Joanna Wayne - Miracle at Colts Run Cross

“Put the boys on the phone, or I call in the FBI right now.”

Nick’s threat was met with silence.

Becky had moved to his side, standing so close she could probably hear the hammering of his heart. She didn’t touch him, but somehow it made him stronger just to have her near.

Nick hadn’t realised until that moment how tightly he’d been holding on to the phone, as if it were a tenuous tether to his sons.

Becky sank onto the couch. Her shudders dissolved into sobs.

Nick could stand it no longer. He crossed the room and dropped to the sofa beside her. He wound an arm around her shoulders, hoping she wouldn’t push him away.

Her head fell to his chest. “Get them back, Nick. Just get them back.”

Joanna Waynewas born and raised in Shreveport, Louisiana and received her undergraduate and graduate degrees from LSU-Shreveport. She moved to New orleans in 1984 and it was there that she attended her first writing class and joined her first professional writing organisation. Her first novel was published in 1994.

Now, dozens of published books later, Joanna has made a name for herself as being on the cutting edge of romantic suspense in both series and single-title novels.

She currently resides in a small community forty miles north of Houston, Texas, with her husband, though she still has many family and emotional ties to Louisiana, she loves living in the Lone Star state. You may write to Joanna at Po Box 265, Montgomery, Texas 77356, USA.

by

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To mothers everywhere who know what it means to love a child more than life itself. And to every woman who’s ever found that special man whose love is worth fighting for. Here’s to Christmas, miracles and love.

Becky Ridgely grabbed her denim jacket from the hook and swung out the back door. A light mist made the air seem much cooler than the predicted fifty-degree high for the day. The gust of wind that caught her off guard didn’t help, but she’d had to escape the house or sink even deeper into the blue funk that had a killer grip on her mood.

In a matter of weeks, her divorce from Nick would be final. Their marriage that had begun with a fiery blast of passion and excitement she’d thought would never cool had dissolved into a pile of ashes.

Nonetheless, Nick Ridgely, star receiver for the Dallas Cowboys, was in her living room on the Sunday before Christmas, as large as life on the new big-screen TV and claiming the attention of her entire family. She could understand it of their twin sons. At eight years of age, Nick was David and Derrick’s hero. She’d never take that away from them.

But you’d think the rest of the family could show a little sensitivity for her feelings. But no, even her sister and her mother were glued to the set as if winning were paramount to gaining world peace or at least finding a cure for cancer.

Did no one but her get that this was just a stupid game?

Most definitely Nick didn’t. For more than half of every year, he put everything he had into football. His time. His energy. His enthusiasm. His dedication. She and the boys were saddled with the leftovers. Some women settled for that. She couldn’t, which is why she’d left him and moved back to the family ranch.

Her family liked Nick. Everyone did. And he was a good husband and father in many ways. He didn’t drink too much. He had never done drugs, not even in college when all their friends were trying it.

He disdained the use of steroids and would never use the shortcut to improve performance. He didn’t cheat on her, though several gossip magazines had connected him to Brianna Campbell, slut starlet, since they had been separated.

But his one serious fault was the wedge that had driven them apart. Once preparation for football season started, he shut her out of his life so completely that she could have been invisible. Oh, he pretended to listen to her or the boys at times, but it was surface only.

His always-ready excuse was that his mind was on the upcoming season or game. The message was that it mattered more than they did. She’d lived with the rejection as long as she could tolerate it, and then she left.

“Mom.”

She turned at the panicked voice of her son Derrick. He’d pushed through the back door and was standing on the top step, his face a ghostly white.

She raced to him. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“Dad’s hurt.”

“He probably just had the breath knocked out of him,” she said.

“No, it’s bad, Mom. Really bad. He’s not moving.”

She put her arm around Derrick’s shoulder as they hurried back to the family room where the earlier cheers had turned deathly silent.

The screen defied her to denounce Derrick’s fears. Nick was on his back, his helmet off and lying at a cockeyed angle beside him. Several trainers leaned over him. A half dozen of his teammates were clustered behind them, concern sketched into their faces.

Becky took a deep breath as reality sank in and panic rocked her equilibrium. “What happened?”

“He went up for the ball and got tackled below the waist,” Bart said.

Before her brother could say more, the network flashed the replay. A cold shudder climbed her spine as she watched Nick get flipped in midair. He slammed to the ground at an angle that seemed to drive his head and the back of his neck into the hard turf.

His eyes were open, but he had yet to move his arms or legs. Players from the other team joined the circle of players that had formed around him. A few had bowed in prayer. They all looked worried.

“Those guys know what it means to take a hit like that,” her brother Langston said. “No player likes to see another one get seriously hurt.”

“Yet they go at each other like raging animals.” The frustration had flown from Becky’s mouth before she could stop it. The stares of her family bore into her, no doubt mistaking her exasperation for a lack of empathy. But they hadn’t lived with Nick’s obsession for pushing his mind and body to the limit week after week.

“I only meant that it’s almost inevitable that players get hurt considering the intensity of the game.”

The family grew silent. The announcer droned on and on about Nick’s not moving as the trainers strapped him to a backboard and attached a C-collar to support his neck.

David scooted close to the TV and put his hand on the corner of the screen. “Come on, Dad. You’ll be all right. You gotta be all right.”

“I got hurt bad the first time I played in a real game,” Derrick said. “I wanted to cry, but I didn’t ’cause the other players make fun of you if you do.”

Becky had never wanted her sons to play football, but had given in to their pleadings this year when they turned eight. Nick had always just expected they’d play and spent half the time he was with them practicing the basic skills of the game. It was yet another bone of contention between them.

They showed the replay again while Nick was taken from the field. All of the announcers were in on the act now, concentrating on the grisly possible outcomes from such an injury.

“The fans would love it if Nick could wave a farewell but he still hasn’t moved his arms or legs.”

“It doesn’t look good. It would be terrible to see the career of a player with Nick Ridgely’s talent end like this.”

“Did you hear that?” Derrick said. “The announcer said Daddy might not ever play football again.”