TWICE VICTORIOUS Read online

  Now that he'd seen Steve again, he wondered why he had pulled out of their friendship seventeen years ago. Because he'd feared Steve's contempt for the choice he'd made? He just didn't know.

  Damn it! His family had needed him.

  * * * *

  Stell floated out of Frank Pauvel's office about two feet off the ground. She could ride! Starting today.

  The drive home seemed endless. Usually she enjoyed the view of the cherry trees along the West Bank esplanade as she swooped across the river and onto I-84. Today it seemed as if every other car on the road was crawling. When she finally reached her exit, she hit every red light between there and home.

  Quickly she changed her clothes, pulling on an old pair of cycling shorts and last year's team jersey. Both seemed tight. I've spread. Not enough exercise.

  Her bicycle was ready. She'd spent two hours last night cleaning it, oiling the chain, checking the indexing on the shifters and the pressure in the tires. She'd even waxed the frame, so that it shone bright red in the sunlight. Much as she wanted to use her titanium bike, she'd decided to stick to the mountain bike she called her truck for a while. It was heavier, but it was also more forgiving of riding errors. Now she quickly changed pedals, since Frank had advised her to use toe clips for a while.

  Frank had made her promise not to ride hills, so she loaded the bike into her van and headed south. The Springwater Trail, an old railroad right-of-way, was about as level a route as there was in Portland. She parked at the trailhead and unloaded her bike.

  Once again she checked everything. Water. Identification. Pump. Tools. She spun the front wheel. The odometer came to life, counting turns of the front wheel, measuring distance traveled. She was ready to go.

  Carefully lowering the bike, she swung her leg across. Once astride and the bike upright, she tucked her left toe into the clip and pulled it upward, ready to push off.

  Her stomach clenched. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead, along her spine. Her mouth went dry.

  "This is ridiculous," she muttered, willing her body to relax. She forced the pedal downward, lifted her other foot and set it in place. The front wheel wobbled. More sweat trickled down her temples. She clutched the brakes and almost tipped over before she could get her foot out of the toeclip.

  Both feet on the ground, Stell breathed deeply, slowly. "What is the matter with me?" She closed her eyes and sought the still center of self-confidence. Her father had taught her to do that, taught her to believe that success came from a firm conviction that a person could accomplish anything she wanted with all her heart.

  All she found was uncertainty. That and the dread of seriously injuring herself again.

  "Stop it!" She said aloud. "I am not afraid. I'm just out of practice. Just a little apprehensive, maybe, because I haven't ridden for a few weeks." Make that nearly four months, a jeering mental voice reminded her. You're soft and weak. Out of condition and out of practice.

  Giving herself no more time to think, Stell pushed off, concentrating on keeping the bike upright, on steering in the direction she wanted to go, on pedaling smoothly.

  The cold sweat returned to her brow and the butterflies to her stomach, but she ignored them. She spun the pedals slowly, mentally counting cadence. No more than fifty rpm, Frank had warned her, and work up to that.

  Keeping her cadence down was no problem. Her legs felt like well-cooked spaghetti after a quarter-mile. Her shoulders started to ache, and the back of her neck felt tight. Once more she forced herself to relax, willing the tenseness out of her spine, her forearms, her fingers. By the time she'd reached the bridge across Johnson Creek, she was ready to turn back.

  Feet on the ground, she picked the bicycle up and rotated it, turning on her heel as she did so. For a moment she wondered if she was going to fall over, then the instant of light-headedness passed. Cautiously she started back toward the trailhead, telling herself over and over, I can do it. I will do it. Even a five-year-old could ride that distance.

  Stell felt as if she'd ridden a hundred miles by the time she got to her van. Loading the bike took just about everything she had left. For fifteen minutes she half-reclined in the seat, monitoring her breathing, the tension in her body. Finally she pulled her seat back upright and strapped her seat belt. Home was only about four miles away. Surely she could drive that far.

  She could, finding that she felt better with each mile. The debilitating exhaustion she'd felt while loading the bike was gone, and so was the sick sensation in her belly. Her legs had stopped shaking, stopped feeling as if the bones had dissolved into so much Jell-O. By the time she pulled into her driveway, she felt almost human again. But she left the bike in the van anyhow. No sense pushing her luck.

  * * * *

  Traffic on the freeway east of Portland was heavy. Stell kept quiet and let Adam concentrate on his driving until they crossed the Sandy River.

  "I saw Frank Pauvel while you were gone."

  "Oh?"

  "He says I can ride every day now, as long as I don't put too much strain on my leg."

  "That's good." But his voice lacked enthusiasm. She looked at his profile, seeing for the first time since he picked her up the tension in his neck, the tight set of his mouth.

  One of her most recent fantasies included Adam's understanding of and support for her determination to compete in the Sawtooth Classic. He would encourage her during the long, difficult months of bringing her body back to its performance peak. He would be waiting with open arms when she was first across the finish line. And after she'd proved she was best in the world, they would build a life together. Their nights together would be filled with love, their days with happiness...children...someday....

  Idly she toyed with his fingers. Long and slim, they were knowing and gifted, able to rouse her with a touch, talented at arousing and exploiting her most erotic inclinations. Her mind wandered, mental images of possibilities drifting in and out of her consciousness. He would be handsome all his life. His hair would go gradually silver, exchanging one metallic sheen for another, while his body would remain lean and supple. Although she still hadn't met his mother or sister, she had seen photographs. The shared family characteristics would appear once again in his children, except some of them would have her midnight dark hair, her changeable gray-green-blue eyes.

  He was not relaxing. In fact, the farther they got from Portland, the more tense he seemed to be. "Adam, what's wrong?"

  "Wrong? Nothing." He turned his head, giving her a brief smile that probably was meant to be reassuring, but wasn't. It was closer to a grimace.

  "You're upset about something."

  "Damn it, Stell, I am not upset!" His hands on the leather-wrapped steering wheel were white-knuckled and clenched.

  Sure you're not, she agreed, but bit her lip to keep from starting another argument. Ever since his return from New York, he'd been cranky as a bear with a sore paw. His flying trip to Taiwan hadn't helped, either, taking as it had most another week. He'd only come home yesterday afternoon.

  No wonder he seems tense. He's probably exhausted from jet-lag.

  She sought something innocuous to say. "I wish it weren't so stormy."

  "Umph." The steering wheel didn't seem in quite as much danger of being mangled, but the muscles at the corners of his jaw were still knotted.

  "Will they cancel the cruise, do you suppose?"

  "No."

  "Are you terribly behind at work?"

  "No."

  "Are you going to be like this all evening?" She kept her voice pleasant, despite the anger that was growing within her.

  "You don't like the way I am?" The implication was that she could take him or leave him, preferably the latter.

  "Stop the car!"

  He ignored her, which was just as well, since she had no desire to hitchhike on the freeway. Steaming, Stell sat quietly, counting the mileposts to their destination.

  As soon as he stopped the car, she was out of it, never mind the pelting rain.
Surely there was a phone in the waiting room. Even if she had to pay for a taxi all the way to Portland, it would be better than an evening with a total boor.

  She was punching in her calling code when an arm slipped around her waist and a deep voice spoke in her ear. "I'm sorry, Stell."

  Her hand faltered.

  "Please." He took the receiver from her, returned it to its cradle. "I was taking my frustrations out on you. It's been a hell of a day."

  "You were really nasty." She didn't bother hiding her anger.

  "I was. And I'm sorry. Can we just forget it and enjoy the cruise?" He gestured out the rain-streaked window at the docked sternwheeler.

  What a bribe! She'd been interested for years, ever since she first read about the sternwheeler Columbia Gorge and its dinner cruises. Until now, there hadn't been anyone in her life who was an appropriate companion for something so romantic.

  It was really no contest. She'd rather be with Adam than alone, rather be with him than with anyone she knew. Even ill-tempered, he filled an otherwise empty place in her life.

  Adam knew he wasn't fit company this evening. It had been a hell of a day, but he thought he'd left his frustrations and exhaustion in the shower. By the time he'd picked Stell up, he was looking forward to a carefree evening, counting the hours until they could be making love.

  Then she'd told him she could ride her bike again.

  He did his best to enjoy the cruise, to hide his apprehension. Time was slipping away, leaving him little opportunity to show Stell what life with him could be.

  A summer storm ruffled the waters of the Columbia River, turned the tree-clad hillsides into dripping curtains of dark green. The evening sun found gaps in the lowering black clouds, arching rainbows from cliff to water, from chasm to mountaintop.

  Their table was by the window, giving them a view of nature's spectacle. After the plates were removed, Adam reached across to take her hands in his. "Still angry with me?"

  Stell seemed to pull her eyes from the view with difficulty. She had been unusually quiet ever since his apology, but she didn't seem to be sulking. Just slightly withdrawn.

  "Angry?" It was as if she'd forgotten their disagreement. "Oh. No, Adam. No, I'm not angry. Just thinking."

  "A penny," he prompted.

  She shook her head, not looking directly at him. "My thoughts aren't worth even that." Her smile looked forced at first, then gradually reached her eyes. "Don't mind me. I guess I'm just tired."

  She slipped into her jacket and picked up her clutch purse before he could reach to help her. "Shall we stroll the deck?"

  "It's raining."

  "Pooh. Just a light mist. I thought you were a native Oregonian." As she walked ahead of him, Adam realized she wasn't limping at all. She really was getting better.

  Seeing her improvement should make him happy, but it didn't. It frightened him.

  Stell hadn't deliberately withdrawn from Adam. When she finally realized his anger in the car followed immediately upon her announcement that she was riding again, she'd really tried to think of something else to talk about. The trouble was, she was so excited, so full of hope and anticipation, no other subject even occurred to her.

  It had been sort of like what Gramps had often told her: "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." Telling Adam about her hopes and plans was definitely not saying something nice.

  With an effort she pushed anticipation to the back of her mind. "It seems to be clearing up." The sun had dipped behind the mountains and the Columbia Gorge was growing dark. Although a big fat black cloud sat directly over them, the western sky was almost clear, only a few scarlet and gold streaks marking the remnants of the storm.

  She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. He always smelled so good. So wonderfully male. "Would you like to go to Eugene with me next Saturday?"

  "Eugene? I thought we were going to the Coast over Labor Day."

  Oh, dear, what had she done? "Well, you had mentioned it, but then you went to Taiwan, and I had to give Terry an answer, and, well.... Adam, I'm sorry." She bit her lip, not liking the angry twist of his mouth. "One of the guys who was going to referee at a stage race in Eugene next weekend was in an accident--"

  He interrupted, his voice tight. "On a bicycle?"

  "No." She contained her irritation. "No, his car was broadsided by a pickup. He's got a broken shoulderblade, and some rather spectacular bruises." The sternwheeler bumped against the dock, throwing her against Adam. His body was unyielding. "But that's not important. What it means is that I'll be working all day Saturday and Sunday."

  He said nothing as they walked down the gangplank. Silence filled the car until they were halfway home. She wasn't going to apologize again. It wasn't as if she were going to Eugene just to watch a race.

  But if it were, shouldn't she expect him to understand? As soon as the traitorous thought popped into her mind, Stell shoved it back and down. She would worry about Adam's problems with her cycling when she resumed her training. Not tonight.

  "Do you really need the money?" he said, finally.

  "It doesn't hurt." What she earned for officiating at races wasn't all that much either. She needed the contact with other cyclists, their support for her dream, their belief in her ability to realize it.

  "What time shall I pick you up?" It was said grudgingly, as if there were a million things he would rather do than accompany her to Eugene.

  "I want to take my van, so I'll pick you up. Is eight too early?" Be patient, she reminded herself. He still didn't equate her commitment to cycling with his to KIWANDA. She was determined to make him understand.

  It was either that or give him up, an option she couldn't accept.

  * * * *

  Once a month Adam went to his mother's for dinner. Although they saw each other often at the office, this gave them a time together when they didn't talk business. Usually he enjoyed himself, but this week he was just out of sorts enough that he came close to begging off. Now he wished he had.

  "I don't remember when you've tried my patience so, Adam." Joyce Vanderhook set the meatloaf on the table between them and seated herself.

  "What'd I do now, Mom?" He helped himself to the meatloaf, scooped a baked potato onto his plate. At least he'd have a hearty meal along with his scolding. With luck, she'd made a custard pie, his favorite.

  "It's not what you've done, Adam. It's what you're doing. Snapping, snarling, going about as if everyone's your enemy."

  "Hey, I know I've been a little short tempered lately, but it's not that bad."

  Joyce just looked at him, as if to say, Pull the other one, kid.

  Damn! She always could put him on the defensive. "Look, Mom, I've had a lot to do, getting the Fall Line out and all."

  "Mitch is no longer competent?" she said, offering him seconds on green beans with bacon. "You don't trust Juliana to manage her own division?"

  "Mitch is so competent it scares me," he said, giving his Office Manager credit where it was due. "And yes, I trust Juliana. Has she said something to make you think I don't?"

  "No." Joyce shrugged. "She can fight her own battles. But I wouldn't push her too far, Adam. I think she's taken just about all she's willing to from you."

  Adam felt his jaw drop. With exaggerated care, he set his fork on the side of his plate, folded his napkin and laid it on the table. "Okay, Mom, let's have it. You've succeeded in ruining my dinner. Why don't you make the rest of my day?"

  "Why, Adam, I hadn't intended to upset you. I just thought someone should warn you that you're becoming unforgivably arrogant again. I don't mind so much, because I'm your mother, after all, and I'm used to your little flaws. But your sister and your employees certainly can't enjoy being treated like they've no intelligence."

  Adam pounced in the few words in her speech that he understood. "'Unforgivably arrogant again?' Just what do you mean by that?"

  "Well, sometimes you do act as if no one in the world is able to determine the correc
t path but you." Not meeting his eyes, Joyce rearranged the condiments into a neat circle before her. "Just like you did for me." She reached across and removed his plate. "Now, would you like some custard pie?"

  "Wait a minute, Mom. What are you talking about?"

  "Don't be impatient, Adam. Let me get the pie."

  He stared after her, not believing her behavior. His mother was usually the most straightforward woman in the world, outspoken and blunt. Now all of a sudden, she was talking in circles, not making sense at all.

  "Now," she said, sliding his pie across the table, "what did you say?"

  "I asked you," he gritted between clenched jaws, "what the he...the dickens you were talking about. What did I do for you that you obviously haven't forgiven me for?"

  Her head was bent over her plate and her hands were clasped tightly together and pressing against her lips. Finally she looked up and met his eyes. "You took my freedom of choice away from me, Adam. You treated me like a very stupid, very irresponsible child."

  "Mom, I never...when...? I don't know what you mean." Had his mother lost her mind? He'd never done anything to hurt her. He'd given up his own dreams to make sure she never suffered for all her sacrifices. And since then, he'd made sure she was comfortable, that she didn't have to work unless she chose.

  He'd treated her like his beloved mother, for God's sake!

  And this was the gratitude he got.

  "Maybe you'd better explain," he said, using all his will to control the resentment that was boiling up within him. He shoved the pie away, knowing that he couldn't eat it, that it would choke him.

  "I wasn't ever going to tell you this, Adam. It seemed to matter so much to you to take care of me after your father...after Nick died. You really were wonderful. Thoughtful, self-sacrificing, sympathetic, and generous. I did...I do appreciate it, even if I wish you hadn't."

  "Mom, maybe you'd better just tell me, instead of talking all around the subject. What did I do?"

  "You quit, Adam." She pushed her pie to join his in the middle of the table. Leaning back in her chair, she looked him straight in the eye and said, "You wasted all that your father and I had done for you. You threw it away as if it didn't matter."