Warrior at Willow Lake by Mary Manners Page B

“My head…” Her eyes rolled back, her cheeks white as a snowdrift.
    “Easy. It’s going to be OK.” Barely able to breathe as alarm launched to full-on panic, Maci’s voice shuddered so her words came in a staggered rush. Her pulse hurtled and her hands trembled like autumn leaves as she dropped to her knees, cradling Ali’s head as it slipped back to thump the wood. Beneath the waning sunlight, Ali’s blonde hair fanned across the stained deck like a halo. “Stay with me.”
    “I’m so dizzy. Something’s wrong…with the baby.” Ali’s eyes slipped close as her voice drifted. “Help me, Maci. Please…”
     
    ****
     
    Hunter lifted a bottle of water to his lips and guzzled. The day was hot enough to melt the tar off a roof. He swiped a hand across his mouth as he drained the bottle and tossed it into a recycling bin along the river walk. A crowd had gathered in the grass surrounding the band shell, enjoying popcorn and sodas while they listened to the concert. The aroma of butter wafted, and a cacophony of sounds crowded the air as the symphony packed up their equipment and the grounds crew dug in to clear trash from the park.
    Around the perimeter of the concert quad, along the river walk, and across the parking lot floodlights kicked on, casting a milky glow over the grounds as dusk whispered. On stage, the male musicians were dressed in starched black tuxes while the women wore flowing, ankle-length black skirts coupled with long-sleeved white blouses. In Hunter’s opinion, the required concert attire was way too hot for a day such as this. He tugged at the collar of his navy Willow Lake EMS shirt, thankful for the short sleeves as he meandered around toward the back of the stage.
    His gaze scanned the river walk as his emergency radio crackled with a spattering of messages. Nothing important—everything seemed to be in order. After managing the streets of Chicago, he’d welcomed the much quieter pace of Willow Lake. It was good to be home again. Sure, the town had grown since he’d hightailed to the concrete jungle nearly eight years ago; shops lined Magnolia Street, blending old and quaint with new and flashy. His favorite hang-out was Dom’s Deli, next door to the bookstore named Posts and Pages. Dom’s toasted pastrami on rye slathered with spicy Dijon mustard was to die for. But, despite the growth, Willow Lake’s atmosphere had the same mellow flavor, which almost made him wonder why he’d once been so eager to escape.
    Almost.
    All the changes made it easy to feel like the past was merely an illusion—that he hadn’t once lost a baseball scholarship as well as his dream of playing in the major leagues.
    And that Josh MacLaren hadn’t died.
    Hunter forced the thought away as he rounded the band shell and made his way across the grass. Just like Willow Lake, he’d changed, too. He wasn’t that person anymore—the one who’d coasted through the summer following high school graduation without a care in the world, looking forward to a full ride to Tennessee State, compliments of his gifted pitching ability.
    Life had thrown him a curve ball, and he’d struck out. But now he was back at the plate, and this time he’d hit the grand slam he’d always dreamed of—just not in a way he’d ever imagined.
    The breeze kicked up, drying a line of perspiration that trailed across the nape of his neck and disappeared down his back like fingers skimming over his spine as he reminded himself he was no longer Hunter Stone, Willow Creek Warrior’s star pitcher and switch-hitter. That person had died along with Josh. Now he was—
    “Open your eyes. Talk to me, Ali.” The sudden urgent, high-pitched voice was a knife slashing through the air. Hunter’s senses launched to full alert as he turned toward the deck at the rear of the band shell. Beneath floodlights, a flurry of black and white flashed against the brown of deck wood, followed by the flutter of a golden-red wave, like flames whipping