oh.” I looked at his hand, then shook it as I raised my gaze to meet his. “I’m Shiloh Raben. Nice to meet you.”
“Shiloh?” He smiled at me, a huge one that reached his eyes and made my knees go weak. “That’s a gorgeous name.”
“Thank you.” I bit my lip, lowered my chin, and looked up at him from underneath my lashes. “That’s very…uh, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And in answer to your questions, my niece’s name is Jessica Zinn.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know who Jessica was, which surprised me, because even though we had a student body nearing two thousand, I prided myself on being at least somewhat familiar with all of them. “I don’t think I know Jessica,” I said as I knit my brow and tried to place the name. “Is she new?”
Travis nodded. “Yes, she’s a freshman.”
I remembered my own introduction to high school. I’d managed to hide in the middle of the crowd for a while, but eventually, the older, bigger kids found me and after that they seemed to seek me out. I had been too ashamed and too scared to ask for help, so I’d suffered through in silence. I didn’t want any of my students to endure that type of existence.
“I’d be happy to work with her,” I said. “I think I can help stop the teasing, but she needs to talk to me.”
Travis grinned. “The teasing wasn’t aimed at Jessica. It was aimed at her possibly overprotective uncle.” He dragged his hand through his hair. “She’s been dating seniors, which scares the hell out of her mother and has added a lot of tension to their house.” He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That’s why I’m here, actually. I agreed to play the part of chauffeur and said I didn’t want to sit in my car waiting for her to be done at the dance, so I might as well volunteer to chaperone.”
“And she believed those were your only options?” I asked curiously. “There are all sorts of restaurants and coffee shops around here. You could have—”
“She’s fourteen,” Travis reminded me. “She doesn’t have great judgment about what to believe, which is part of what we’re worried about. Besides, she doesn’t spend much time thinking about anything any adult says. The salient points to her were a ride to and from the dance and the absence of her mother.”
The fact that this man had to explain the teenage mind to me was a testament to how distracted he had me. I earned my living working with teenagers, and I considered myself quite good at it.
“Right.” I nodded. “That makes sense.” I breathed in deeply. “Well, I better get back in there. I’ll make sure to keep an extra careful eye on Jessica, and if you tell me who these senior boys are, I’ll watch them too.”
“I’ll make sure to do that,” Travis said. “Listen, I know right now you’re busy working, and I’m busy planning the start to my life of crime by way of cigarette consumption, but I’ve enjoyed chatting with you.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, glanced down at me, and said, “Any chance you want to give me your number?”
“Of course,” I answered. “I’m happy to discuss the situation with Jessica anytime. My number—”
“Is that the only reason you’d want to hear from me?” he asked.
I furrowed my brow in confusion. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Can I still call you even if it isn’t to talk about my niece?” he asked as he peered into my eyes.
I felt like I was missing something obvious, but I wasn’t sure what it was.
“Why would you—” That was when I realized the handsome stranger was coming on to me, or at least wanting to get in touch so he could come on to me later. “Oh.”
He curled his lips up in a small, sexy smile and arched one eyebrow. “Yeah. Oh.”
I concentrated on keeping my knees stiff so they wouldn’t buckle, which made me sway. Travis grabbed my shoulders and steadied me.
“Shiloh?” My name in his whiskey voice had me swooning again. “Are you okay?”
I gulped and bobbed my head. “Yes.”
“Yes, you’re okay, or yes, I can call you?”
“Either. I mean both. I mean—” I shook my head, hoping to clear it. “You can call me, even if it’s for unprofessional reasons.” I didn’t realize how that sounded until Travis arched an eyebrow and smirked. “Uh, I mean, uh, if it’s for reasons not relating to my profession. Not unprofessional meaning unprofessional.”
“Got it.” His smile broadened. “I’m glad we have that straightened out.”
I gave him my number and managed to keep my voice mostly steady and my gaze mostly raised. Then I went back to work and said a silent prayer that he’d call.
*****
Saturday I stared at my phone almost nonstop.
Sunday I managed to pry myself away from it, but I constantly thought I heard it ringing so I’d run in from whatever other room I was in and pick it up only to see a black screen.
Monday and Tuesday I had my phone turned off all day because I was working, and I was a believer in the theory that we should lead by example, and that meant staff following the “no cell phone during school hours” rule we had in place for students. That didn’t stop me from scrambling to turn the phone on as soon as I got into my car and being disappointed when there weren’t any messages.
By Wednesday night, I’d come to the conclusion that the hot guy who had asked for my phone number either never had any intention of calling or had changed his mind. I was more disappointed than I should have been, but not terribly surprised. The reality was, Travis Kahn was out of my league.
I was thirty-six years old with a job that kept me indoors and mostly sedentary. That meant my muscle definition wasn’t what it should have been, my skin tone was pasty, and there were more lines than I would have liked next to my eyes. My brown hair was still full, which was good, but I’d started getting some gray in my sideburns, which wasn’t great. Plus, at five foot ten inches tall and one hundred seventy pounds, I was at least half a foot shorter than Travis, and based on the width of his shoulders and the way his shirt stretched across his chest, I guessed I was quite a bit rounder and softer.
Anyway, all of that was to say that I wasn’t bad-looking, but I wasn’t a match for the tall, strapping, blond-haired, green-eyed man who probably had guys tripping over themselves to spend time with him. That brought me to Friday morning, when my thoughts of Travis were down to a low simmer in the back of my mind.
I had hit the snooze button a time or three too many, and the next thing I knew, the roar of a loud truck woke me. I blinked my eyes open and tried to focus on my surroundings. The clock told me I’d barely have time to shower and eat a piece of toast before I had to leave the house to make it in to work on time. Then I heard the loud sound again, and the realization hit me—it was trash day. I did a mental inventory of the previous evening and couldn’t remember having taken the can out to the curb. I’d had the same lapse the previous three weeks running, so by that point, the can was almost overflowing.
I jumped out of bed and sprinted to my front door, remembering only after I opened it that I was wearing my Simpsons boxers and nothing else. “Dammit!” I hurried back to my room. Putting on pants would have taken too long, so I shoved my feet into my slippers and tugged on my bathrobe, tying the belt while I hustled out the door.
Having just gotten out of bed, my hair stuck up at all angles, my face was unshaven, and I probably had pillow creases on my cheeks and dried drool on my chin. Also, I should mention that my robe was bright yellow with a huge picture of SpongeBob on the back and my slippers were each adorned with a stuffed Scooby-Doo on top. In other words, I looked crazy sexy. Or just crazy.
My trash can was on the side of my townhouse, behind a fence. I held the gate open with my foot while I dragged the overfilled can behind me, making it to the curb just as the garbage truck turned around at the end of my street. I didn’t know whether they’d picked up my side of the street or the other side, and I wanted to make sure to put my trash can in a spot where it’d be emptied.
As luck would have it, there was another can sitting on the curb. The townhouse next to mine had been empty for months, and because the “For Sale” sign was still out front, I hadn’t realized anybody had moved in. Grateful for the availability of a clue, I opened the lid on the neighbor’s can, hoping the absence or presence of trash would verify whether I should leave my can where it was or drag it to the other side of the street.
Good news—my neighbor’s can was full, so I was set as far as trash collection was concerned.
Bad news—as I was looking into the trash can, I heard a coughing sound and saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I glanced up, and there, on his front porch, was my new neighbor. At least I assumed he was my new neighbor, because he stood right by the front door with a cigarette in one hand and his phone in the other. And he was watching my classy trash-picking display with his jaw hanging open.
Did I mention that I recognized this particular neighbor?
“Uh, Travis, hi!” I said, sounding way too loud and high-pitched. The lid slipped from my fingers and banged shut. I flinched and then started walking toward my door, trying to keep my pace not too fast but not too slow. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a guy going for a walk. Wearing a robe and slippers. “How’ve you been?”
Making small talk in that particular situation would have been awkward no matter what. I mean, the man had blown me off and then caught me digging through his trash. Transitioning smoothly to a discussion about his well-being took more social skills than I had at my disposal that early in the morning.
But then things went from bad to worse when I reached my front step, tripped over my Scooby-Doo slippers, and grabbed on to the post in front of my house to steady myself. As it turned out, my robe wasn’t tied securely enough to withstand that kind of limb extension, which I realized when it flopped open. I jerked my head up and stared at Travis, trying to think of what I could say to salvage some portion of my dignity.
“Wow,” he said as he ground his cigarette into a bowl on the porch railing and flicked his gaze up and down my body. “You’re wearing three different cartoon characters right now, which is particularly amazing seeing as how you’re barely dressed.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” I snapped. Because apparently, my humiliation wasn’t complete enough, and I wanted to add desperate and whiny to my list of attributes, right after trash-obsessed, well-dressed, and impeccably groomed.
“I was actually doing that very thing just now.” He cleared his throat, held up his phone, and waved it at me.
“You were?” I asked, my voice cracking as I once again took in his ruggedly handsome face and felt my heart flip over.
“I wanted to call sooner.” He started walking toward me. “Usually I have weekends off because I’ve been on staff the longest, but everyone was celebrating Halloween last weekend, which meant we needed all hands on deck to deal with everything from skin rashes and oxygen deprivation in people who don’t realize spray paint and body paint aren’t the same thing, and heart attacks in men who had the wrong types of nurses in their beds.” He kept moving in my direction. “After that, I had my normal schedule, which is four twelves, but that turned into more like four eighteens because half the medical staff came down with the flu.”
He dragged his gaze from my Scooby-Doo-covered feet, up my Simpsons-covered groin to my unshaven just-woke-up face, and stopped when he was inches away from me. “Either I finally collapsed from exhaustion and right now I’m passed out in the hospital having the best dream ever or”—he grasped the sides of my robe and pulled it shut, then tied the belt more securely as he gazed into my eyes—“the cute guy I haven’t stopped thinking about just got even more adorable.”
“You think I’m cute?” I whispered as I blinked up at him.
He smiled softly. “I think you’re adorable.”
“Oh.” I scrunched up my nose and squinted. “Why?”
Travis threw his head back and laughed, and then he coughed, cleared his throat, and tried to look serious as he said, “I almost never see an adult wearing character slippers.”
“They were a present from my parents,” I said defensively. Technically, the present was a gift card, and I had chosen to spend it on slippers, but my money didn’t pay for them, so that still counted as a gift.
“Is that right?” He arched his eyebrows and crooked the side of his mouth up.
“Yes.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “For Hanukkah last year.”
“Lucky you.” He curled his lips over his teeth as if he was holding in a grin. “All I got was a new otoscope.”
“What’s an otoscope?”
“It’s something for work. I use it to look in patients’ ears. Pretty fun present, huh?” He chuckled.
“Are you a doctor?” I asked.
He looked down at the scrubs and white coat he wore; then he slowly raised his head and smirked. “Were you listening to anything I said? Or have you been too busy checking me out and having dirty thoughts?” He shook his head and smiled fondly. “Never mind, I think I like the second option better, so let’s go with that.” He cleared his throat and straightened my robe, flattening the fabric over my shoulders and chest. “In answer to your question, yes, I’m a doctor. Emergency medicine. I work at Southeast Medical Center.”
“Oh, uh,” I stammered, feeling foolish. “I didn’t think doctors smoked. But, uh, in that case, an otoscope sounds like a very, uh, practical present.”
Travis snorted. “Come visit the smoking area outside of a hospital sometime, and you’ll see one of our favorite ways to deal with stress and sleep deprivation. And, yes, my parents are really practical. When I was a kid, they used to give me socks and underwear for Hanukkah.” He paused and leered at me. “But they were always tighty-whities. Not like those super-sexy Simpsons boxers you’re wearing.”
I blushed at the reference to my embarrassing underwear, and then the rest of what he said sunk in. My jaw dropped. “You’re Jewish?”
He nodded. “Yes. Is that a problem?”
“Only if you were hoping to avoid meeting my mother, because when I tell her I’m dating a Jewish doctor, she’s going to start cooking up a storm and planning a wedding.” Once I stopped babbling, I noticed that Travis was giving me that raised-brow, crooked-grin look again.
Had I just told a man who affirmatively hadn’t asked me out that we were not only dating but also were on our way to becoming engaged? At that moment, I created a new rule for myself: no talking to anybody until after my first cup of coffee. Clearly, my uncaffeinated morning brain couldn’t be trusted.
“Uh,” I said. “I need to go or I’ll be late for work.” Then I turned on my heel and rushed to my door.
“Shiloh!” Travis called out after me.
“Yes?” I asked without turning around.
“I’ll pick you up tonight at six thirty.”
I looked back over my shoulder. “Pick me up?”
“Yes. For our date.”
“Our date?” I repeated dumbly.
“Yup.” He nodded firmly. “I think it’s important we get to know each other before the wedding, don’t you?”
“I didn’t… I mean, that’s not what I—”
“Six thirty.” He waved as he started walking back to his townhouse. “And feel free to wear those boxers.”
Eight Days
“Are you sure you wanna play?” I said as I walked to his desk, picked up one of the snow globes sitting on the shelf above it, and flipped it upside down. My handwritten date on the bottom reminded me that I’d given Josh that snow globe eight years prior. It was our Hanukkah tradition—every year I’d give him a snow globe.
It had started when we were nine, and Josh saw one in a tourist trap while we were on a family vacation. He was completely enamored with the silver confetti inside, and he’d begged his father up and down for it. The thing cost less than ten bucks, but his father had resolutely refused, offering to buy Josh a football or basketball instead. Josh threw a fit, his father dragged him out of the store, and I was left there with my dad, who looked dismayed at the entire scene.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?” he said tentatively, probably wondering if I was going to ask him to explain what had just happened between Josh and his father.
“Bubby gave me money to buy myself something on this trip, right?”
“Yes, she did.” He smiled broadly, clearly relieved at the change in conversation. “What do you want?” He looked around the store.
I snatched the snow globe Josh had been eyeing. “I want this.”
“You do?” he asked in surprise.
I nodded. “Yes. Let’s have them gift wrap it.”
My father squatted down and looked in my eyes. “Maccabe, that’s a nice gesture, but Josh’s father said he couldn’t have the snow globe, and it’s not right to interfere. You can’t buy this and give it to him.”
I frowned and thought about it. “Well, I’ll hold on to it, and I’ll give it to him for Hanukkah. Dr. Segal can’t think I’m interfering then, right? We always give presents on Hanukkah.”
My father relented, and whether Josh’s father got mad or not, I couldn’t say, because I only had eyes for Josh when, months later, he opened my gift and beamed more brightly than the menorah. I decided right then and there that if snow globes put that kind of smile on Josh’s face, I’d make sure he had plenty of them.
“We can do something else,” I said, coming back to the present. “I know you’re not crazy about video games.”
“I don’t mind them,” he said as he flopped down on the bed. “Besides, you like them, and there’s nothing else to do.”
“Sure there is.” I looked around his room. There was a chess set sitting on his dresser and a shelf running around the perimeter of the room holding all sorts of intricate Lego creations. “We could play chess.”
“You don’t know how to play chess,” he reminded me.
“True, but you can teach me.”
Josh snorted. “The last however many times we tried that you zoned out within two minutes. I can’t even get you to focus on checkers.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Sorry, I try to pay attention, but I don’t really get the fascination. Well, we can build one of your Lego things.”
Little red circles formed on the apples of his cheeks, and he sat up and blinked quickly. “Oh, I don’t really, um…” he said, pausing midsentence, presumably remembering that I’d been in his room a couple of times a month since forever, so telling me he wasn’t into Legos anymore wouldn’t fly. It wasn’t like I didn’t know some of the buildings on the shelves were new. “You don’t want to build Legos. That’s for kids.”
“Are you joking?” I waved my hand around his room, pointing to the incredible buildings and animals he had laid out on his shelves. “You think a kid could build a replica of the Statue of Liberty? I’m older than you, and there’s no way I could do it. Come on, bring out your Legos, and show me how you make this stuff. I’ll be like your sidekick or helper or whatever.”
“Okay, okay.” Josh laughed. “It’s not like I can pass up the chance to have Maccabe Fried as my sidekick—especially since you’re so much older than me.”
“Three weeks counts as older, Freckles, deal with it.”
He flipped me off, climbed down from the bed, and folded the bedspread up, then bent down and started pulling out bins full of Legos. I froze. Josh was a really skinny guy, almost as tall as me but all bones. His baggy clothes always drowned his frame, but in his current position—on all fours, knees spread, shoulders lowered to the ground—his pants hugged his ass, and I was surprised to see that it was nicely filled out, like a round apple.
I shook my head to clear the weird thought and adjusted myself, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in my jock. My mind was distracted from my friend’s backside when I saw something slip out from between his mattress and box spring and flutter to the floor. I squatted down and picked it up.
We had gone to the San Juan Islands with the Segals for the Fourth of July the previous summer. Our parents snapped a bunch of pictures, but I had never seen that one. I was standing in front of the ocean, turned to the side, with the surf lapping at my toes. My wetsuit was stripped off my chest, hanging down, and I was holding onto my surfboard with one hand while the other was pressed against my forehead, blocking the sun from my eyes. Though it couldn’t have been more than five months old, the edges of the picture were soft and curled, like it’d been handled frequently.
Why would Josh have a picture of me stuffed under his mattress? Why would Josh be handling a picture of me that he had stuffed under his mattress? My eyes darted over to Josh, who was pulling out what had to be the last bin. He didn’t know I’d seen the picture, and I wanted to keep it that way, so I quickly shoved it back beneath the mattress and picked up one of the containers.
“I’ll just move these so we have more room,” I said, not sure if the sentence made any sense.
Of course, at that point, the sentence would have to get in line with all the other things that suddenly made no sense. Like my picture under Josh’s mattress. And the erection I sprang when I noticed his ass. I clenched my eyes shut and groaned. Dear God, had I actually checked out Josh’s ass?
Cardeno C. - CC to friends - is a hopeless romantic who wants to add a lot of happiness and a few "awwws" into a reader's day. Writing is a nice break from real life as a corporate type and volunteer work with gay rights organizations. Cardeno's stories range from sweet to intense, contemporary to paranormal, long to short, but they always include strong relationships and walks into the happily-ever-after sunset.
Heartwarming Stories. Strong Relationships. Forever Love.
EMAIL: cardenoc@cardenoc.com
Saturday, July 20, 2024
⚾️Saturday's Series Spotlight⚾️: The League by Declan Rhodes Part 1
Summary:
Blake Powell was a minor league baseball player on the cusp of making it to the majors. His career promised fame, fortune, and the chance to play the game for small armies of fans. Then the roof caved in. A moment of distraction caused by a kiss, a wrong step, and a bone-shattering injury put an early end to his baseball career.
While nursing his injury, he met his new next-door neighbor Ian Chapman, a player-manager of a local gay softball team. Their first meeting is brief, but six months later, neither has forgotten that first encounter.
His baseball career is over, but Blake is soon a new star on Ian’s softball team, and Ian is teaching him new lessons about loving men. The future looks exceedingly bright until the game of baseball comes calling once again and Blake considers leaving his new life behind.
Complete Game is a 55,000-word gay romance novel with a cast of ragtag softball players, a bartender named Claw, and secrets long forgotten in Blake’s basement. It’s a slow-burn first time gay story with steamy scenes and a happily-ever-after ending. It is the first book in the series The League, but it can be read as either a standalone story or an introduction to the series.
As he stood on third base, leaning toward home, ready to score, Reggie Wolf couldn’t believe what he heard from the third baseman. “After the game…you and me alone…drinks.” Reggie wasn’t a stranger to first dates. He had a long dating history from humorous to nearly catastrophic. But none were ever as ruggedly handsome as Connor.
For Connor Ryan, it was all about Reggie’s face. He got lost in it every time their eyes met. Reggie wasn’t traditionally handsome, but his gaze drew Connor like a moth to a flame. He had to find out more.
After a fiery round of dating, the relationship crumbled when Connor’s fist met someone’s jaw at the Toolbox Bar. Both believed that was the end, until they crossed paths again on the softball field two years later. Neither was sure if a second glance could really lead to a second chance…but they knew that they had to give it a try.
A Second Glance is a 50,000-word second chance gay romance with steamy scenes and a happily-ever-after ending. It is the second book in the series The League and includes several characters from the first book Complete Game. It is possible to read A Second Glance as a standalone novel, but readers will benefit from reading the story of Ian and Blake in Complete Game.
Complete Game #1
Prologue - Blake
It was late, after 2 a.m. My roommate, Andy Fitzgerald, pitched the first complete game of his minor league career earlier in the evening, and we were ambling back to our room after celebrating a little too hard with our teammates. The drinks were stiff and we had a few too many. I was still doling out the compliments. “You fucking nailed it, Andy! AAA by the end of the season and the majors for sure next year!”
He was always kind of quiet and unassuming, but he stuck close by my side. I was always the first guy asked a question, whether it was about the best cheap restaurant splurge in town or how to deal with the anxiety we all faced, or whether our baseball careers would end right here in the minors.
I pushed open the door to our room and charged inside. I was looking forward to a quick, hot shower before bed and then power sleeping until the alarm rang at seven. As the door swung shut, Andy grabbed my shoulder before I could make it to the bathroom.
I turned to face him, and he earnestly said, “A complete game, Blake. I really did it.” In that instant, with the huge smile that spread across his face, Andy looked like a little boy excited by his first victory in a little league game. There was sweetness and innocence flooding his face for a moment. Then the goofy smile softened into a grin that brought back the adult Andy. He was my best friend at a time in my life that I really didn’t pay much attention to friends. I was too focused on baseball to develop deep relationships.
I said, “It’s damn impressive. My only worry is that I’ll lose my roomie when you get kicked up the ladder.”
“Maybe you’ll come, too,” said Andy. Then he opened his arms wide for a hug. Andy was the hugging type. I figured he grew up with parents that were always giving him big, squeezing hugs and waves of physical affection. In their absence, he looked for others to give him his share.
I hugged him tight and stared deep into his eyes. I didn’t expect what happened next. Andy Fitzgerald kissed me. I could see it coming, and I did nothing to stop it. He closed his eyes first, then pursed his lips, and I didn’t move.
Andy kissed me, and it wasn’t just a little peck. Our lips pressed together, and then he parted his slightly. I thought I felt tongue, and then my reflexes took over, and I pulled back. I stumbled over my next words, “I…I’ve gotta take a shower Andy. It’s late. We’ve gotta get up just a few hours from now.”
I thought I saw a momentary frown, but then he released me from the hug and turned toward his bed. In a dull monotone, he said, “Thanks for a great evening, Blake. I’m going to sleep now.”
Pulling the bathroom door shut tight, I began to strip out of my clothes. Thoughts assaulted me from all directions. Did he really kiss me? Does Andy want to be more than friends? Was that his tongue? What the hell was he doing? Did I like it? I tried to shake it all out of my mind as the hot, steamy water began to cascade down over my body.
I’m not being conceited when I say that I was good-looking. I was blessed by inheriting great genes. My parents were prom king and queen at their high school. I was six feet two, and it was easy for me to put muscle on my frame with the bare minimum of exertion in the gym. Playing the game of baseball was a lot of work for me, but looking good while doing it never was.
That’s why almost everyone would be shocked at my relative inexperience in the romance department. I had a few dates with girls and women here and there, but nothing I would assign the lofty label relationship. I looked at men from time to time, too. It seemed like a normal thing. I grew up with a couple of high school friends who proudly labeled themselves bisexual, but I didn’t think anything would come of my occasional lingering glances at handsome guys. Baseball was my life. Relationships had to wait. Eventually I would find a woman to marry and consider creating a family.
Then Andy kissed me. As I worked the shampoo through my hair, I suddenly remembered a comment tossed out by a teammate named Carson shortly after Andy arrived. He said, “He’s kinda sweet on you, Powell. You better keep an eye on him.”
I just gave Carson a good-natured shove and then trotted out to the field for batting practice. I wondered how many of my fellow teammates picked up on Andy’s attraction. Do they think I’m into Andy, too? I rinsed the shampoo from my hair and thought about the kiss. His lips were firm, and the something moist, it had to be his tongue. That felt good. I had to admit it. It was really good. It sent a little jolt of electricity through my body, and, fuck, I was hard just thinking about it.
Climbing out of the shower and toweling myself off, I tried to kick thoughts about Andy out of my mind. Tomorrow was an afternoon game, and batting practice started early. I was in a bit of a hitting slump. The coaches suggested that I adopt a slightly different stance, and I was eager to try it out in practice. I pulled on my boxer briefs and stepped into the darkness of our shared room.
I could hear Andy’s slow, steady breathing. He was already fast asleep. I climbed into my bed and rolled over to the side facing away. Fortunately, the alcohol in my bloodstream helped sleep come quickly.
In the morning, Andy was his normal self. He acted as if nothing unusual happened the night before. Maybe it wasn’t as unusual for him. I wondered if he was drunk enough that he really didn’t remember what happened, but I was certain I saw him down his last beer more than an hour before we left the celebration in Landers’ room. He didn’t bob or weave on our way back to our room. He only trudged like someone exhausted, and he had every reason to feel exhausted.
We ate breakfast together with three other guys, and when we reached the stadium, Andy just jogged off to center field to stretch and toss the ball around like usual on his non-pitching days. I was the one completely wrapped up in the aftermath of the kiss, and I had a hard time shaking it from my thoughts.
The change in batting stance seemed to help. I didn’t normally hit with a lot of home run power, but I managed to launch three balls over the outfield fence in practice. It was enough to finally kick the fixation on Andy from my mind and get my head back into the game. By the time we took the field and I jogged out to third base, I was ready to kick everything about my performance up a notch.
My first time at bat, I launched a double into the corner in right field. I had a big grin on my face as I slid into second well ahead of the tag and then stood up brushing the dirt off my knees. When Landers came to the plate two batters later and brought me in to score, Andy was the first to greet me on the steps of the dugout. Suddenly, the thoughts about the kiss were back, and I pulled away slightly from his hug.
When I batted in the fourth inning, it already looked like we might have the game in the bag. I felt good, and I felt relaxed. At first, I thought about swinging for the fences, but I knew that I would do better just trying to plunk a single into short right. With a count of two and two, I connected with the ball. Instead of the hole in short right, I got around on the ball too quickly, and it carried to just to the left of the third baseman. I knew there was a chance the fielder could reach the ball to make a reasonable throw, so I dug in for a race to first base.
Halfway there, Andy suddenly flashed into my mind. I was staring into his eyes and parted my own lips for a kiss. It was just enough distraction to throw my base running off. I tried to block Andy from my mind as I dug for first, but, at the last second, I realized my timing was off. My right foot landed at an angle on the outside edge of first base. Then I heard the ball land “thwack” in the glove. It was followed by a much more sickening sound.
I heard the snap and then pain suddenly shot up to my hip. Tumbling to the ground, I knew instantly that my leg was broken. There was no mistaking the sound. The only question was how badly. I tried to stand, and the pain was so intense I nearly blacked out. Instead of putting any weight on it, I lay on the ground howling and grabbing for my calf.
The next thing I remember, the trainer, first base coach, and manager were all gathered around me. I heard other players mumbling. The words, “I knew it as soon as that foot came down,” were distinct enough to make out.
Bennett, our trainer, said, “Don’t try and stand up, Blake. We’ll call out a stretcher. If you try and stand, you’ll only make it worse.”
I laid my head back in the dirt and stared up at the sky. I remembered thinking it was wrong that it was such a beautiful day with white puffy clouds in the sky. If I was breaking my leg, it should be in the middle of a thunderstorm with lightning flashing all around. At least there should be a sudden cold breeze. I closed my eyes, and then I felt at least six hands lifting me and placing my body on the stretcher.
Most of the time it’s a great thing to hear applause from the stands. The one time you don’t want to hear it is when you are being carried from the field on a stretcher. I wondered if I should open my eyes and smile courageously to the crowd. Instead, I just kept my eyes closed and worried that my career was over. I was worried that a kiss killed my career.
Later that night as the doctor was explaining the surgery they needed to perform, Bennett looked on shaking his head. The doctor explained that they needed to install a plate and screws to make sure the bone would hold together when it healed. He said that I might be in the hospital for up to three days, but he expected everything to heal up well. Finally, he said the words I dreaded to hear. He said, “It will never be the same again, but you should be able to walk normally, run, jump, and do most things that you want to do.” Never the same echoed through my skull. That meant I couldn’t ever be the athlete I was before I kissed Andy.
After the doctor left the room, Bennett gave me the more serious news. He said, “Blake, I have to be honest with you.”
“It’s bad?” I asked.
He nodded. “For a minor leaguer yeah. If you were in the majors, the team already has so much invested, this might just be a bump in the road, but the chances of coming back from this when you’re in the minors…not good.”
I said, “I can work my ass off. I’ll work double-time with physical therapy…”
Bennett rested his hand on my shoulder. He said, “Blake, if you’ve got a plan B, I would start thinking about it really hard. It’s late summer now. The chances of you being back in good enough condition for spring training next year are really slim. This kind of injury usually takes at least nine months to be back on top of your game. Sometimes it’s a year or more. The game isn’t going to wait for you.”
I slammed a hand down on the bed and bit my tongue to stop from shouting in Bennett’s face. Instead, I clenched my teeth and whispered, “Just leave me alone now.”
He pulled his hand back and said, “I’m really sorry, Blake. All I can say is this really sucks, but there’s a lot more to life than just being a baseball player. Seriously, there is.”
I growled, “I don’t need to hear that right now.” Then I shouted, “Get out! Just get out now!”
He headed for the door just as a nurse was entering. I heard her ask if anything was wrong, and Bennett said, “He’ll be okay. It’s all just starting to sink in.”
A Second Glance #2
1
Connor
The rigging holding me dangling far above the stage lurched unexpectedly causing me to drop the wrench I held in my right hand and reach reflexively for the support rope instead. Richard’s voice was breathless in my headphones shouting, “Ooops, damn, sorry Connor!”
The wrench clanged loudly on the floor below as I barked, “What the fuck, Dick? I don’t want to go to an early grave, thank you.”
“Sorry, man, there was a little slack there that I didn’t intend.”
I growled, “And a lot of fucking slack between your ears!”
It wasn’t the first time that a vision of falling from a rig more than seventy feet in the air flashed through my mind. In my early days working lights, it was at least a weekly occurrence, but I admit that I felt an invigorating rush up my spine every time it happened.
It’s like the rush I felt the first time I climbed the old oak tree in the empty lot next door entirely solo. I was eight years old, and I crept out so far on a limb that it actually bent downward a good two or three feet. I wanted to scream for help, but that prickly feeling in the small of my back felt so good. It felt really good.
My older sister Alana caught me up there. I was on my way to scooting back toward the trunk and shinnying to the ground when she called up at me, “What are you doing, Connor? Mom and Dad aren’t home, and I’m supposed to watch you. Get down here right now. I’m not taking the blame when you end up in the hospital! Why can’t you be more like Patrick?”
Patrick was my little brother, and we were nothing alike. He was shy and quiet, and he cried if he got anywhere near a drop of more than three feet. I grinned down at her and said, “Come up here with me, Alana. It’s great. You can see Grandma Murphy’s house from here.”
I was right. Grandma Murphy lived three blocks over, but the old oak tree was tall enough that you could see over the rooftops and I was looking right at her prized rose bush in full bloom just to the right of the front door of the little shotgun house.
Alana wasn’t convinced, and a few minutes later I was sliding my way down the trunk aiming for solid ground. I grinned sheepishly up at my big sister. I was short for my age, my growth spurt was still to come, and, at thirteen, she was one of the tallest girls in her class at school. She boxed my ears one time when I said, “You better learn to duck for low-flying planes.”
I shook my head to clear the memories and focus again on my current job. Once I was back on solid ground after hanging the last set of lights for the night’s concert, Richard apologized again. He said, “Something like that doesn’t happen often, Connor, and you weren’t really in danger.”
I stepped up close so that he could feel my breath and looked down with the three-inch clearance I had over the top of his head and said, “It only takes once, Dick. It only takes once.”
When he stopped shaking, I backed up three steps and laughed. He whimpered in response saying, “Man, I said I was sorry. And the name’s Richard…”
There was only a year’s experience separating Richard and me, and I knew that he was going to challenge me one day for the title of best in the business locally. That’s why I needed to keep him on his toes. I stepped forward again, and then I threw an arm around his shoulders and smiled. “Yeah, no harm done, and let’s finish up the job. Then we can go have a beer together.”
Just before we walked off the stage, Richard set off one of the flash pots. He asked, “Have you seen this Connor? These guys really put on a hot show.” He laughed at his ridiculous pun.
I rolled my eyes and grumbled, “Just leave that to the pyro guys. The way you were fumbling with the ropes earlier, you’re likely to set the whole place on fire if you start mucking about with the pyro effects, and then we’ll have a Great White incident again.” I turned serious for a moment. I said, “You know I don’t give compliments often, so listen up. You are damn good at what you do, Richard, so just quit screwing around. You’re gonna be better than me someday.”
I watched his swagger melt into a shy grin. “Fuck, Connor, you’ve never said anything like that before.”
I threw my arm back around his shoulder and said, “And I’m not likely to ever say it again. Let’s go get that beer.”
My favorite downtown bar, Lir, an attempt at recreating an Irish pub, was just three blocks from the concert arena. The bar had a patio that overlooked the Milwaukee River, and it was a great place to sit, nurse a beer, and contemplate the world. Late in the evening it was a fine place to get roaring drunk with a group of old buddies, too.
As I passed a few bills across the counter to the bartender, Richard asked, “Have you ever been in a bad accident at work, Connor?”
I waved away change from the bartender and said, “Fortunately, no. I watched a guy tumble off a twenty-foot-high speaker stack one time and end up with a bone sticking out of his leg, but no, I’ve come away with nothing more than bumps and bruises.” I said, “Let’s take the beers out on the patio.”
Richard followed at my shoulder as we found a small table at the rail along the river boardwalk. He was a good-looking guy with the eager stare of a puppy waiting for you to toss the ball, but he was straight. Richard claimed a girlfriend of more than six months, but I never saw her. He said she was nervous about the work he did. She was convinced she would get an emergency call someday and end up seeing him clinging to life in a hospital bed after an accident at work.
Richard asked, “Did you say you’re going out on tour again soon?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I got a call from a friend that a lighting tech he knows who was working for a touring Broadway show begged off for two months while his wife has a baby. I’m going to fill-in.”
Sipping at his beer, Richard said, “Road tour. Exciting.”
“I don’t know about that.” I gave him a shrug. “I guess my main goal is to get something permanent here in town with one of the concert venues or the performing arts center. I hit thirty soon, and I’m already kind of burned out on the touring. How does your girlfriend handle that?”
He frowned and curled over his pint of beer. “I haven’t had to leave town yet since we started dating, but I’m trying to get a concert tour in the new year.”
“Does she work?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah, Shelly works the front desk at a hospital. It’s a really normal forty-hour-a-week job. She’s not a big fan of my late nights, but she said she does love it when I slip into bed beside her in the wee hours of the morning.”
I waved a hand. “Please, spare me the details.”
Richard laughed and asked, “Found any good guys lately?”
I sighed. “No, I’ve had a dry spell. You know that’s unusual for me, but I just decided that it will happen when it happens. I’m not really looking. I’m just keeping my head down and doing my work. Prince Charming will have to find me, because I’m not turning over rocks to try and uncover him.”
Richard glanced toward the door as it opened and a well-dressed man stepped inside. “Speaking of rocks, it looks like Max crawled out from under one again.”
Max Greeley was a local concert promoter, and he was the son of millionaire parents. He was great to work with if you were on his good side, but that usually meant bending and scraping in humiliating ways. He also had an issue with the IATSE union and would bend rules to pay lower wages or let in non-union employees when possible. I let out a low hiss under my breath.
Richard leaned across the table speaking in a low voice. “You know that he’s involved in the new permanent concert stage they’re building on the lake front, don’t you?”
I sighed. “Seriously? Does that mean it will be a non-union shop? Someone needs to knock a little sense into his pointy little head.”
Richard laughed as I took another long look at Mr. Greeley. I acknowledged to myself an appreciation for his taste in clothing. His suits were perfectly tailored, and he was slim with broad shoulders. Max had a neatly trimmed goatee and rumors persisted that he might be gay.
Richard said, “Maybe you should date him instead, Connor. You could talk some sense into him while you’re both in the afterglow.”
I scratched my head. “You know, he’s not ugly, and he ’s worth a gazillion dollars, but sleeping with slime just for money? What kind of man do you think I am, Richard?”
Richard shrugged and offered, “I might do it…if I was into guys.”
Max slowly sipped at a rocks glass filled with bourbon and chatted with the bartender. He did pique my curiosity, but, even with all my rough edges, I was still hoping for a real Prince Charming, and Max was anything but charming. I asked Richard, “Do you think Shelly is the one? I mean, are you looking yet for something permanent?”
Richard sipped at his beer. “I doubt it. We have fun and all, but I just don’t see it. I’m expecting that if I get another out-of-town tour, we’ll break up. I’m not sure she will be sad to see me go.”
I clapped him on the shoulder. “That bad, huh?”
“No, just a lot of other things going on in life, you know? If I committed to more, next thing you know she wants to get married, and then she wants kids. I guess you guys have to deal with all of that now, too.”
“Us guys?” I asked.
“Gay guys,” said Richard. “You can do it all now. When you’re sitting home on a Friday night with a baby ready to spit up on your shoulder while another keeps making noise distracting you while you’re trying to watch your favorite show, then it won’t all seem so great anymore.”
I laughed and said, “That doesn’t sound nearly so bad as it did five years ago. Maybe I’m just getting old, but a couple of kids?” I shrugged. “There are worse things in life.”
Saturday Series Spotlight
Declan Rhodes
Declan Rhodes is an author of gay romance. He is fascinated by exploring male/male relationships in a world changed by worldwide progress in lgbtq civil rights.
He is based in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and loves men, cooking for friends and family, travel, and long walks along the shore of Lake Michigan not necessarily in that order.
A Second Glance #2
Series
Friday, July 19, 2024
🎅🎆📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation-Xmas in July🎥📘🎆🎅: The Three Godfathers by Peter B Kyne
Peter Bernard Kyne was an American novelist. Many of his works, particularly his debut novel, The Three Godfathers, which was released in 1913 and proved to be a major hit, were adapted into screenplays beginning in the silent era. This short story named “The Three Godfathers” has inspired at least five films. The title page informs us that this is not the story of the Wise Men but of the Bad Men. The three Bad Men are on the run following a bank robbery. While looking for water, they come across a pioneer woman who is in labor and dying. Her husband has died, and the newborn infant is placed in the care of the "three godfathers" who miraculously appeared to assist in its birth. Their trip to deliver the infant to his relatives tells the story of their previous troubles and possible redemption. It is sincere yet also humorous at times.
The daylight raid on the Wickenburg National Bank had not been a success. It had been well planned, boldly and cleverly executed, and the four bandits had gathered unto themselves quite a fortune in paper money; the job had been singularly free from fuss and feathers. Nevertheless, as has already been stated, the raid was not a success. The assistant cashier, returning from luncheon, had, from a distance of half a block, observed two strangers in town. Both strangers were mounted and stood on guard in front of the Wickenburg National. In an alley just back of the bank two saddle horses were standing; and as the assistant cashier paused, irresolute, two men came out of the bank, mounted the two horses waiting in the alley, and, followed by the men who had been standing on watch in front of the bank, rode out of Wickenburg in rather a sus- picious hurry. The assistant cashier had an inspiration.
"Thieves! Robbers 1 Stop 'em!" he yelled.
His hue and cry aroused to action an apparently inoffensive and elderly citizen who was taking his siesta in front of The Three Deuces saloon. Now this man in front of The Three Deuces was not the sheriff. He was not even the city marshal. Rather he inclined one to the belief that he might be a minister of the gospel a soultrapper on guard at the portals of The Three Deuces, within which, judging by the subdued rattle of poker chips, ivory balls and an occasional hoarse shout of "Keno!" one could be reasonably certain of a plethora of brands ripe for the burning. The aged citizen asleep in the chair outside was arrayed in somber black, with a turn-down collar and white lawn tie, a "biled" shirt with a ruby stud in it, and patriarchial white whiskers. But his coat, of a clerical cut, effectually concealed two pieces of artillery of a style and caliber popularized by time and tradition in the fair state of Arizona.
The four galloping horsemen were abreast The Three Deuces when the cry of "Robbers!" aroused all Wickenburg. It awoke the man in the chair; and he came to his feet with the suddenness of a ferocious old dog, filled both hands and cut loose at one of the four horsemen. There was a reason for this. The elderly citizen had a deposit of three dollars and seventeen cents in the Wickenburg National. Also he possessed a fair proportion of civic pride, and the horseman upon whom he trained his hardware was carrying a gunny-sack containing a ro rata of the said elderly citi- zen's three-seventeen.
Four Bad Men had ridden into Wickenburg that December afternoon, but only three rode out. One of the three had a bullet hole through his left shoulder. The man who stayed lay, thoroughly and effectually defunct, on top of a bulging gunnysack in front of The Three Deuces. Came presently the paying teller of the Wickenburg National and removed the gunny-sack. Came half an hour later the coroner of Wickenburg and removed the body. As for the elderly citizen of deceptive appearance, he walked uptown to a hardware store, re- plenished his supply of ammunition and returned to The Three Deuces in a highly cheerful frame of mind. Here let us leave him, for with this story he has nothing further to do. From now on our interest must center on The Three Bad Men who rode out of Wickenburg headed for the California line which happens to be the Colorado River.
They made their first halt at Granite Tanks, twenty-five miles from Wickenburg. Here they watered their horses and then pressed onward toward the river. At the river they found a boat, thoughtfully provided for just such an emergency as the present.
Darkness had already settled over the land when The Three Bad Men came to the Colorado River. It would have been wise on their part to have waited until the rising of the moon, but our story does not deal with The Three Wise Men. Within the hour a posse might appear, and, moreover, The Three Bad Men were of that breed that prefers to "take a chance." They rode their jaded horses into the flood until the yellow waters lapped their bellies; then they shot them and shoved the carcasses off into the current.
An hour later The Three Bad Men landed on the California side near Bill Williams Mountain, filled their boat with stones and sank it, and shouldering a supply of food and water sufficient to last them four days, headed up a long box canon that led north to the Colorado Desert. They made fair time after the moon came up. All night long they trudged through the box canon, and at daylight it opened out into the waste.
"Well, boys, I guess we're safe," re- marked The Worst Bad Man, who was the leader of the trio. "It's cooler in the canon, so suppose we camp here. I feel like breakfast and some sleep. How's your shoulder, Bill?"
The Wounded Bad Man shrugged the wounded member disdainfully.
"High up. Missed the bone and don't amount to much, Tom. But I've bled like a stuck pig and it's weakened me a little." "I'll heat some water and wash it up, Bill," said The Youngest Bad Man, much concerned.
They made a very small fire of cat-claw and ironwood, brewed a pot of coffee, breakfasted, washed and dressed The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder and slept until late afternoon. They awoke much re- freshed, ate an early supper and struck out across the desert to the north, where in time they would come to the Santa Fe tracks. There were lonely stations out there in the sands they might be worth investigation. Then on to the new mining camp at Old Woman Mountain a camp which, following the whimsical and fantastic system of desert nomenclature, which seems to trend toward such names as Mecca, Cadiz, Bagdad, Bengal and Siam, had had bestowed upon it the not inappropriate name of New Jerusalem.
For a number of reasons The Three Bad Men preferred to travel by night. Primarily they were prowlers and preferred it. Secondly, although one may encounter tor- rid weather by day on the Colorado Desert even in December, the nights, on the contrary, are bitterly cold and The Three Bad Men had no blankets. Also there was this advantage about traveling at night and sleeping in the shadow of a rock by day: they would not meet other wanderers and there would be no embarrassing questions to answer respecting the hole in The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder.
Consequently The Three Bad Men traveled by night. From Mojave Tanks they swung west to avoid the mining operations there, although more than once they glanced back wistfully at the little cluster of yellow lights shining across the sands. The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder was in a bad way and needed medical attention. Also they needed water; but they were desertbred and could last until they came to Malapai Springs.
So they turned their backs on Mojave Tanks and tramped onward. Now they were in the ghostly moonlight of the open desert, with the outlines of the mountain ranges on each side looming dim and shadowy fifteen or twenty miles away; now they were picking their way carefully through clusters of murderous catclaw, through tangles of mesquit and ironwood. Up dark, lonely arroyos they went; down long alleys between the outstretched arms of the ocatillas with their pendulous, bloodred blossoms, passing dried, withered Joshua trees twisted into fantastic shapes as if their fearful surroundings had caused them to writhe in horror; through solitude and desolation so vast and profound as to inspire one with the thought that the Creator, appalled at the magnitude of this abortion of Nature, had set it apart as an eternal heritage of the damned.
In the forenoon of the fifth day they came to Malapai Springs. Here The Three Bad Men drank deeply, bathed, filled their canteens and stepped blithely out for Terrapin Tanks, the next waterhole a little-known and consequently unfrequented spot where they could rest for a few days before attempting the last desperate leg of their journey to the railroad.
"Don't stint yourself on the water, Bill," The Worst Bad Man advised as they departed from Malapai Springs. "There's always water at Terrapin Tanks."
Nevertheless, with the instinct of the desert-bred, The Worst Bad Man and The Youngest Bad Man were sparing with the water themselves, although careful to conceal this fact from The Wounded Bad Man. The latter's shoulder was swollen and inflamed, and it was a relief to him if the bandages were kept wet.
The Worst Bad Man, who knew the country better than his companions, had timed their arrival at Terrapin Tanks al- most to the hour. The sun was just coming up over the low red hummocks of hematite to the eastward when The Three Bad Men plodded wearily up a long, dry canon, turned a sharp, rocky promontory into an arroyo and paused.
Borne on the slight desert breeze a sound came to them from up the arroyo. It was a mournful, wailing cry and ended in a sob a sound that bespoke pain and fear and misery.
The Three Bad Men looked at one another. Each held up an index finger, en- joining silence. A second, a third time the sound was repeated.
lt's a human voice," announced The Worst Bad Man, "an' there's death in it. Wait here. I'm goin' in to see what's up."
When he had gone The Youngest Bad Man, after the restless and inquisitive manner of youth, climbed a tall rock and gazed up the arroyo.
"I see the top of a covered wagon," he announced.
"Then," said The Wounded Bad Man, "It's a tenderfoot outfit, an' that's a woman cryin'. No desert rat'd come here with a wagon. Fools drive in where burros fear to tread, Bob. They're tenderfeet."
"That's right," agreed The Youngest Bad Man. "Some nester come in over the trail from Imperial Valley and bound for New Jerusalem, I'll bet a new hat."
"Whoever's doin' that whimperin' is sure bound for New Jerusalem," The Wounded Bad Man replied with a grim attempt at humor. "An' if I don't let a doctor look at this shoulder o' mine before long I'll head that way myself."
The Worst Bad Man was gone about ten minutes. Presently the others saw him re- turning. On his hard, sunscorched face deep concern showed plainly, and as he trotted down the arroyo he scratched his unkempt head as if in search of an idea of sufficient magnitude to cope with a grave situation. When he reached his comrades he sat down on a chunk of black lava and fanned himself with his hat.
"There's a fine old state of affairs at the Tanks," he said huskily.
"They ain't dry, are they?" Fright showed in the wide blue eyes of The Youngest Bad Man. The Wounded Bad Man sat down very suddenly and gulped. The Worst Bad Man replied to the question.
"Worse'n that."
The Wounded Bad Man sighed. "It can't be," he said.
"There's a wagon at the Tanks," con- tinued The Worst Bad Man, "but no horses. It's a tenderfoot outfit a man an' his woman an' they come in from Salton, via Canon Springs and Boulder, headed for New Jerusalem. Some o' their kin has started a boardin' tent in the new camp an' these two misfortunates were aimin' to go in with the rush an' clean up a stake. They make Terrapin Tanks all right, but the water's a little low an' the man ain't got sense enough to dig out the sand an' let the water run in. He's one of these nervous city fellers, I guess, and it just naturally hurts him to set down an' wait till that sump-hole fills up. Besides, he don't take kindly to usin' a shovel, so he sticks in a shot o' dynamite to clean out th' tanks an' start the water runnin' - The Wounded Bad Man sprang to his feet, cursing horribly.
'The damned, crazy fool!" he raved. "I'll kill him, I will. I'll kill him just as sure as I'm thirsty."
"Thieves! Robbers 1 Stop 'em!" he yelled.
His hue and cry aroused to action an apparently inoffensive and elderly citizen who was taking his siesta in front of The Three Deuces saloon. Now this man in front of The Three Deuces was not the sheriff. He was not even the city marshal. Rather he inclined one to the belief that he might be a minister of the gospel a soultrapper on guard at the portals of The Three Deuces, within which, judging by the subdued rattle of poker chips, ivory balls and an occasional hoarse shout of "Keno!" one could be reasonably certain of a plethora of brands ripe for the burning. The aged citizen asleep in the chair outside was arrayed in somber black, with a turn-down collar and white lawn tie, a "biled" shirt with a ruby stud in it, and patriarchial white whiskers. But his coat, of a clerical cut, effectually concealed two pieces of artillery of a style and caliber popularized by time and tradition in the fair state of Arizona.
The four galloping horsemen were abreast The Three Deuces when the cry of "Robbers!" aroused all Wickenburg. It awoke the man in the chair; and he came to his feet with the suddenness of a ferocious old dog, filled both hands and cut loose at one of the four horsemen. There was a reason for this. The elderly citizen had a deposit of three dollars and seventeen cents in the Wickenburg National. Also he possessed a fair proportion of civic pride, and the horseman upon whom he trained his hardware was carrying a gunny-sack containing a ro rata of the said elderly citi- zen's three-seventeen.
Four Bad Men had ridden into Wickenburg that December afternoon, but only three rode out. One of the three had a bullet hole through his left shoulder. The man who stayed lay, thoroughly and effectually defunct, on top of a bulging gunnysack in front of The Three Deuces. Came presently the paying teller of the Wickenburg National and removed the gunny-sack. Came half an hour later the coroner of Wickenburg and removed the body. As for the elderly citizen of deceptive appearance, he walked uptown to a hardware store, re- plenished his supply of ammunition and returned to The Three Deuces in a highly cheerful frame of mind. Here let us leave him, for with this story he has nothing further to do. From now on our interest must center on The Three Bad Men who rode out of Wickenburg headed for the California line which happens to be the Colorado River.
They made their first halt at Granite Tanks, twenty-five miles from Wickenburg. Here they watered their horses and then pressed onward toward the river. At the river they found a boat, thoughtfully provided for just such an emergency as the present.
Darkness had already settled over the land when The Three Bad Men came to the Colorado River. It would have been wise on their part to have waited until the rising of the moon, but our story does not deal with The Three Wise Men. Within the hour a posse might appear, and, moreover, The Three Bad Men were of that breed that prefers to "take a chance." They rode their jaded horses into the flood until the yellow waters lapped their bellies; then they shot them and shoved the carcasses off into the current.
An hour later The Three Bad Men landed on the California side near Bill Williams Mountain, filled their boat with stones and sank it, and shouldering a supply of food and water sufficient to last them four days, headed up a long box canon that led north to the Colorado Desert. They made fair time after the moon came up. All night long they trudged through the box canon, and at daylight it opened out into the waste.
"Well, boys, I guess we're safe," re- marked The Worst Bad Man, who was the leader of the trio. "It's cooler in the canon, so suppose we camp here. I feel like breakfast and some sleep. How's your shoulder, Bill?"
The Wounded Bad Man shrugged the wounded member disdainfully.
"High up. Missed the bone and don't amount to much, Tom. But I've bled like a stuck pig and it's weakened me a little." "I'll heat some water and wash it up, Bill," said The Youngest Bad Man, much concerned.
They made a very small fire of cat-claw and ironwood, brewed a pot of coffee, breakfasted, washed and dressed The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder and slept until late afternoon. They awoke much re- freshed, ate an early supper and struck out across the desert to the north, where in time they would come to the Santa Fe tracks. There were lonely stations out there in the sands they might be worth investigation. Then on to the new mining camp at Old Woman Mountain a camp which, following the whimsical and fantastic system of desert nomenclature, which seems to trend toward such names as Mecca, Cadiz, Bagdad, Bengal and Siam, had had bestowed upon it the not inappropriate name of New Jerusalem.
For a number of reasons The Three Bad Men preferred to travel by night. Primarily they were prowlers and preferred it. Secondly, although one may encounter tor- rid weather by day on the Colorado Desert even in December, the nights, on the contrary, are bitterly cold and The Three Bad Men had no blankets. Also there was this advantage about traveling at night and sleeping in the shadow of a rock by day: they would not meet other wanderers and there would be no embarrassing questions to answer respecting the hole in The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder.
Consequently The Three Bad Men traveled by night. From Mojave Tanks they swung west to avoid the mining operations there, although more than once they glanced back wistfully at the little cluster of yellow lights shining across the sands. The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder was in a bad way and needed medical attention. Also they needed water; but they were desertbred and could last until they came to Malapai Springs.
So they turned their backs on Mojave Tanks and tramped onward. Now they were in the ghostly moonlight of the open desert, with the outlines of the mountain ranges on each side looming dim and shadowy fifteen or twenty miles away; now they were picking their way carefully through clusters of murderous catclaw, through tangles of mesquit and ironwood. Up dark, lonely arroyos they went; down long alleys between the outstretched arms of the ocatillas with their pendulous, bloodred blossoms, passing dried, withered Joshua trees twisted into fantastic shapes as if their fearful surroundings had caused them to writhe in horror; through solitude and desolation so vast and profound as to inspire one with the thought that the Creator, appalled at the magnitude of this abortion of Nature, had set it apart as an eternal heritage of the damned.
In the forenoon of the fifth day they came to Malapai Springs. Here The Three Bad Men drank deeply, bathed, filled their canteens and stepped blithely out for Terrapin Tanks, the next waterhole a little-known and consequently unfrequented spot where they could rest for a few days before attempting the last desperate leg of their journey to the railroad.
"Don't stint yourself on the water, Bill," The Worst Bad Man advised as they departed from Malapai Springs. "There's always water at Terrapin Tanks."
Nevertheless, with the instinct of the desert-bred, The Worst Bad Man and The Youngest Bad Man were sparing with the water themselves, although careful to conceal this fact from The Wounded Bad Man. The latter's shoulder was swollen and inflamed, and it was a relief to him if the bandages were kept wet.
The Worst Bad Man, who knew the country better than his companions, had timed their arrival at Terrapin Tanks al- most to the hour. The sun was just coming up over the low red hummocks of hematite to the eastward when The Three Bad Men plodded wearily up a long, dry canon, turned a sharp, rocky promontory into an arroyo and paused.
Borne on the slight desert breeze a sound came to them from up the arroyo. It was a mournful, wailing cry and ended in a sob a sound that bespoke pain and fear and misery.
The Three Bad Men looked at one another. Each held up an index finger, en- joining silence. A second, a third time the sound was repeated.
lt's a human voice," announced The Worst Bad Man, "an' there's death in it. Wait here. I'm goin' in to see what's up."
When he had gone The Youngest Bad Man, after the restless and inquisitive manner of youth, climbed a tall rock and gazed up the arroyo.
"I see the top of a covered wagon," he announced.
"Then," said The Wounded Bad Man, "It's a tenderfoot outfit, an' that's a woman cryin'. No desert rat'd come here with a wagon. Fools drive in where burros fear to tread, Bob. They're tenderfeet."
"That's right," agreed The Youngest Bad Man. "Some nester come in over the trail from Imperial Valley and bound for New Jerusalem, I'll bet a new hat."
"Whoever's doin' that whimperin' is sure bound for New Jerusalem," The Wounded Bad Man replied with a grim attempt at humor. "An' if I don't let a doctor look at this shoulder o' mine before long I'll head that way myself."
The Worst Bad Man was gone about ten minutes. Presently the others saw him re- turning. On his hard, sunscorched face deep concern showed plainly, and as he trotted down the arroyo he scratched his unkempt head as if in search of an idea of sufficient magnitude to cope with a grave situation. When he reached his comrades he sat down on a chunk of black lava and fanned himself with his hat.
"There's a fine old state of affairs at the Tanks," he said huskily.
"They ain't dry, are they?" Fright showed in the wide blue eyes of The Youngest Bad Man. The Wounded Bad Man sat down very suddenly and gulped. The Worst Bad Man replied to the question.
"Worse'n that."
The Wounded Bad Man sighed. "It can't be," he said.
"There's a wagon at the Tanks," con- tinued The Worst Bad Man, "but no horses. It's a tenderfoot outfit a man an' his woman an' they come in from Salton, via Canon Springs and Boulder, headed for New Jerusalem. Some o' their kin has started a boardin' tent in the new camp an' these two misfortunates were aimin' to go in with the rush an' clean up a stake. They make Terrapin Tanks all right, but the water's a little low an' the man ain't got sense enough to dig out the sand an' let the water run in. He's one of these nervous city fellers, I guess, and it just naturally hurts him to set down an' wait till that sump-hole fills up. Besides, he don't take kindly to usin' a shovel, so he sticks in a shot o' dynamite to clean out th' tanks an' start the water runnin' - The Wounded Bad Man sprang to his feet, cursing horribly.
'The damned, crazy fool!" he raved. "I'll kill him, I will. I'll kill him just as sure as I'm thirsty."
Three outlaws on the run risk their freedom and their lives to return a newborn to civilization.
Release Date: December 1, 1948
Release Time: 106 minutes
Release Time: 106 minutes
Director: John Ford
Cast:
John Wayne as Robert Marmaduke Hightower
Harry Carey Jr. as William Kearney "The Abilene Kid"
Pedro Armendáriz as Pedro "Pete" Rocafuerte
Mildred Natwick as Dying Mother
Ward Bond as Sheriff Buck Sweet
Mae Marsh as Mrs. Sweet
Jane Darwell as Miss Florie
Guy Kibbee as Judge
Hank Worden as Deputy Curley
Dorothy Ford as Ruby Latham
Ben Johnson as Posse Man
Charles Halton as Oliver Latham
Jack Pennick as Luke
Fred Libby as Deputy
Michael Dugan as Posse Man #2
Francis Ford as Drunken Old-Timer at Bar
Richard Hageman as Saloon Pianist
Gertrude Astor as Townswoman
Ruth Clifford as Woman in Bar
Jack Curtis as Bartender
Harry Tenbrook as Bartender #2
Eva Novak as Townswoman
Amelia Yelda as Robert William Pedro Hightower
John Wayne as Robert Marmaduke Hightower
Harry Carey Jr. as William Kearney "The Abilene Kid"
Pedro Armendáriz as Pedro "Pete" Rocafuerte
Mildred Natwick as Dying Mother
Ward Bond as Sheriff Buck Sweet
Mae Marsh as Mrs. Sweet
Jane Darwell as Miss Florie
Guy Kibbee as Judge
Hank Worden as Deputy Curley
Dorothy Ford as Ruby Latham
Ben Johnson as Posse Man
Charles Halton as Oliver Latham
Jack Pennick as Luke
Fred Libby as Deputy
Michael Dugan as Posse Man #2
Francis Ford as Drunken Old-Timer at Bar
Richard Hageman as Saloon Pianist
Gertrude Astor as Townswoman
Ruth Clifford as Woman in Bar
Jack Curtis as Bartender
Harry Tenbrook as Bartender #2
Eva Novak as Townswoman
Amelia Yelda as Robert William Pedro Hightower
Peter Bernard Kyne was an American novelist who wrote between 1904 and 1940. Many of his works were adapted into screenplays starting in the silent era, particularly his first novel, The Three Godfathers, which was published in 1913 and proved to be a huge success. He is credited in 110 films between 1914 and 1952.
When still under 18, he lied about his age and enlisted in Company L, 14th U.S. Infantry, which served in the Philippines from 1898-1899. The Spanish-American War and the following insurrection of General Emilio Aguinaldo provided background for many of Kyne's later stories. During World War I, he served as a captain in Battery A of the 144th field Artillery, known as the California Grizzlies.
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