Page 42 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

“I could become accustomed to being chauffeured around in an automobile,” Olive mused, smiling at Emil behind the wheel.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Very. Warm, too.”

The moment she’d climbed into the front seat, Emil had tucked her feet into a raccoon fur foot warmer, draped her seat in an enormous flannel blanket, and tucked her into the seat with another.

She was thoroughly taken care of, and she was thoroughly enjoying it.

Still smiling, she returned her attention to the view outside the passenger window.

She hadn’t been this far north of the city in a long time, and she was fascinated by the signs of urban sprawl.

On one side of the road, a crew erected wooden utility poles and strung them with wire.

On the other side, a newly built General Store heralded a growing population.

The roads were still in poor shape, but the number of wagons, buggies, and pedestrians was far more than she’d expected. Progress was upon them.

“Let’s keep this trip accident-free,” Emil said. “Or Mack will never let me borrow his pride and joy again. Even for you.”

“Agreed.”

She flexed her fingers carefully. There was a slight twinge, but nothing like the pain she’d had the past week.

She would be healed before long, and not a moment too soon.

The bills were due next week, and she needed the dinner performance at the Chevalier Hotel to make her budget.

But that was a problem for another day—all she had to do right now was enjoy her first formal outing with a man.

She stole a glance at Emil from beneath her lashes.

He was always handsome, but there was something especially captivating about the confident way he maneuvered them through the streets.

She had come to trust, even depend on, that unfailing competence of his.

It made her feel safe. It made it unexpectedly easy to accept an invitation without needing to know every detail in advance or anticipate every possible outcome.

God, what a relief it was. What freedom.

“You’re smiling.”

“And how would you know?” she teased. “Shouldn’t your eyes be on the road?”

“It’s easy once there aren’t six layers of lace hiding you from the public,” he said, flicking her an amused glance.

She laughed. “You promised to take me somewhere no one would know me. I believed you.”

“If we’re going to celebrate our victory over Wingate, it’s damn well going to be somewhere you aren’t worried about appearances.”

“We’re also celebrating your job with Mr. Gunn,” she pointed out.

“That, too.”

She wiggled a hand free of the blankets and placed it on his thigh. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not being upset I didn’t want to stay in town. For taking the time to think about what would make me happy. You have no idea how much it means to me.”

“It’s how you deserve to be treated, Olive.” He let go of the steering wheel to pat her hand once before returning it. “Besides, I’m also looking forward to tonight. I’ve never done anything like it.”

“A first for a man who’s done everything? I didn’t know I could become more excited.”

He snorted. “I would dearly love to know what you think everything is. Hell, I’d love to try everything you can think of—and more—with you.”

Warmth flooded her cheeks, and her lower belly tightened. There was no mistaking his meaning, not with the way his voice deepened to a purr. It made her want to scoot across the seat and press her lips to his neck. To see if she could make him shiver like he did to her.

“I’m game.”

He hissed between his teeth. “After, Emil. After your surprise. After.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “It must be a wonderful surprise, if you must instruct yourself to behave.”

“It is. In fact, here’s the turn.”

He slowed, then turned onto a narrow, dirt road. The auto rumbled and bumped along, and Olive bounced in her seat. Her lap blanket fell to the floor, but she just laughed and held onto the door handle.

“Almost there,” Emil called out.

When the auto pulled to a complete stop, Olive looked out the window in confusion. “There’s nothing here.”

“It’s the back entrance to Rick Higgins’ farm. We have to walk around the bend. Wait there.”

He wiggled the brake handle, then nodded with satisfaction. He threw open his door, adjusting his knit hat over his ears as he circled the front of the auto to open her door and hand her down. She shivered at the blast of cold air.

“Good thing I didn’t wear my ball gown,” she murmured. She’d been sorely tempted, but the yellow gown Rhoda had gifted her was her prized possession. Emil’s only instructions had been to dress warmly, so she’d settled for a less attractive, but far warmer, walking suit and her mother’s coat.

“You look lovely. Except for your hat.”

Her hand flew upward to touch it. “Oh no. What’s wrong with it?”

“It doesn’t match your scarf.” With a small flourish, he reached into his pocket and produced a burst of color. It was a tam hat, knitted from the same beautiful forest green wool as her scarf. “May I?”

She nodded, her pulse kicking up a notch.

She held still as he removed her mother’s old hat, mindful not to dislodge her pins, and adjusted his creation on her head.

He’d made her something. On purpose. Without having to be cajoled, as his mother and sister claimed.

If that wasn’t proof of how important she was to him, she couldn’t imagine what was.

“There. Much better.”

“I love it. Thank you.”

He waved a dismissive hand in the air. “It’s nothing. Let me grab our blankets, and then we’ll be on our way. I hope it hasn’t started yet.”

“What hasn’t?”

“You’ll see.”

“Tell me,” she wheedled.

“And miss seeing your face when you realize? Not a chance.”

Once the blankets were secured under one arm, he offered her his other and guided her down a winding dirt path sheltered by a bare-limbed maple tree, then toward a red and white barn with a chicken coop in front.

A group of men was clustered to one side of the barn, their attention riveted on something in the distance.

Suddenly, as one, they burst into cheers, stomping their feet and shouting.

“This better not be a cock fight,” she said sourly.

Emil laughed. “It’s not. Not the kind you’re thinking of, anyway.”

As they neared the barn, Olive tightened her hold on Emil’s arm. She would have faith in him. He wouldn’t make her stand in the cold with a group of noisy men unless it was safe. Unless it was something really good. Something that wouldn’t make her regret—

She gasped.

Before her, carved into the barren field, was a baseball diamond.

One ragtag team occupied a bench behind home plate, and another was positioned across the diamond.

She stared, her heart in her throat, as a fresh batter stepped up to the plate.

The pitcher—goodness, was that Hyram Turner?

—flowed into his wind-up, then hurled the ball toward home.

The batter swung, and there was a mighty crack.

The ball flew toward left field, and Olive’s heart soared along with it.

Emil had taken her to a baseball game.

“The season hasn’t started up yet,” he said at her side. “But I asked around and found out where the fellas meet up to play in the off-season.”

She tightened her grip on his arm, unable to look away from the action. “Emil, it’s wonderful.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, come this way. I asked them to save a couple of seats for us.”

They approached the cluster of spectators, who greeted Emil with warmth before offering her a polite, indifferent nod.

She settled onto an empty bench on the far side, smoothing the plush flannel blanket across her lap.

The chill still crept in, but she didn’t mind.

She was too busy watching the batter streak around the bases for a triple.

Memories bombarded her—her father patiently teaching her every nuance of baseball.

His soothing voice naming the plays as they occurred, highlighting a player’s skills or shaking his head at another’s mistakes.

He’d loved to make predictions about which men might rise to the National League, and he’d tease her that she would be able to say she’d seen them play in person.

She’d clung to every word, absorbing it as readily as she did musical theory.

It had been their ritual, their special connection.

And now she sat beside the only other man who had truly mattered to her.

Outwardly, he was nothing like her father: charming and cocky rather than reserved and modest. But beneath the surface, the similarities were striking.

Both kind and protective; both intelligent and driven.

To be graced with the same sort of man twice in one lifetime seemed unfathomable, yet there she was.

She swallowed hard and blinked into the light.

Emil leaned in and whispered, “Are you overwhelmed?” She could only nod. Of course he’d notice. He adjusted his posture until one hand slid in between hers. “Hold on to me, and it will pass.”

She squeezed his hand, grateful she didn’t need to explain. They sat, hand in hand, while the inning progressed. Eventually, the tightness in her chest eased, and it was safe to speak once more.

She tilted her head to study Emil. He was riveted on the game, chuckling as a particularly ripe insult was hurled toward the catcher.

He passed comments with his neighbors, entirely at ease.

He must have felt her gaze on him because he glanced back at her.

When she smiled, he flashed his beautiful, crooked grin.

The one that told her it was real. The one that made her heart sing and her core ache.

“Better?”

“Better,” she confirmed.

“When was the last time you saw a game?”

“A month before my father passed.”

“Ah, I see.” His grip tightened on hers. “Was it as cold as this one?”

“It was one of the hottest days of summer,” she said, smiling at the memory.

“A player fainted in the heat, and my father was called to assist. Then he bought us ice cream, but he was so engrossed in the game that it melted all over his coat. I can’t blame him, it was an exciting game. It was the play-offs, and—”

“Look out!”

She started at the shouted warning, her pulse kicking up as her gaze snapped past Emil—just in time to spot the blur of a ball slicing through the air toward them. There was no time for him to turn, no time for her to warn him. Her hand shot out on instinct, braced against his shoulder, and shoved.

Emil toppled backward off the bench with a startled grunt, landing in a sprawl just as the ball whipped past inches from where he’d been sitting. It thudded somewhere on the ground behind them. A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd, laced with mock cheers and scattered claps.

From the ground, Emil gaped at her. “You couldn’t just catch it?”

“No glove,” she said sweetly, unable to stop herself from giggling. “Safety first.”

Emil broke into laughter and allowed his neighbors to haul him to his feet. Once he had wiped the grit from his pants, he adjusted his hat and gave her a wry look.

“Tell me this isn’t the most exciting game you’ve ever attended.”

“It’s up there.”

“Then a bruised backside is worth it.” He moved to regain his seat on the bench, but she flung out a hand.

“Wait!”

He gazed around in alarm. “What? What is it?”

“Just wait.” She made a grand show of draping the bench with the blanket, folding it once, twice, then a third time until it reached a ridiculous height. With a flourish, she patted the top like she was presenting a prize. “Your throne is ready, my lord.”

The look Emil gave her was half exasperation, half wonder. It was a look that, with anyone else, would make her doubt herself. But not with Emil. With him, she could be odd, playful, entirely herself. For reasons she still didn’t fully understand, he never seemed to tire of it.

“Aren’t you a doll,” he said, flipping the blanket back until only one layer remained. Then he dropped onto it with a contented sigh. “That’s better. If you’re nice, I might let you sit on the other half.”

“Deal,” she giggled, rising just enough for him to slide the edge under her. She wiggled a little, testing it. “You’re right. My behind is infinitely more comfortable.”

They grinned at each other, and she reveled in her ability to tease, to joke, to flirt.

She couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt this good about herself.

When she hadn’t felt the compulsion to shrink herself, to play the role of someone more palatable.

It was incredible how being with one person could change everything.

How it could free the person locked inside that she’d always been meant to be.

“Thank you,” she said abruptly. “For all of this. But mostly, thank you for encouraging me to be myself.”

“I happen to like yourself very much.”

“Even when I shove you to the ground?”

“Especially then.” He tilted his head, thoughtful. “I don’t get surprised easily anymore, not after years as a journalist and then a detective. Things tend to follow patterns. A few twists here and there, sure, but rarely anything truly unexpected. Then you showed up.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the earnestness in his voice.

“From the start, you’ve kept me guessing,” he went on. “Every time I think I know what you’ll say or do, you go one step further. And somehow, it never feels like too much. I like it. Honestly? I think I need it.”

“Then you’re in luck. Because I doubt I’ll ever change.”

He sobered, his gaze intense and unrelenting. “Good.”

She could see it now. Not with perfect clarity, but enough to make her heart ache.

Them, years from now, married with a handful of children.

Still laughing, still surprising each other, still finding new ways to belong.

She saw safety there, and tenderness, and a love that seemed too big for her chest to contain.

It was almost unbelievable, this vision of herself so cherished, so free.

Yet with every breath, the picture grew sharper.

Perhaps it was time to believe it could truly be hers.

She tucked her arm in his and turned back to the game, stars in her eyes.