LITMIR.BIZ

      To my grandmother, Nellie Sharpe,

      a die-hard baseball fan. Your legacy jumped two

      generations to live on in your great-granddaughter

      Audrey, who eagerly awaits that first crack

      of the bat every spring.

      Prologue

       August 8, 1963 from the diary of Eleanor Chance

      NOW THAT JONATHAN’S seventeen and chasing after girls, I decided to find a hobby so I wouldn’t be forever worrying about him. This summer I became a Chicago Cubs baseball fan! I figured that both Jonathan and my dear husband, Archie, would share in this new passion and we’d have some family togetherness listening to the games on the radio here at the Last Chance Ranch.

      So much for that idea. Turns out neither of them have the slightest interest in the sport, but I love it! I don’t care if my Cubbies don’t win very often. They’re historic, dating way back, and Wrigley Field is a piece of history, too. Besides, I like the team’s name. Bear cubs are the cutest things ever, and I should know. Here in Jackson Hole we have bears aplenty.

      I suppose I could have picked football or basketball, but I don’t understand those rules as well. Baseball has always made sense to me. Hearing the crack of the bat sends a chill down my spine, especially in games like today! Ron Santo hit a home run in the bottom of the tenth to beat the L.A. Dodgers, which is amazing because the Cubs aren’t doing so hot, as usual, and the Dodgers are leading the National League.

      When I announced this thrilling victory at dinner tonight, Jonathan and Archie both smiled and said that was nice, but I could tell they don’t give a flip. Too bad for them. They’re missing some great entertainment. I’ve sent away for a Cubs baseball cap. I’m going to wear it, too.

      1

       Present Day

      LOGAN CARSWELL, FORMER catcher for the Chicago Cubs, had two surefire remedies for a troubled mind, and he couldn’t use either one. Booze was out because he’d taken pain meds for his knee so he could dance at Alex Keller’s wedding reception in Shoshone, Wyoming. As for the second method, he didn’t know any of the women in this tiny town well enough.

      Eventually, in spite of the meds, his knee began to bother him. Retreating to one of the Spirits and Spurs’s well-worn bar stools, he swiveled to face the dance floor, where Alex was two-stepping with his bride, Tyler. Logan had known him ever since they were both kids living in the same Chicago neighborhood.

      Alex had never had trouble getting girls, with his all-American blond good looks. Add to that his natural charisma behind a microphone, and he’d been able to pick and choose. Apparently he’d chosen Tyler, a dark-haired Italian beauty, or she’d chosen him.

      Near as Logan could tell watching the happy couple on the dance floor, they were both quite pleased with the situation. Alex was obviously in love and seemed to have his life together at last. Logan should be so lucky. But he refused to allow his problems to cast a shadow over this celebration.

      “Can I get you anything, Mr. Carswell?”

      Logan swiveled back to the bar and concluded that luck hadn’t totally deserted him. Of the two bartenders working the wedding reception, he’d drawn the girl instead of the guy.

      He’d noticed her earlier. She wore her sun-streaked brown hair in a no-nonsense ponytail and didn’t seem to go in for a lot of makeup. Her hazel eyes tilted up slightly at the corners, adding a touch of the exotic to her girl-next-door appeal.

      From her enthusiasm and ready smile, he guessed she might be exactly his type—a born optimist. He could sure use a dose of optimism right now.

      As he gazed at her, he realized she was looking right back with similar interest. He’d built a night of outstanding sex on less. But Shoshone was a folksy town, and one-night stands wouldn’t go unnoticed around here the way they would in Chicago.

      Still, he could flirt with her a little without doing any harm. He tipped back the Stetson that Alex had insisted he buy, along with the requisite jeans, boots and yoked shirt. “I think this is the part where the teetotalling stranger orders a sarsaparilla.” He wished he could remember her name, but if someone had mentioned it, he’d forgotten.

      She laughed. “Sorry. Don’t have that. But the root beer is excellent.”

      “That’ll do.”

      After placing a coaster decorated with a bucking bronco in front of him, she picked up a glass mug. Her nails were short and unpolished, her movements quick and efficient. “How do you like Shoshone so far?”

      “Friendly place.”

      “We think so.”

      He grabbed the first conversational topic he could think of. “Is it true that this bar is haunted?”

      “So they say. That’s why it’s called the Spirits and Spurs.” She filled the mug to the top, and foam oozed over the lip. “Personally, I’ve never seen a ghost in here, but some claim they have.”

      Logan had never considered root beer foam erotic, but as it slid down the side of the mug, his balls tightened. Not much, but enough for him to register the sensation. Yes, a good romp in the hay with someone cute and personable like this bartender would be therapeutic, but he didn’t give himself much chance of having that any time soon.

      She allowed the foam to settle before putting the mug on the coaster. “I’ve never talked to a major league ballplayer before.” She sounded fascinated by the prospect.

      Oh, boy. If she had a fantasy image of him as some big celebrity, he needed to nip that in the bud. “I’m afraid you’re not talking to one now, either. I’m out of the game.”

      She met his gaze with sympathy in her eyes. “I know. Alex mentioned it. He said if you were still playing, you wouldn’t have been able to come to the wedding.”

      “Right.” He managed a smile. “At least some good came out of it.”

      “Still, it can’t be easy. But kudos to you for putting on a brave face for the party.”

      A knot loosened in his chest. Just kind words

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