Unintentionally Mine

by Stephanie Rowe

  Emma watched him as he turned away, remembering what he'd said about his past, his background, and the kind of man he was. A part of her shivered, but another part of her, the deeper part rebelled. She had seen nothing but kindness from him. Could he really be the violent, dangerous man he thought he was?

  He got into his boat and started the engine.

  She tensed. The last time she'd said good-bye to him he'd almost died. "Where are you going?"

  He untied his boat from the pilings, moving with practiced efficiency. "Home. I gotta get some of my things. If you're going to pass this inspection tomorrow, I need to move in, and we need to figure out how to appear married. I'll be back soon." Then he shifted into reverse and began to pull away.

  Move in? Fear rippled through her. She hadn't lived with anyone since Preston, and she didn't want to. It was too intimate, and it made her too vulnerable. She ran to the edge of the dock. "Harlan?"

  He looked over at her as the engine rumbled softly, slowly taking him away from her. "Yeah?"

  "Have you ever actually killed someone?" Please say no. Please say no. She didn't want him to be the man he thought he was. She wanted him to be the man he'd shown to her.

  He met her gaze. "Many times, Emma. Many times. Don't lie to yourself about what I am. I'm not worth it." Then he gunned the engine and was gone.

  Chapter 10

  The door to Wright's swung open so hard that the knob crashed into the wall with a crack that made everyone inside the store spin around to look at her. Emma's face heated up, but she managed a small wave as she hurried inside. "Where's Clare?" she asked the room at large, addressing no one in particular. Since Clare's husband now ran Wright's, and Clare had opened a cupcake shop adjacent to the store, usually someone in the place knew where she was.

  The wooden shelves were overflowing with supplies now that the tourists were in town to buy things, and the long counter was filled with homemade desserts from local artisans. The air was filled with the delicious scent of home-brewed coffee, and the ten tables in the front of the store were packed to capacity with locals and summer folk enjoying a relaxing evening with the local ambiance.

  Ophelia, who was running the deli, waved a spatula. "She's in the bathroom throwing up. It's the sixth time today. The girl's going to waste away to nothing before she makes it out of the first trimester."

  Emma grimaced, looking toward the bathroom at the back, realizing from Ophelia's comment that Clare must have told everyone about her pregnancy. Or maybe, she was just too sick to hide it any longer. How could she burden Clare with her own issues when she was ill? "Oh, well, I'll come back later."

  "She looks stressed," Eppie shouted from the corner table. "Don't let her leave!"

  "Clare?" Emma jerked her gaze toward the back room, where the bathroom was hidden behind the swinging white door that led to the back room. "Clare is stressed?" Her heart jumped. "Is she okay?"

  "No, not Clare." Eppie stood up, tilting her tangerine-colored bonnet. "You. Grab her, Judith!"

  Oh, crud. She did not have the energy for an intervention by Eppie. "No, that's okay." She started to back toward the door. "I need to go—"

  A firm hand gripped her elbow, and she spun around to see Eppie's best friend, Judith Bittner, at her side. Judith was wearing a spiffy yellow tee shirt and a pair of hot pink slacks with lime green espadrilles. "Eppie and I were just going to go to bingo, but we can take a minute to help you out. Come sit, Emma."

  Oh, man, she was so not up for this right now. "No, I—"

  "I got beer for you all," Ophelia called out as the rest of the store continued to watch with great interest. Even the summer folk appeared to be fascinated, despite the fact they had no idea who any of them were.

  "Come on, girl. It's time for a chat with the ladies." Judith's arthritic fingers were like steel claws digging into her arm.

  Emma ground her teeth and gave up resisting, allowing herself to be led across the floor. Once seated, they would relax, and she could make a quick escape.

  Les Mooney, one of the old timers from town, stood up as she walked past. His gray hair was sparse now, and heavy wrinkles lined his face. "Don't be worrying about your fella," he said. "He'll be back for ya."

  Emma managed a smile. "I know. I'm not worried—"

  "Sure you are," Les said. "Every bride gets anxious when her man goes to war. When I was first married—"

  "Later, Les," Eppie shouted from the corner where she was already kicking a well-dressed couple out of their seats. "This is girl talk."

  Les chuckled and winked at her. "That Eppie sure is a hot ticket."

  "You're too old for me, Les. I need a virile man in his twenties," Eppie bellowed across the room, triggering a combination of horrified gasps, and a few smatterings of applause from some of the older folk.

  Emma allowed Judith to shove her into a chair across from Eppie, and she didn't even have time to settle before Ophelia plunked a four-pack of Birch's Best on the table and drew up a chair. "The burgers are cooking themselves," she declared. "I want some girl talk."

  Emma looked around at the three wrinkled faces and bouffant silver hairdos staring at her with such eagerness. "I don't have anything juicy for you guys—"

  "Sweetie," Eppie interrupted. "When you walked in the door, you looked like there was a murderer with a chainsaw on your tail. I've never seen someone look so spooked in my life. In this town, if there was a blood-letting murderer running around, we'd all know about it already and have him cornered at the gas station, so we know that's not what's bugging you." She leaned forward. "Man stuff, isn't it?"

  Emma swallowed. "Listen, I—"

  "Harlan came back this morning," Judith said. "I saw him taking the cover off his boat at two o'clock this afternoon. What time did he get to your place? Three?" She looked at her watch. "It's almost six now, so I'm guessing you maybe saw him around five o'clock, had some sort of high-octane confrontation, and now you're coming looking for Clare to get help, yes?"

  Emma stared at her. She knew Eppie and her friends were dialed in to all the gossip in town, but seriously? How in heavens name had they figured all this out? "I—"

  "You didn't expect him to come back, did you, girl?" Eppie leaned forward. "We're not fools, Emma. You and he never spoke a damn word in all these years. Just stared at each other across the room, practically oozing longing for each other. Then in one night you get hitched, and then he takes off again like he always does?" She nodded sagely at Emma's shocked look. "You thought you didn't have to be married, didn't you? You thought you could tie that knot and never have to play the role, eh?"

  "Marriage is good," Ophelia said, popping the cap off her bottle on the edge of her table with a loud crack that made Emma jump.

  The sound broke Emma's shock at having her life exposed. "Of course you think marriage is good, Ophelia," she protested. "You were married to the love of your life for fifty years." Everyone in town had been witness to the beautiful love affair between Ophelia and Norm. "But not everyone is that lucky—"

  "I was married before Norm," Ophelia interrupted. "I know what a bad marriage can be like."

  The entire table stared at Ophelia. "No, shit," Eppie said. "How in God's green earth did I not know that? I know everything in this town."

  Ophelia smiled. "You don't know everything, Eppie. You just think you do." She turned to Emma. "Before I met Norm, I lived in a town on the coast. I married a fisherman when I was eighteen." She smiled. "I actually was only seventeen, but we lied on our marriage license. It didn't matter. As long as I had a man to take care of me, that was all that mattered. His name was Buck Masters. Never seen hands that big on a man before. The man had calluses so thick that he could bounce a butcher knife off his thumb and never cut it."

  Eppie snorted. "That's just not sexy, Ophelia."

  "I don't know," Judith said. "Strong hands are nice on a man."

  "Harlan has strong hands," Eppie said, eying Emma. "And hardly any calluses."

  "
Shut up, Eppie," Ophelia said mildly. "I have a point to make." She turned to Emma. "Buck Masters was the best damn lobsterman on the island. I had married into the big time. But you know what?"

  "No, what?" Eppie said.

  "Yes, what?" Judith chimed in.

  Emma just shook her head, willing the conversation to end so she could go back home and pace restlessly while she waited for Harlan to come back.

  "Buck drank like a damn fish, and he was a right bastard when he drank." Ophelia nodded at Emma. "Not unlike that man you married."

  "Preston?" She could barely get the words out, she was so startled by Ophelia's insight as to her ex-husband's true nature. "You know he drank?"

  Ophelia rolled her eyes. "Honey, his family summered here for twenty years. His father crashed three boats as a drunken youth, and his boys were the same. There are no good genes in that family."

  "This is true," Eppie said, nodding as she took a big gulp of her beer.

  Emma sat back, a deep sense of betrayal burning through her. "If you all knew he drank, why didn't any of you say anything?" She felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Had the whole town been laughing at her while she'd been running around, giddy with joy, planning her wedding?

  "Because, dear girl," Ophelia said quietly, "your eyes were glowing for the first time in your entire life. We all prayed that you were right, that you saw the gem in a sea of scum."

  "I wasn't right," Emma said faintly. She'd known Preston for many summers as well, from a distance, just as she'd known Harlan from afar. She'd thought she'd known who Preston really was, beneath the flash and glam, and the money he threw around. She'd been wrong, so very wrong, and looking back, the signs were obvious. She'd been so desperate to believe he was someone he wasn't, to somehow be given a chance to matter to someone, to be rescued from her life, and her own shortcomings, that she'd ignored all the evidence to the contrary.

  What was the truth about Harlan? Was she deceiving herself again, because she wanted Mattie, and because she loved how he made her feel when he looked at her with those haunted, yearning eyes?

  "Anyway," Ophelia continued, interrupting her thoughts. "Even though Buck was a right bastard, he was considerate enough to die in a storm after less than a year. Nicest thing he ever did for anyone, I should think."

  "You're a bloodthirsty wench," Eppie commented, raising her bottle to toast her. "I like it."

  Ophelia tapped bottles with the other two women, as she continued her story. "I was thrilled to be free. I had enough money from his death that I didn't need to marry for money, and I swore on Buck's grave that I would never, ever, get married again." Then her forehead smoothed, and the most beautiful smile appeared on her face. "And then, one day as I was driving through Birch Crossing on my way to a writer's retreat in Vermont, I stopped at Wright & Son's for coffee. Norm was just closing the door, but he let me in. He stayed open until six in the morning chatting with me." She grinned. "I never left this town again. He won my heart instantly."

  Emma's throat tightened. "Norm was wonderful," she said softly. "I can see how you would have fallen in love with him."

  "That's my point," Ophelia said. "I didn't fall in love with him. I refused to be so foolish. I was tired and cranky, and he just sat with me because I needed a friend. Men are scary. Friends aren't. To me, he was always my dearest friend, and never simply a man." She pointed her beer at Emma. "You need a friend, my dear. Not a man."

  Tears filled Emma's eyes as the truth of Ophelia's words sank in. She did need a friend. Clare had Griffin now, and Astrid had Jason, which changed things for her, leaving her on the outside. She thought of Harlan's small cabin in the woods. There had never been a steady stream of people in his life either, at least not that she'd seen, unlike Preston, who had always surrounded himself with a retinue of admirers. For heaven's sake, Harlan had married her so he wouldn't die alone, which suggested he had no more connections than she did, not real ones at least. Maybe he needed a friend as well, and getting married was the only way he'd known how to do it.

  Then again, the night they'd spent making love had not exactly been the honeymoon that platonic friends would have had.

  "One's heart always sees more clearly with friends than with men," Eppie agreed. "Men cloud our vision with their five o'clock shadow, deadly kisses, and those looks that make you feel like you're all that matters to him in the world. They know that, and they use their manliness to make us forget our power as women. But with a friend, you can see all the ways that they suck, and yet love them anyway."

  Ophelia laughed. "A charmer with words as always, Eppie."

  Eppie shrugged. "I'm too old to be polite, Ophelia. And so are you."

  "I was too old to be polite when I was seventeen," Ophelia said.

  The three older women toasted again as Emma leaned back in her chair. Three women who had all once been married, who were all solo in their golden years, solid and secure in their friendships with each other, and their place within the town. Envy tightened in her chest, not simply for their friendship, but for the sparkle in all their faces. They'd all braved loss, death, and a callused lobsterman, and yet they all survived with spirit and ebullience. Wrinkles, empty beds, and age spots had made them more beautiful, not less.

  Emma realized she wanted that. She wanted to laugh, to be silly, to stop being afraid to live, and she didn't want to wait until she was seventy to figure it out.

  She didn't need to trust Harlan as a man, or as a husband. But as a friend? Yes, maybe, just maybe, that could be something. Maybe she could trust him as the friend she needed so badly. Resolution flooded her, and suddenly, she wanted to be home to greet him when he walked back into her house. Leaving her beer untouched, she stood up. "Thanks, ladies, but I need to go."

  Eppie grinned at her. "There's a fire in her eye, isn't there, girls?"

  Ophelia smiled as she took a swig of her beer. "I'd say there is." She pointed the mouth of the bottle at Emma. "Don't have sex with him, missy. It's hard to stay friends with a man when he's seen you naked repeatedly."

  "She is married to him," Eppie pointed out. "Married couples do tend to get horizontal from time to time."

  "Bullshit. They're married in name only," Ophelia said with a perceptiveness that no longer amazed Emma. "Best to keep it that way."

  "He is hot, though," Judith added.

  "All the more reason to keep his pants zipped and his hands busy washing the dishes," Ophelia said, her face softening as she looked at Emma. "Keep the vision clear, my dear. Learn to laugh again. It's good medicine."

  Emma smiled as she pushed her chair in. "Don't worry. I'm not having sex with him," she said, a personal confession so far outside her usual level of sharing that Eppie's mouth actually dropped open.

  But as she hurried toward the door, she knew why she'd said it. Protecting herself against a romance with him was the only way she could handle what was coming tonight when he showed up at her door ready to move into her life.

  * * *

  Two hours after he'd left, Harlan was back at Emma's.

  This time arriving by land, he parked his truck in front of her cabin, but he didn't get out. He just stared through the windshield at the tiny house with its faded gray shingles, red metal roof, and dark green shutters. Tall pine trees towered over it, but she'd still managed to nourish a small lawn and window boxes with brightly colored blossoms. He remembered the place from before she'd moved in, and recalled all too well how desolate and empty it had been. Now, it looked warm and welcoming, an actual home.

  He couldn't remember the last time he'd lived in a place that anyone would actually classify as a home. Had he ever? The crumbling, battered house of his youth had been a bastion of hell, not a place where people sat around during family dinners laughing about the day's events.

  But that damned hanging basket of flowers by the front door wouldn't stop taunting him. It was so full that it was a good three feet wide, with more flowers than he'd ever seen in one pot. It looked like
a house that someone cared about, it really did.

  Grimly, he glanced at the pile on the seat beside him. Two faded black duffel bags, stuffed full of his crap, random items he'd grabbed from his shack that would take away the feminine feel of her home and turn it into a place that a man lived in. He looked at his bags, then back at the quaint cottage. Yeah, like there was a chance those two things could ever co-exist.

  What the hell was he doing?

  He leaned back in his seat, resting his wrists over the steering wheel, his mood becoming increasingly dark. He didn't like the idea of inserting himself into her life, or this little girl's. He'd have to manage it from a distance and keep them protected from him. He had to play a role, but not cross that line. He could do that, right? Just because his clothes were going to claim her house didn't mean he had to.

  But then the front door opened and Emma appeared in the doorway, shading her eyes to inspect his truck.

  Son of a bitch. Instantly, all his heroic keep-his-distance resolutions vanished, replaced by a dark, pulsating sense of raw need and protectiveness.

  Whether he wanted it or not, it was his wife standing in that doorway in her short white cut-offs, a faded blue tank top showcasing arms that needed a little more meat on them, and breasts that barely filled his palm. There was nothing voluptuous about her, nothing bold, or overtly sexy. She was pure casual Maine girl, with a ponytail, flip flops, and a pair of large silver hoops he was guessing had been made by his sister. No make-up. No necklace. No glam.

  Just a woman with no airs or pretense, almost as if she wanted him to see her only as who she was. Ordinary. Plain. Simple.

  Except she wasn't. She was raw emotion. She was burning sensuality. She was pure loyalty to those few who she trusted. She was hope in a dark night. She was light, his light, his anchor in a black ocean that was trying to drag him deeper and deeper into its depths. He wanted her again. He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to sleep with her. He wanted to wake up with her. He wanted to lose himself in her and never come back up for air. Ever. How the hell could he get out of his truck and walk into her life? It was dangerous as hell, for all of them.