Bright Hopes

WELCOME TO TYLER-JOIN THE CROWD

Sit in the bleachers and catch up on the latest gossip. Share the passions and pastimes of America’s favorite hometown.

THE HOMETOWN HERO AND THE LADY COACH

Patrick Kelsey, Tyler’s former all-star, is not impressed to learn that Tyler High’s new football coach is a woman. But Pam Casals isn’t what Patrick expects.

CAN THEY CREATE A WINNING TEAM?

Pam’s bright, vivacious and dedicated. Her infectious enthusiasm inspires everyone around her. Yet, when Patrick tries to get close to her, she backs off. Patrick begins to wonder if there’s something important Pam isn’t telling him...

Previously Published.

“What are you doing, Patrick?”

Pam frowned, uneasy under his gaze.

“I enjoy looking at you. Life is for enjoying, Pam, and I enjoy you.”

“Is life for enjoying, Patrick?”

He nodded. “I decided that it was some years ago, when I had to reevaluate my life after a big disappointment.”

So he, too, had known disappointment. Pam was curious, but she decided to keep the discussion impersonal. “Disappointments that change our lives stay with us. At least, the lingering effects do.”

“Right now, I don’t want to think about past disappointments. It’s Friday night, I’m out with the loveliest woman in town, and all’s right with my world. How about yours?”

She warmed under his heated gaze. “My world’s pretty fine right now, too.”

He nodded toward the crowded room. “What do you say we blow this joint? I’d like to be alone with you.”

That sent her blood racing, but not with fright. With anticipation. Taking his hand in hers, she pulled him up and headed toward the door.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Harlequin’s Tyler, a small Wisconsin town whose citizens we hope you’ll soon come to know and love. Like many of the innovative publishing concepts Harlequin has launched over the years, the idea for the Tyler series originated in response to our readers’ preferences. Your enthusiasm for sequels and continuing characters within many of the Harlequin lines has prompted us to create a twelve-book series of individual romances whose characters’ lives inevitably intertwine.

Tyler faces many challenges typical of small towns, but the fabric of this fictional community will be torn by the revelation of a long-ago murder, the details of which will evolve right through the series. This intriguing crime will culminate in an emotional trial that profoundly affects the lives of the Ingallses, the Barons, the Forresters and the Wochecks.

Renovations have begun on the old Timberlake resort lodge as the series opens, and the lodge will also attract the attention of a prominent Chicago hotelier, a man with a personal interest in showing Tyler folks his financial clout.

Marge is waiting with some home-baked pie at her diner, and policeman Brick Bauer might direct you down Elm Street if it’s patriarch Judson Ingalls you’re after. The Kelseys run the loveliest boardinghouse in town, and you’ll find everything you need at Gates Department Store. Pam Casals gives hometown favorite son, Patrick Kelsey, a run for his money when she hires on as Tyler High’s new football coach. So join us in Tyler, once a month, for the next eleven months, for a slice of small-town life that’s not as innocent or as quiet as you might expect, and for a sense of community that will capture your mind and your heart.

Marsha Zinberg

Editorial Coordinator, Tyler

Bright Hopes

Pat Warren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Pat Warren for her contribution to this work.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Joanna Kosloff for her contribution to the concept for the Tyler series.

CONTENTS

Cover

Back Cover Text

Dear Reader

Title Page

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“A WOMAN FOOTBALL COACH?” Patrick Kelsey laughed out loud. “Come on, Miss Mackie. You’ve got to be kidding!”

Josephine Mackie sat back in her desk chair, adjusted her round, rimless glasses on her long, thin nose and looked up at the tall gym teacher. “Why, Patrick, don’t tell me you’re a chauvinist. Not with that superachiever mother of yours and three charming sisters.”

Patrick ran a hand through his short, dark hair. That was the one drawback to growing up and living in a small town like Tyler, Wisconsin. Everyone knew you, your family and most of your business. Miss Mackie had been principal of Tyler High School when he was a freshman twenty years ago. She wasn’t meddlesome so much as knowledgeable—about everyone. He flashed her what he hoped was a disarming smile.

“Not me. It’s just that...well, these are guys, Miss Mackie. Young men, really. There’ll be problems, like the locker room, for instance. They’re going to hate having a female around when they’re changing.”

“I don’t imagine she’ll shower with the boys, do you?”

Patrick reached for patience, never his strong suit. “How about the game itself? I never heard of a woman who knows football inside and out.”

“Really? Ever hear of Phyllis George, to name one? I thought she did a highly commendable job, and on national television at that. And now there’s Pam Casals. Have you read her credentials?”

Patrick felt his irritation grow as he paced her small office. “I know she was a runner in the Olympics.”

“A little more than a mere runner. She won a silver medal when she was seventeen, then returned and won a gold medal at twenty-one.”

“Okay, so she can run. But does she know football?”

Disappointed in his reaction, Miss Mackie nevertheless continued unruffled. “She went on to become an exhibition performer, earned a degree in phys ed, was head coach at a college in the east and an Olympic coach for a year in Seoul. For a young woman who’s just turned thirty, I would call that an impressive list of accomplishments.”

Stopping in front of her desk, Patrick braced his hands on the edge and leaned forward. “I repeat, does she know football?”

“I would think so, having coached football at the college level. Surely she can manage high school boys.” Josephine Mackie felt her gaze soften as she studied Patrick’s stubborn features. She thought she knew exactly why he was so upset, and chose her words carefully.

“I realize that when I asked you to join our coaching staff ten years ago, Patrick, your dream was to one day be football coach here at your alma mater. I believe you took on coaching basketball temporarily, thinking that when Dale McCormick retired, you’d shift over to football. But you’ve done such a tremendous job—guiding the basketball team from class B to class A status and giving us a championship season for the past two years. We don’t want to lose you in that capacity.”

Patrick’s blue eyes were serious as he straightened. He’d figured that was what she’d thought, and the rest of the town, too. But they were wrong.

He’d been a star quarterback during his years at Tyler, and at the small Midwestern college he’d attended while earning his teaching degree. Then there’d been problems—serious problems—and he’d had to rearrange his dreams. When he returned to his hometown, he’d been pleased to be asked to coach basketball and assist Coach McCormick occasionally in football. Even now, what he really wanted was what was best for the Tyler High boys. But he knew that changing the thinking of a whole group of people who had their minds made up wasn’t something he could do without revealing more than he felt comfortable doing.

“Miss Mackie, I’m perfectly happy coaching basketball. You’re aware, I’m sure, that many of the boys on the football team also play basketball. I know these guys, and they aren’t going to accept a woman coach.”

She narrowed her pale gray eyes and zeroed in. “They will if you encourage them to accept her.”

Settling into the old wooden chair facing her desk, Patrick scowled. “I don’t know if I can do that, in good conscience.”

Propping her elbows on her desk, Miss Mackie leaned forward. “Patrick, I don’t have to tell you that this town gets greatly involved in our school athletics. And the football team’s been on a long losing streak. Dale McCormick was a good coach once, back when you were playing for him. But for some time now, he’s been merely coasting along, counting the days to retirement.”

“I agree,” Patrick admitted.

“The school board felt we needed new blood, someone to get the boys all stirred up. Of our six applicants, Pam Casals is by far the most qualified. I’ve talked with her on the phone and she’s personable and intelligent. I’ve hired her on a one-season trial basis and she’s arriving next week. Won’t you open your mind and give her a chance?”

Miss Mackie was a good administrator, her judgment usually on target, Patrick felt. This time, though, she was wrong. “I have nothing against this particular woman, you understand. I just don’t feel any woman can coach football. It’s too rugged a game, too physical.” He picked up Pam Casals’ file and flipped it open, to where her picture was clipped to the inside front cover. “See how small she looks? She could get hurt out there.”

Josephine Mackie sighed. Patrick Kelsey was an instructor who seldom gave her problems. He was making up for lost time today. Glancing at her watch, she stood, realizing she could debate this issue with Patrick all day and neither would bend. “It’s only the first of August. We have several weeks before classes start. During that time, we’ll be observing Pam and her training and practice methods closely.”

Picking up her purse, she walked around the desk. The school was deserted; she’d come in to get a head start on some paperwork and had been somewhat surprised when Patrick cornered her. “Why don’t you study her file a bit more and then leave it on my desk? I have an appointment.”

The gentleman in him had Patrick rising and smiling at the slim principal. “I don’t mean to give you a hard time. But you know what these guys mean to me.”

She smiled back at him. “They mean a great deal to me, too.”

Patrick nodded. “You off to a board meeting?”

Josephine found herself blushing as she patted her sparse gray hair. “No, actually I have an appointment at the Hair Affair.”

He grinned at her. “Big date tonight, Miss Mackie?”

Girlishly, she pursed her lips, turned from him and opened the door, choosing to ignore his question. “Please lock up when you leave,” she said, then hurried down the hallway.

Chuckling, Patrick sat back down, wondering why Miss Mackie had never married. Too wrapped up in her job, he supposed. Few women could juggle work and children, and still maintain a happy marriage. His mother, Anna Kelsey, was about the only one he knew of. But she was one of a kind.

He opened the file again. Pam Casals did not look like his idea of a football coach. From the picture, she appeared to be of medium height and quite slender, with the muscular legs of a runner. Her shoulder-length brown hair, wind-tossed, framed an oval face, and her large brown eyes gazed directly into the camera. She didn’t appear aggressive or arrogant, but there was a hint of determination to the angle of her chin. Still, if this woman could handle that rowdy group of high school boys, then he was the Easter Bunny, Patrick thought with a frown.

Quickly he read through her file. Like millions of people, he was always drawn to watch the Olympics. He’d heard countless stories of the dedication, perseverance, sacrifices and sheer guts it took to win a medal. She was a winner, he’d give her that. But could she make the Tyler boys into winners?

Doubtful, he thought, closing the file. He knew these boys better than anyone, certainly better than an outsider. And a woman at that. He would give her a chance, but he would remain in the picture. He’d keep an eye on her, check out her methods, look out for his boys. He’d mention to a couple of the guys—Ricky and B.J. and Moose—that he’d be interested in knowing what Coach Casals did during their training sessions.

It wasn’t really spying, Patrick told himself as he placed Pam’s file on the principal’s desk. It was protecting.

Digging in the pocket of his jeans for his keys, Patrick left the office whistling.

* * *

A RAINBOW. Pam Casals glanced to the right as she drove along the country road, and smiled. Slowing, she pulled to a stop by a wooden fence bordering pastureland. Shifting into park, she slid out of her sporty white convertible and went to lean on the weathered fence.

It had been raining that morning when she set out from Chicago, a light drizzling summer rain. Wisconsin being north of Illinois, it wasn’t quite as warm here. Fall would be along all too soon.

The rainbow shimmered in the sky, where the last of the clouds were moving off to the east. Rainbows were a sign of good luck—Pam remembered reading that somewhere. She certainly hoped so. It was time for a bit of luck.

On an impulse, she made a wish. “I wish that I might find happiness in Tyler,” she said aloud.

A small herd of cows grazing nearby, brown shapes on a field of still-damp green grass, didn’t even glance her way. She breathed in deeply, air so fresh it almost hurt to inhale. No automobile fumes, no pollution or even smoke. On the drive she’d passed dairy farms, many with large wooden barns, as well as cornfields, orchards and several horse farms. She’d taken the scenic route instead of the highway, enjoying the twisting rural roads and the lakes tucked in among rolling green hills. The clean country atmosphere was a welcome change from the city she’d left behind.

She’d left a lot of things behind, or so she hoped. Pain and confusion and doubt. Frustration and anger and broken dreams. And a shattered love affair. A few good things, too, like her father, Julian Casals, still living in the family home in a suburb of Chicago. And her two married brothers, Don and Ramon, who’d taught her so much more than football.

Pam swung around, leaning her elbows on the fence. She was only a short distance from Tyler, and she hoped there were more two-lane roads like this one around. It was a perfect place to run—smooth blacktop, very little traffic. And run she must, while she could. For her health and her mental well-being and the sheer, physical pleasure of it.

A low-throated bark drew her attention to her car, and she grinned. Her old, white, long-haired English sheepdog sat in the back seat, his head cocked in her direction, his pink tongue hanging low. “All right, Samson,” she said, slipping behind the wheel again. “I know you’re impatient to get going.” With another glance at the rainbow, Pam shifted into drive. “I’m anxious to check out our new home, too.”

Flipping on the radio as she pulled away, she heard Willie Nelson’s unmistakable voice ring out. “On the road again...”

Pam glanced back at Samson, whose ears were blowing in the breeze. “That’s us, pal. On the road again.” Laughing for no apparent reason except a sudden happy sense of anticipation, she headed for Tyler.

* * *

IT WAS EXACTLY two o’clock when she arrived in the middle of town. There was a central square—an open, grassy area with huge old oak trees and well-maintained flower beds. The downtown business section consisted of a few blocks of two-story brick buildings, predictably lining Main Street. The small-town atmosphere pleased Pam as she pulled up in front of the post office. High on its pole, the flag rippled in the wind, but the building had a Saturday-afternoon-deserted look. Stretching, she got out of the car.

According to the map Rosemary Dusold had sent her, she was only a couple of blocks from her friend’s house. But there was no time like the present to get oriented. Across the way, she spotted the Tyler library and the brick town hall. On the opposite corner was a beauty shop, the sign heralding it as the Hair Affair. Cute, Pam thought.

Around a corner, she saw a sign for Marge’s Diner. She patted Samson’s shaggy head. “I’ll be right back, fella,” she said as she headed for the square.

A bank on another corner featured a tower clock. The usual array of grocery store, drugstore, cleaners and so on filled out that side of the block. She walked on.

A couple of older ladies seated on a park bench smiled up at Pam as she approached, giving her a feeling of friendly welcome. A handful of youngsters were playing tag on the far side. In the center of the green, she spotted several adults involved in a loosely organized game of touch football. Her interest heightened, Pam stepped closer.

Watching took her back in time to her early teens, when she and her father and two brothers would spend many an autumn afternoon tossing the pigskin. Soon, playing catch hadn’t been enough for Pam, so she’d organized a group of neighbors and divided them into two teams. Then she’d mapped out strategies for her side, trying to make up for her size by outwitting the opponents. Much to her brothers’ surprise, her maneuvers worked more often than they failed. Their respect had spurred her on to try even harder.

She’d already been running then, her dreams focusing on the future Olympics. But her love of football had never died. She’d learned the game first by playing, then by watching the college teams on television, as well as the pros. Fun times, Pam thought. Times that had bonded their small family closer after the devastation of her mother’s early death. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her white slacks, she leaned against a tree.

There was one big guy, a solid wall of muscle, who wasn’t much on speed but nearly impossible to get past due to his size. She noticed a woman about her age with dark hair, a tall rugged outdoor-type man with black curly hair and, to Pam’s surprise, her friend and new roommate, Rosemary Dusold, leaping high to catch a pass, her blond ponytail bobbing. Smiling, Pam stepped out of the shade, hoping Rosemary would notice her.

As she stood on the edge of the green, she saw a wild throw coming her way. No player was out this far. Forgetting herself, she ran a few steps, jumped up and caught the ball. Acting instinctively, Pam began to run toward the makeshift goal line, hotly pursued by two or three players she heard running behind her.

Exhilarated, the ball tucked close to her body, she picked up speed. Almost there, she thought. Then she felt the hit. Strong arms settled around her waist, sliding lower to her knees, taking her down. Her tackler rolled, cushioning the fall with his lean, hard body, letting her land on him rather than on the unforgiving ground.

“Touchdown!” someone called out from behind as thundering feet arrived.

“She fell short,” yelled a dissident.

Still clutching the ball, Pam eased from the grip that held her and scrambled to her feet. Her opponent rose, too, and she found herself looking up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Unexpectedly, her heart missed a beat and she found herself swallowing on a dry throat.

He was several inches over six feet, with curly black hair falling onto a lean face etched with laugh lines at the corners of those incredible eyes. He smiled then, his features softening as he reached out to brush leaves and grass from her shoulder. Pam’s reaction to his light touch was on a parallel with the way she’d felt when her gaze had locked with his. Dizzying. She took a step backward.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” he said. She was lovely, with warm brown eyes and skin the color of a pale peach. Who was she? Patrick wondered.

“No, I’m fine.”

She had on baggy white slacks and a comfortably faded green-and-white Jets football jersey with the number 12 on the back. “I see you’re a Joe Namath fan.”

“I was.” She couldn’t seem to stop staring into his eyes.

Strangers in Tyler—especially strangers who joined in impromptu games—were uncommon. There was something familiar about her, Patrick thought, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. “That was a great catch.”

“Thanks,” Pam said, giving him the football.

“I’m Patrick Kelsey.” He offered his hand.

Politely she slid her own hand into his grip, feeling the calluses on his roughened skin—and the warmth. “Hello,” she replied. Before she could say more, Rosemary came alongside.

“Pam,” Rosemary greeted her. “Glad you’re here at last.”

Pam withdrew her hand and turned to smile at her friend. “Me, too.”

“Hey, everyone,” Rosemary went on, “this is Pam Casals, a friend of mine from Chicago who’s come to stay with me for a while. Pam, this is Kathleen Kelsey and Terry Williams and Al Broderick. The big guy’s Brick Bauer. Watch out for him—he’s going to be our next police chief. That’s Nick over there and you’ve already met Patrick.”

Patrick frowned. “You’re Pam Casals?”

As Pam nodded, Rosemary chimed in again. “She’s going to be working at Tyler High with you, Patrick. Pam’s the new football coach.”

“So I’ve heard. Welcome to Tyler.”

Though his words were welcoming, his tone had cooled considerably. Pam couldn’t help wondering why. “Thanks. Are you one of the teachers?”

“Gym teacher. Also basketball coach.” Glancing at his watch, he tossed the ball to Rosemary. “Sorry to break this up, but I’ve got to run. See you all later.”

“Nice to meet you, Patrick,” Pam called to his retreating back.

“Yeah, you, too,” he said over his shoulder.

“Don’t let Patrick worry you,” Kathleen said as she smiled at Pam. “He’s my brother and I know he’s a little moody, but he’s a great guy. Glad you’re with us, Pam.”

“Thanks,” Pam said quietly. So she would have the pleasure of working with the moody Patrick Kelsey. Terrific.

Calling their goodbyes, the others left to go their separate ways. Rosemary fell into step with Pam. “Come on. My place is only a couple of blocks from here,” she said. Impulsively, she slid an arm around Pam’s shoulders and squeezed. “I think you’re going to like Tyler.”

Pam heard the squeal of tires and looked toward Main Street as Patrick’s truck zoomed out of sight. “I hope so,” she answered.

* * *

THE WHITE FRAME HOUSE was on Morgan Avenue, two stories high with a wraparound porch and green shuttered windows. There was a Victorian elegance to the old building, Pam thought as she parked her car in the side drive. She watched Rosemary hurry out of the car. Five foot eight, Rosemary was bigger than Pam and incredibly strong, yet she moved with a style and grace that Pam envied.

“You want to put old slobbering Samson in the backyard for now?” Rosemary asked with an affectionate pat on the dog’s head.

Pam nodded, and slipped on the dog’s leash as she opened the car door. Settling Samson inside the fenced enclosure, she returned to the front and climbed the wooden steps with Rosemary. A swing, painted red, hung from two chains at the far end of the porch. Very inviting, she thought.

“About five years ago,” Rosemary said, opening the screen door for her, “after the owner died, the heirs renovated the house, turning it into four apartments. They’re all very roomy and comfortable. Mrs. Tibbs, a sweet but somewhat nosy widow, lives on the right, a young married couple upstairs on one side and a piano teacher across the hall from them. Mine’s this one on the lower left.” She paused in the neat hallway, glancing at mail spread on a small mahogany table. “Nothing for me.” Pulling out a key, she unlocked the door.