A Great Catch by Lorna Seilstad Page A

both hands hugging the ball to his chest, then he kicked and wound his arm like a windmill before hurling the ball toward the batter so fast Emily lost track of it.
    “Strike three! You’re out!”
    The batter glared at Carter and threw down his bat. A glimmer of a smile broke through Carter’s stoic expression as he ran in from the pitcher’s mound. The others joined him on the bench.
    First to bat, the Owls’ shortstop connected on the second pitch and made it safely to first base.
    Carter stepped to the plate next but was facing a different direction than the shortstop. Emily couldn’t see his face. He balanced the ash bat in his hand and hit the dirt a couple of times. The breeze carried the dust cloud away. Then, setting his stance wide and sure, he held the bat aloft over his left shoulder.
    The opposing pitcher threw the ball directly at him. Carter jumped out of the way. The ball whizzed by him and landed with a thud in the catcher’s mitt.
    “Strike one!” the umpire shouted.
    Carter shook his shoulders and stepped back to the plate. He swung at the second pitch. The ball flew toward right field and landed in an open spot. Carter raced toward first base.
    “Not bad for a southpaw,” a man behind Emily said.
    “And for a hurler,” his friend added.
    Although Emily knew southpaw referred to Carter being left-handed, she was tempted to turn around and ask why they doubted his batting abilities. But she chose to remain silent. A lady could learn much by listening to those around her.
    “Yeah,” the first man agreed. “Most pitchers are the weakest batters on the team.”
    So, Carter Stockton was a bit of a wonder. Why didn’t that surprise her?
    The Owls took the lead by the end of the eighth inning. As the game continued, Grandma Kate pressed her hands to her back. “It’s getting late, Emily. Perhaps we should go.”
    Carter sent the baseball sailing toward the batter, and the umpire called the second strike in a booming voice.
    “Now?” She glanced at Carter.
    A smile graced Grandma Kate’s wrinkled face. “I thought you didn’t want to come.”
    “I never said that.”
    “You implied it would be a complete waste of time.”
    Emily wanted to cheer when Carter struck out yet another one of the Merchant Browns. “Although I still believe I could have used my time more wisely, I must say, this has been invigorating.”
    “It has at that.” Her grandmother flicked open a Battenberg lace fan and waved it in front of her face.
    “And it’s almost over. I don’t think a slight delay in our departure will make any difference in what I complete today.” Or don’t complete. A familiar tug of guilt pulled on her. Responsibilities, forgotten for the last two hours, suddenly felt heavy on her shoulders again.
    The batter stepped back in place, and Emily held her breath as the ball sped over the plate.
    “Strike one!” Hill called.
    Applause and cheers erupted around her.
    Carter glanced at her and nodded. She could practically see the win going right to that cocky, curly-haired head of his. If he won, he was going to be insufferable. He already had an air of confidence about him. And why shouldn’t he? He was good-looking, athletic, and wealthy. He could play all summer long even if there was work to do.
    She, on the other hand, couldn’t afford to play. After all, it was her job to find something that would unify the ladies in their fight. They needed something to get behind, and it needed to be public, where the community could see a woman could do anything a man could do.
    If only she could teach men like Carter a lesson. Wipe that smirk right off his chiseled face. Lord, okay, I’m trying to turn to You first. Do You have any ideas?
    “Think they’ll pull this off, Lyle?” the man behind her commented to his buddy. “If they do, I’ll be back to watch every game.”
    “You know what I’d pay to see? These boys up against one of those Bloomer Girls’ teams.”
    “A girls’ team