TWICE VICTORIOUS Read online

  Stiffening her upper lip, she smiled and said, "I'm so glad you could join us for Christmas dinner." She relieved the young woman of the casserole she held. "Warren, you can put the salad directly on the sideboard, then show Whitney where to put her coat." Escaping to the kitchen, she took several deep breaths.

  What was wrong with her, anyway? She was ready to weep at the slightest provocation. What a sight she'd been, standing in front of Macy's animated window last week, tears streaming down her face.

  The doorbell pealed again. "Get that, will you Warren?" she called. Reducing the heat under the gravy, she gave it a stir. The turkey was done, the gravy made. All she had to do was keep an eye on things until everyone got here. That and paste a smile on her face and pretend to be enjoying the season.

  Warren's idea of inviting members of the team who had no families in the area had been a good one. Last year she and her cousin had been alone, and it had been pretty grim. Christmas was for families, and lacking that, for crowds of good friends. If she were alone, she'd have too much time to think. Until a month ago she'd been looking forward to sharing this Christmas with Adam. Now she was doing her best to purge him from her memory. And her heart.

  The cheer, the laughter, and the crazy gifts they exchanged kept her occupied until close to midnight.

  "Merry Christmas," Stell called to Warren and Whitney, who were the last to leave. "Merry Christmas," she repeated to herself as she closed the door. A tape of Christmas music still played softly on the stereo, and three fat candles remained lit among the greens on the mantel. Stell picked up a discarded napkin, an empty glass. The house creaked and a branch scraped against the porch.

  "Bah, humbug," was more like it. Now that everyone had gone home, she could let her face rest from the artificial smile it had worn all evening.

  She was so tired of being alone. Last year it hadn't bothered her, because she'd not known how different life could be.

  Now she did.

  If only she could stop loving him. He wasn't worth the pain she was experiencing, the emotional deprivation she'd felt since she'd learned what he really was, under all that charm and good looks.

  There still wasn't a place in her life for someone who would give up his dreams.

  "Adam!" She heard the word echo from the hardwood floor. "Oh, Adam, why couldn't you have been different?" But would she want him any different? Hadn't she fallen in love with the whole package? What should have been different were the circumstances. She and Adam should have met at a different time, in different lives, uncomplicated by conflicting goals, irreconcilable dreams.

  Stacking the glasses and cups she'd found into a precarious tower with no regard for their fragility, she headed for the kitchen. She'd always hated the aftermath of a party. What had been bright and welcoming only a few hours ago was now shabby and ravaged. There were rings on the mahogany coffee table, left by uncoastered glasses, greasy crumbs on the brocade wing chairs. Candle wax had dripped on her best damask tablecloth, leaving a red puddle that probably would never come out. And most of these darned wineglasses wouldn't fit into the dishwasher.

  What had ever possessed her anyway, to volunteer to give a party for a bunch of uncouth cyclists?

  Stell looked around the kitchen, seeing only devastation. "You're not going anywhere, are you?" she said to the spills, the leftovers, and the mountains of dirty dishes.

  "But I am. I'm going to bed."

  Tomorrow she'd clean up the party mess. Tomorrow, when the rest of the world was opening gifts and finding fat tangerines and shiny dimes in Christmas stockings, she'd put her house in order, then go out for a ride.

  Forty or fifty miles should be about right to bring her temporary peace of mind.

  * * * *

  What Stell really wanted to do was join the rest of the Portland Wheelmen on their weekly ride, never mind that it was unusually cold for late April. She wasn't sure why she'd agreed to be the cycling community's representative tonight, instead. Lately she'd been out of town so much, competing all over North America in order to ensure she'd have enough points to qualify for the U.S. Nationals that she'd hardly seen her friends in months. In a couple of weeks she'd be leaving again, for a month of high altitude training and conditioning in Denver.

  She looked around the enormous room, surprised at the number of tables set up for dinner. She hadn't supposed there would be so many people interested in seeing Oregon the site of the 2018 Winter Olympics. Weaving her way toward the front, she looked around for familiar faces. Surely she'd see someone she knew. It had been only four years since she'd left Wilkins, Wasatch and McGonigle, after all.

  "Stell. Stell McCray."

  She turned her head. "Alice French! How good to see you."

  The tall, gray-haired woman met her, hands outstretched in greeting. "I was hoping you'd be here tonight. I wanted someone to sit with who wouldn't talk basketball all night." She gestured behind her, where her husband, Bill, stood with three of the Trailblazers. "Will you join us, dear?"

  "Of course. It'll give us a chance to catch up." She followed Alice to a round table at the very front. Leaving her gloves to mark the place next to Alice's, she said, "Who else is sitting with us?"

  "The Newells, Ted and Francie Loomis, Krys and Ky Hong," Alice said, counting on her fingers. "I guess we'll have an empty seat, unless you're expecting a date."

  Stell laughed. "When do I have time for dating?"

  "I guess you don't, dear, not that you shouldn't make time." Linking arms with Stell, she led her across the room, to join a mixed crowd near the bar. "What are you drinking?"

  A head of golden hair caught Stell's attention. Oh, God! She slipped free of Alice's gentle grasp, started to turn away.

  "Don't run off. I see someone I want you to meet." With irresistible determination, Alice again clung to Stell. "Jack, dear, would you get me two white wines, please," she called to someone in the line before the bar.

  Shortly Stell found herself visiting with the mayor and finding her delightful, as well as extraordinarily astute. Before she knew it, she was agreeing to serve on the local Bicycle/Pedestrian Advisory Committee the next time there was an opening.

  "She just won't take no for an answer, will she?" Stell said as she and Alice wound their way back to their table.

  Alice just smiled, and Stell began to suspect she'd been set up. She sighed. It wasn't that she minded doing her civic duty. She just didn't like being tricked into it.

  The other couples were seated when they got to the table. Stell slipped into her seat, fortunately with its back to the head table. It should have occurred to her that everyone remotely connected with the sports community would be here tonight.

  Table talk was light and interesting all through dinner. Stell found herself having a good time, even though her back itched from the force of a savage glare. As soon as dinner was over, she'd disappear. A confrontation was not what she needed tonight.

  One of her clients from Wilkins, Wasatch and McGonigle came over to say hello as dessert was being served. She chatted with him for a few minutes, hoping her smile would keep him from noticing that she couldn't, for the life of her, remember his name. When he left she couldn't help turning to look at the head table, stretched along a low stage just behind her. The governor and her husband, several of Portland's leading business people and their spouses, one of the Trailblazers and his wife, an unfamiliar woman, and...and Adam.

  He was staring at her, his eyes cold and piercing, his lips pulled into a thin line. The deep creases she had loved to trace along his cheeks were incised even deeper, harsh parentheses beside his mouth.

  She stared back, filling her eyes and her memory with the sight of him, knowing in that moment just how empty her life would be from now on.

  Oh, Adam, her heart beseeched, why couldn't everything have been different for us?

  Adam couldn't keep his eyes off of her. All through dinner he'd kept looking toward the table where Stell was sitting, her back to him. Willing
her to turn around, willing her to meet his eyes, to read the need, the loneliness there.

  "Adam? Adam, I know you're bored to distraction, but could you at least pass the cream?"

  "What? Oh, sorry, Harriet. I was wool-gathering." He turned to look at his companion, a beautiful woman, an elegant woman. "What did you say?" An old friend of his parents', Harriet was here tonight representing her family's sporting goods store, the largest in Oregon. He'd offered to escort her when he heard her husband, Justin, was back East at a funeral.

  "I asked you for the cream. If it's not too much trouble." Her voice held contained laughter.

  "No, of course not. Sugar?" He handed her the heavy silver containers. "More wine?"

  "Adam, they took the wine away with dinner. And you know I never use sugar." She tipped the pitcher, let a meager three drops slip into her cup. "Why didn't you bring her tonight?"

  "Her? Who?"

  "The woman you've been watching all through dinner. If she's so fascinating, why did you bring me instead of her? I could have come alone." Her dark blue eyes studied him over the rim of her coffee cup. "Who is she?"

  "She wouldn't have come." Not in a million years. If he'd had the guts to ask her, she would probably have hung up on him before he finished saying hello.

  "She's quite attractive," Harriet said, "in an athletic sort of way. Is that how you met her?"

  "Um-hmm." Adam's attention returned to Stell, who was smiling up at a tall man who'd bent over her chair. The smile she was bestowing on him was brilliant, full of affection, the same sort of smile she'd warmed him with not so very long ago.

  Damn! Why couldn't he forget her, put her out of his mind as he'd put her out of his life? Stell turned around as the tall man left her, looked along the head table. Before he could react, their gazes locked.

  Hers were green tonight, matching the forest green of her velvet dress. She was beautiful, enchanting, the woman of his dreams. She'd been his and he'd lost her.

  "Adam, I asked you who she is." Harriet's insistent voice broke the spell and Adam found himself able to look away from Stell's compelling stare.

  "Her name's Stell McCray," he said, hoping his pain wasn't evident. "She's the best woman cyclist in the world."

  Chapter Thirteen

  PELOTON: the pack, the field, the main group of riders

  "I'm here at last!" Stell stood on the balcony of her hotel, looking at a view she'd wondered if she'd ever see again. The Boise skyline had changed since the last time she raced here. There were more tall buildings downtown, but the mountains were still the same.

  "You sure are," her roommate agreed, "and if you don't hurry, this is all you'll see before they send you home."

  Sighing, Stell turned away from the view and went inside. "I guess you're right, but the least Milt could have done was give us a day to see the sights before we started work."

  "You think you're here for a vacation? Think again." Laughing, Becky tossed Stell her cycling helmet. "C'mon. The team meeting starts in five minutes and you know how Milt growls if we're not all in our seats before time." Stell followed her roommate to the elevator, thinking how fortunate it was that everyone on the team had become friends. She'd only known one of the other four women before arriving in Colorado. She liked them all.

  She'd been on a team about three years ago where one woman was the kind of person who had to be the center of attention. She'd been mildly irritating in the beginning, but before long she'd alienated everyone. Tempers had flared more than once, and Stell had found that her riding suffered each time there was a squabble.

  The next few days were hectic, training, meeting members of other teams, training, orientation, training, and more training. The day they rode up to Bogus Basin, Stell found that even her stay in Colorado hadn't been enough to acclimate her completely to the altitude, although she certainly had more wind than she'd had when she left Portland. All those rides across the shoulder of Mount Hood this spring had paid off.

  She used the Jacuzzi at the hotel religiously, as well as availing herself of the masseuse's services daily. Her leg was, for all intents and purposes, healed. But she wasn't taking any chances. Pacing herself in her training, she kept careful watch on the contestants who were, according to her coach, serious competition.

  The one who posed the greatest challenge was Truda Neibauer, a seemingly tireless young woman from Germany who held several stage records in the Sawtooth Classic. One of the Australians, Marian Waters, was almost as fast, although her record was erratic, as if she had good racing days and bad. A dozen other cyclists were Olympic veterans, winners of previous years' races, or World Cup contenders. Stell was going to have a fight on her hands, no doubt about it. I am going to win. Each day she repeated those words a hundred times. Like a mantra.

  The actual route to be traveled during the cross-country stages of the Sawtooth Classic was off limits for training, but there were other roads equally challenging. Stell was barreling down one of them, drafting the pack leader, a week before the race was scheduled to begin. The pavement turned to gravel and she felt her wheels lose traction ever so slightly. She touched the brakes. Again...again, slowing gently. Becky, just off her rear wheel, let out a yell, but Stell was giving all her attention to making it through the patch of gravel without mishap.

  She almost did. If it hadn't been for that one rock, bigger than the others and angular, she would have come out of the situation unscathed. But it caught under her wheel and she went into a slide, not quite out of control. She kicked free of the peddle, caught herself on her left leg, twisted, and managed to stay upright at the cost of excruciating agony in her hip.

  Becky was sitting beside the road, crouched over a leg already covered with blood. Kat Thompson, who'd been several lengths behind them, managed to traverse the patch of gravel and came to a stop just beyond.

  Stell gripped her handlebars with all her might, willing herself to remain upright. The pain in her hip was worse than it had ever been before, so intense that she felt reality waver, wasn't sure where she was or what she was doing.

  The pain gradually retreated, letting her become aware of someone's arm around her waist, someone speaking softly near her ear. It was Kat, sounding concerned. Milt Cohen, their coach, was kneeling beside Becky, wrapping gauze around her knee. Jeanne and Linda, the backup members of the team, were checking Becky's bike over.

  "I'm okay, Kat," Stell managed to gasp. She wasn't sure if her leg would hold her without help, but this was not the time or place to admit her weakness to anyone. "I...ah, I jammed my ankle when I stopped, and it scared me." She smiled. "Too much of a reminder of what a close call I had last year, I guess." With every bit of will power she had, she forced her foot off the ground, her ankle into a rotation. "But it's okay. See."

  Kat wiped perspiration from her forehead. "I know what you mean about being scared. I had a vision of all three of us piling up and not being able to race."

  "Don't even talk about it," Stell said, shuddering. "Becky, how bad is your leg?"

  Milt looked over his shoulder, his hands still busy wrapping gauze. "Scratches, and one good gash on her knee. She'll be fine."

  "Thank God," Stell whispered, and Kat nodded in agreement.

  Milt used his handset to call for transportation and within an hour they were back in their hotel. Stell managed to talk her way out of a checkup by the EMT attached to the team, afraid he would decide that her painful hip was evidence of an injury. "I just need to soak in the Jacuzzi for a while," she told Milt. "I'm still buzzing from the adrenaline."

  Since she was walking normally and hadn't fallen, he didn't push the point. As soon as she was outside his field of view, Stell relaxed and allowed herself to hobble the rest of the way to the elevator.

  God, but she hurt!

  * * * *

  The figures blurred before his eyes. With a growl, Adam slid the folder aside and reached for the telephone. He'd call Steve, try again to convince him to give up his impractical dre
ams and make a decent living for a change.

  The number half-dialed, Adam stopped. Was he doing it again?

  He sat, immobile until an angry blatting reminded him that his phone was still in his hand, waiting for the rest of a Denver phone number.

  He was! Just because Steve had admitted to a mild envy for his more affluent existence, he'd decided his friend should forsake the culmination of years of work and come to work for KIWANDA.

  Adam, the Great Benefactor. Saving his mother from poverty. Feeling a model of philanthropy because he contributed generously to an assortment of sports-related charities. Cheapening his parents' sacrifice to justify his own cowardice. Ready to create a corporate slot for one of the world's great fencers so he'd never have to envy Steve again.

  Talk about arrogance.

  Telling a woman with a dream that she suffered from an obsession, that she should do something worthwhile with her life. Arrogance again.

  As if being best in the world wasn't worthwhile.

  He reached for the phone again, and this time his fingers were sure as they punched out a number.

  It might be too late to get into a hotel anywhere near the race, but he could be somewhere close in case she needed him.

  He could be waiting at the finish line.

  * * * *

  Stell did all right the first day. The stage was almost seventy miles long, and over a mountain pass, but the pass wasn't too high and the weather was cool. She finished thirteenth, not as good as she'd have liked, but nothing to complain about, either. There were ninety-seven women in the race and all of them made it to the first finish line.

  After the awards ceremony, they were taken by van to Stanley, where the next stage would end. She rode with her leg stretched out, propped on her dufflebag, and pretended to sleep. Her hip throbbed. Not a sharp pain, but a steady, dull ache, robbing her of the mental peace and after-race high that kept her believing in herself.

  I am going to win.

  As long as she could convince herself that she had a chance, she did.