"Agreed, but you're Southern and a woman. I believe that const.i.tutes an unfair advantage."

"Why so it does." She waved at her son Robert and daughter-in-law Teresa who were holding her seat. "You know, Battle would have handled Tru the same way. Made that same deal to avoid haulin' him off to jail."

"I think I know that. And I'm sure if he were here, he'd have had an I told you so for me."

As the house lights began to dim, she looked at me finally, that slow, confident smile tipping up the corners of her mouth. "No. Battle would simply say we picked the right man for the job. Welcome home, Amos."

I smiled as the lights dimmed around us in the auditorium. "Thank you. Glad to be here."

The Bellringer by Katie Bell A weekly column of the Mossy Creek Gazette ...Put away your guns. Stop egging the chief's car.

Some days the best you can hope for is a tie with Bigelow. That's exactly what we had last Sat.u.r.day night when the dust settled at the high school. Despite being contenders, Bigelow and Mossy Creek both lost with equal style and grace. And just as publicly.

Bigelow's Tiffany Clarkson showed plenty of "physical fitness" in the swimsuit compet.i.tion. Our own Sissy Truman shined in the talent portion. (All bias aside, I'd have to say that girl picks a guitar and sings like a Dixie Chick.) But the evening gown compet.i.tion was won by Rhonda Clifton from Yonder. Not only was she stunning, but she'd designed and sewn the dress herself.

Three events. Three front-runners.

There hasn't been tension like that in the high school since. . .well, there's never been that much tension. It came down to the all-important interview question.

I don't mind telling you that my sources report that first-time judge Amos Royden looked a bit unhappy most of the night. A lot of us think he had an easy job. That his vote should have been a slam-dunk for one of our Mossy Creek girls. But I've been giving this a little thought. Can you really blame the man for handing Rhonda Clifton the crown?

Think about it.

When asked to name the television character she most admired, the clever Rhonda promptly replied, "Andy Griffith, because you've got to admire a man who's strong enough to take on a whole town. Even when the folks put him into the worst situations, he always cared about them and seemed glad to be there for them."

Personally, I think if she can think that fast on her feet. . .maybe it was time to send the crown out Yonder's way.

The Mossy Creek Gazette.

215 Main Street * Mossy Creek, Georgia.

From the desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope.

Cornwall, England Dear Lady Victoria, Like I've told you before, once you dip your toe in Mossy Creek, our magic claims you, and sooner or later, you come back home-unless Bigelows have put a price on your head, the way they did with Isabella and Richard. But more news on that as I get it organized.

Anyway. . .about a year ago Dr. Hank Blackshear's daddy died and Hank took over the Blackshear veterinary clinic. Hank's young-only in his late twenties-but he's already got a brand of Jimmy Stewart 'aw, shucks' kindness and wisdom about him. Used to be a real loner, a little homely and shy, wonderful with animals, but didn't know how to fit in with people. Our librarian said when he was growing up he read Catcher In The Rye so many times she had to order a new copy.

The last thing anybody in Mossy Creek expected was that he'd marry Casey Champion. Casey is a real looker and used to be the best athlete in the county. Most popular girl at Bigelow County High, daughter of Mossy Creek's family doctor, Dr. Champion-a golden girl, you know? Not the bookish type, like Hank. If she ever read anything other than Glamour or Sports Ill.u.s.trated, I don't know it.

Didn't matter. They fell head over heels in love, but life's handed them a pretty tough road to share. That road brought them both home to Mossy Creek. You've heard that saying, "It takes a village to raise a child?" Well, around here we like to say, "It takes a town to remember a child's dream."

And this year, we tried to help Hank and Casey remember theirs.

Your friend, Katie "Play Ball" Bell.

Casey.

Casey At The Bat.

We had a dry summer in Mossy Creek the year I turned fourteen, and the leaves were coloring early. The woods would soon look like they'd been splatter painted with deep reds and bright yellow. Above the Blue Ridge Mountains, the September sky was so blue I wanted to swim in it. I didn't know it then, but that afternoon my life was about to follow a path that would change it forever.

I threw my head back and filled my lungs to bursting with the private joy of the moment. As I ran along a hiking trail up in the mountains just north of town, I felt a blinding rush of excitement. My legs took flight. I was Mossy Creek's finest girl athlete, the best softball player anyone could ever remember. People were already predicting I'd make a college team someday, and maybe even the Olympics. "Here I come world, ready or not," I shouted, and felt the breeze s.n.a.t.c.h the words right out of my mouth, erasing them before they'd been given sound.

That's when I plowed into Hank Blackshear, the son of our local veterinarian. He loved the hiking trails, too. I tripped him just well enough for him to go headfirst down a slope covered in head-high, th.o.r.n.y blackberries. I scrambled down after him and gasped in horror when I found him laying face down, covered in small red scratches. I thought he was dead. The headlines of the Mossy Creek Gazette flashed in my mind: Local Doctor's Daughter Found Guilty Of Murder. I knelt beside him.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't see you," I babbled. "Are you hurt? Can you walk? I'll help you down to the road. I've got a bicycle. Maybe you can sit on it, and I'll push you into town."

He untangled himself, stood up, and grinned. "Thanks for the help, kid, but I'm leaving for the university this afternoon. I'm fine, honest I am."

That's when it happened. As sappy as it sounds, I knew what love at first sight meant. Of course, we'd grown up in the same town, so I had seen him over the years. But suddenly I was on the verge of womanhood, and Hank looked different. I started to smile in return. I couldn't help it. This tall, lanky seventeen-year-old wearing skimpy running shorts simply looked at me, and my heart melted.

"You're leaving town?" I said.

"Yeah, kid, I am." He looked happy about it.

Kid? Here I was falling in love with a boy who had eyes the color of that September sky, and he was looking at me as if he thought I was some pony-tailed teenybopper.

Didn't matter. At three o'clock on a Friday afternoon, on the side of a mountain overlooking Mossy Creek, my life changed forever. I fell in love with Hank Blackshear.

"Doesn't matter," I said, "I'll wait."

He gave me an odd look, ruffled my hair, climbed back up the slope, and jogged away.

Looking back on that day, I don't know why I ever thought it would be simple to catch up with him by the time I was old enough to earn more than a pat on the head. But then, I'd never let common sense stand in the way of my dreams. I was Casey Champion, daughter of Mossy Creek's beloved family doctor, Dr. Chance Champion, who had once played minor league baseball. Since Daddy loved baseball, when I was born he talked Mama into naming me Casey, after "Casey At The Bat," the famous baseball poem. Someday, I was going to be chosen for the Olympic softball team and make Daddy proud. And someday I was going to marry Hank Blackshear.

A few years later, about the time I graduated from high school, Hank received his undergraduate degree from the University of Georgia. His father had a mild heart attack, and Hank returned to Mossy Creek to help out at the Blackshear Veterinary Clinic all summer. I fell even more madly in love with Hank. But he was busy and worried about his father and the struggle he'd gone through. He planned to enter veterinary school at the university that fall. He still saw me as a little girl. Nothing had changed.

Didn't matter. I followed him around, anyway. He was very patient, explaining that he was too old for me, too poor compared to a doctor's daughter, and he had a lot of hard work in his future. No time for dating. He didn't say I looked like a high-maintenance kind of girl, but I'm sure he thought it. He finally gave up being Mr. Nice Guy and bluntly told me I was a distraction he didn't have time for. My heart was broken, but I still didn't give up on him. For the first seventeen years of my life, I'd gotten everything I wanted, except Hank. And I wasn't done yet.

With a name like Casey Champion, it never crossed my mind that I wouldn't accomplish what I'd set out to do. After all, I'd won a softball scholarship to the university. I had the Olympics in my future. Hank wouldn't ignore me when I wore a gold medal around my neck.

That August, I packed my belongings and drove down to the university in my new convertible-a graduation present from my father. I was a college freshman, now. Not a kid, anymore. Away from Mossy Creek, Hank would see me differently. I was sure of it.

But Hank was busy in vet school cla.s.ses and working the part-time job he needed to pay his tuition. He headed the other way every time I got close to him. All right, so I'd get his attention on the softball field. By the time I was a soph.o.m.ore in the school of education and he was a second year vet student I was making a name for myself playing fast pitch ball for the UGA women's team. I was a star.

Hank remained oblivious.

Then, one morning at the university track, fate stepped in. I was out for my morning run, head down, going full steam. You guessed it. I ran into him, again. I took him down like an NFL tackle. I fell on top of him. He was wearing running shorts and no shirt. I noticed.

"I'm so sorry," I said, planting my hands on either side of his bare chest. "Are you hurt?"

"You again?" he said. "I don't believe it."

"I didn't plan this. I swear."

He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. "I give up. I can't avoid you, and I can't forget about you."

"It's about time." I caught his face in my hands and kissed him.

He laughed helplessly and kissed me back.

From that point on we were together-and wildly in love. The next year, Hank accepted an internship with Angel Memorial Hospital in New York City, where he'd specialize in research and surgery. My coach recommended me to an Olympic scout. It was May. The world was in bloom, all pink and white and sweet.

That's when I proposed.

"Hank, let's get married."

"We will," he promised.

"I mean now. Tonight. You know Mother will want a big wedding, and that will take weeks. Since I'm going to be trying out for the Olympic team, I may not be able to finish my cla.s.ses early and graduate along with you. And I'm not going to let you go to New York without me."

"Look, I know you say I'm too practical-minded, but I'm right this time. You stay in school and play on the Olympic team. I'll go to New York, and we'll make it work out. Then we'll have the big wedding and all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. I love you, Casey. I want everything in our lives to be solid."

I knew he was smart, but I refused to give up. "Dr. Blackshear, there are three things I want in my life: I want you. I want to see the world, and I want to play on the USA Olympic Softball Team. I'm scared something will happen if we wait. Let's get in my car, find a place that allows quickie weddings, and get married tonight. We practically live together, anyway. Think of the money we'd save."

"I'm thinking of you being Casey Blackshear," he said gently. "I'm thinking that just once I'm going to do something that isn't practical. Because I can't think of anything I'd rather do than marry you right now."

I kissed him and cried. "See? Just listen to me, and we'll both get everything we want."

"I've got you," he said. "That's everything I need."

The justice of the peace who performed the ceremony was late for a dance at the American Legion Hall and rushed through the service. It was simple. It was quick, but it was glorious. Hank and I couldn't have been happier in a fine chapel with a thousand guests watching.

Mentally, I marked off the first of my three life objectives-marrying Hank. Moving to New York took care of another dream. All I had left was the Olympics, and that was straight ahead.

On the way back to the university, we put the top down on my convertible and let the sweet scent of honeysuckle fill the air. The world was ours-until Hank swerved to avoid a deer that dashed across the highway in the darkness. He lost control, and the convertible shot off the road into a grove of oaks. I remember him flinging one arm out to hold me, but too late. My side of the car slammed into a tree. I wasn't wearing my seat belt. I was thrown from the car.

The doctors told me I was lucky to be alive. I didn't feel lucky. When they told me I'd never walk again, Hank blamed himself.

My Olympic dream shriveled up and fell into a black hole. Hank's internship at Angel Memorial slithered into the same deep abyss, though the admissions director promised he could apply later. I never blamed Hank for the accident; I should have buckled my seatbelt. I knew he would never intentionally hurt any living creature, including me. That's why he is such a good vet. We don't talk about it any more, but I know he still lives with his guilt.

For the next year, he alternated weekends between working for his father, who'd had another heart attack, and riding his motorcycle to Atlanta, where I was in a spinal rehabilitation center learning to live without the use of my legs. If I hadn't fallen in love with Hank the summer I was fourteen, I would have during that year.

The doctors fitted me with braces that made it possible for me to stand, but I spent most of my time in a wheelchair. Two days after I was released from the spinal center, I attended Hank's father's funeral. I'll never forget the pitying looks people gave Hank and me, though there was plenty of support and love in Mossy Creek, too. I just didn't recognize it yet. Hank graduated from vet school, and we moved into the rambling Blackshear homestead beside the vet clinic. Hank intended to put his father's house and clinic up for sale.

"You and I never had a honeymoon," Hank told me one day. Then he handed me two airline tickets. "We're going to the Bahamas."

"You'll have to carry me everywhere, or push me in the wheelchair."

"I don't mind," he said.

I cried.

We were in the Bahamas when Hank told me we were nearly broke. He didn't have the money to pay off his student loans as well as his father's large medical expenses. The old Blackshear Clinic showed no signs of selling. That's when Hank confessed: He had given up hope of interning at Angel Memorial. He'd decided to take over his father's practice in Mossy Creek. He said he did it for me, so that I could stay close to my doctors in Atlanta, and my family. And this way he'd have time to take care of me-I'd always be right next door to the clinic, at the old farmhouse.

There was only one problem. He didn't ask me if that's what I wanted.

I didn't. I'd forever given up my dreams of the Olympics, but I'd expected New York, the theater, museums, sports. What I was getting was a husband and a new life in the very town I'd wanted to escape, a town where I believed people loved the glorious Casey Champion, not the crippled Casey Blackshear. A town whose motto seemed to predict a terrible future for me. Ain't Going Nowhere and Don't Want To.

But I had trapped Hank in that future alongside me. I owed him every bit of loyalty in the world. "I think living in Mossy Creek is a fine idea," I lied. "We'll be happy, there."

Hank tries everything he can think of to get me out into the community. But other than picnics with him in the mountains and weekly dinners with my folks, the only activity I've done is volunteer at the children's hour at the library. I liked telling the children stories. They soon forgot about my wheelchair. I even asked if there was an opening for an a.s.sistant librarian.

"I'm sorry, Casey, but we don't have the budget to hire you," Hannah Longstreet, the head librarian, told me. I could hear the regret in her voice.

"I completely understand," I said cheerfully, then went home and sobbed.

I hate feeling worthless. I can't help out much in Hank's practice; I'm afraid I might fall down while trying to stand with my braces and hold a cat or dog on the examining table. Other than answering the phone for the clinic when Hank's receptionist is at lunch and sending out a few bills, I have nothing to do. In short, I've spent our first year in Mossy Creek being bored, depressed, and mad at the world.

Today was one of those days. We were heading into the Fourth of July, and the weather was sticky hot. The mountains baked under a bright-blue sky. I sat in my wheelchair by the bedroom window fanning myself with a magazine. The antique clock over our fireplace started to chime. It reminded me that Hank was showering, getting ready to report to the new softball field with his friend, Buck Looney, who coaches down at Bigelow County High. Buck played four seasons of pro football for the Green Bay Packers thirty years ago, and he's never lost the burly att.i.tude of a gorilla in shoulder pads. He's coaching the Mossy Creek Twelve-and-Under Softball Team as if they're hard-boiled linebackers. Buck is big and stalwart and gruff, but he tries his best to help out with the kids' teams in Mossy Creek. Every kid in the town is in awe of him. After the little girls' practice session, Buck, Hank, and our police chief, Amos Royden, planned to practice with the Mossy Creek adult co-ed team. I insisted that Hank join the team.

As the chimes came to an end, the bathroom door opened and Hank emerged in a cloud of steam. He was already dressed in a faded teeshirt, cutoffs and his baseball cap with the bill turned backwards. His Let's Cheer Up Casey smile was planted hopefully on his face. "Ready, Case? I told Buck we'd be at the ball field at two-thirty. I put your glove and bat in the van."

I stared at him. "Why?"

"You might get the urge to play."

"Is that a joke?"

"No, it's a hope. At least, you could coach from the sidelines. Buck has no clue how to deal with little girls."

I shook my head. "Neither do I-not when you're talking about coaching softball. Why would they listen to me? I can't demonstrate much. I can't get up and run. I'm useless."

"No, you're still a world-cla.s.s softball player."

I groaned. The world doesn't look at me and see an Olympic contender, but Hank still does. My wheelchair and Hank know how worthless my body is. The wheelchair doesn't talk, and Hank won't. He doesn't say so, but he thinks I'm a coward. He's right. Reading stories to children at the library is one thing. Helping girls. .h.i.t, run and field, is another thing all together.

"Those girls need you," Hank coaxed.

"Any summer league that would give a little girls' softball team to an ex-pro linebacker who used be nicknamed Jawbone deserves what it gets."

"That's why Buck needs help." Hank laughed. It was a good laugh. There haven't been many of those lately. My heart still melts when I hear it, it just takes longer now.

"You're talking little girls who have one foot in their childhood and one foot in their teens. If Buck Looney makes the little girls cry with his harsh methods, I'd say you need a new coach."

"It's too late, now," Hank admitted. "We're set to play Bigelow in the Fourth of July tournament and the Twelve-And-Unders are scared to death. Please, Case, I really need your help. Buck thinks that if you'll just give them a little pep talk, Mossy Creek has a chance of winning the All-Star Tournament for the first time in years."

"What exactly is their record?"