by Leigh Riker
* * *
“WHAT YOU DOING?”
Emmie’s voice shot through Annabelle as if she’d been caught trying to steal from her own suitcase. Tossing a pile of underwear in on top, she turned to find Emmie standing in her bedroom doorway.
“Packing,” she said. But after seeing Finn earlier that day, her visit with Sierra and then Emmie’s appointment with Sawyer, she had come home with her spirits flagging. She studied Emmie’s face. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
She nodded but, clearly, she wasn’t well. Her cheeks had bright flags of color, and her temperature had been too high when Annabelle checked it with the new thermometer.
She’d hoped Sierra would be released from the hospital by now. Concerned about her own course in Denver, she’d been too optimistic. She’d hoped that while she was gone Emmie and Sierra could stay here at the house, where Annabelle could stock the refrigerator for them and arrange for an in-home caregiver, if need be. But it didn’t seem like Sierra would improve enough in the next few days for that to happen.
Sawyer’s words about Sierra’s prognosis hadn’t been encouraging. Sierra would probably still be in the hospital when Annabelle had to leave town. As she’d told Finn, she would find the right solution for Emmie—she wouldn’t ask her busy friends to babysit for two weeks—so it looked now as if that meant taking Emmie with her. Annabelle could look for childcare in Denver, but would the school permit Emmie in the classroom even temporarily in the meantime?
Emmie’s eyes looked dull. “Where you going?”
Annabelle hesitated. Any notion that her fragile security with Annabelle was at risk might set off another tantrum, especially when Emmie was sick.
“Denver.” Annabelle doubted that would register with such a young child, and their conversations always seemed awkward, but to her surprise Emmie’s look of curiosity suddenly morphed into recognition. Her blue eyes brightened.
“Big,” she said.
“You mean the city? Yes it is,” Annabelle agreed. Did Emmie know about Denver, or was she making that up?
Her brow furrowed. “Noisy cars. Buildings. Mama had...brown stuff. Me juice.”
Annabelle blinked. “I thought you didn’t like juice.”
“Don’t like orange. Apple.”
Annabelle decided not to pursue that. At least she and Emmie were having an actual talk without any tears or temper. She slid the suitcase aside to finish packing later.
“Were you at the Brown Palace Hotel?” No answer, but then its name might not be familiar to her. “I’d like to go there, too.”
The famed landmark served tea every afternoon in the elegant, high-ceilinged atrium lobby where cattle barons and millionaire miners had once held court during the gold rush.
“Who you going with?” Emmie asked.
“Myself,” she said, trying to keep her explanation simple. This wasn’t the right time to tell Emmie she had to go with her.
Emmie shook her head. “Me and Mommy go.”
She had a point, and in that one way Annabelle hadn’t looked forward to her first plane ride alone. Would she like leaving the ground, flying through the clouds, finding the sun and clear skies above them? She imagined gripping the armrests of her seat—or clutching the stranger next to her in a death grip?—as the jet barreled down the runway. Or, she hoped, that first takeoff would be exhilarating, and she’d soon become a frequent flyer.
“Do you travel—I mean, go lots of different places with your mom, Emmie?”
“Uh-huh.”
Have you ever been to Missouri? Annabelle didn’t ask that aloud. She was still thinking of Finn and the warrant, but she wasn’t about to use a child to get information.
“A-bel?”
Annabelle’s heart turned over at this new version of her name. The first night here she hadn’t called Annabelle anything.
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Want juice now.”
“I don’t have any apple juice, Emmie.” Annabelle made a mental note to buy some. So far, Emmie appeared to be in danger of starving, although Annabelle’s friends had assured her that she would eat when she was hungry. Still, Annabelle had brought home baked goods from the diner each night to tempt Emmie, only to have most of them rejected too. It was as if Emmie was on strike, yet she needed food and certainly fluids to help her get well, Sawyer had told her.
Annabelle held out a hand. “Let’s see what’s for supper.”
Emmie said, grinning, “Doughnut.”
To Annabelle’s relief, an hour later Emmie’s forehead felt cooler.
Annabelle might not know exactly what she was doing, but she’d learned her instincts were often better than expected. After feeding Emmie a bowl of chicken noodle soup with crackers, she’d given her a tepid bath, hoping to bring her temperature down. After a brief mishap in the tub, they’d curled up on the sofa while Disney entertained them with another showing of Mulan.
“Princess,” Emmie murmured, eyelids drooping. At any other time she would be dancing around the room, humming the melody to any tune that played on the screen. At least until she saw Annabelle watching her and stopped, one thumb thrust in her mouth.
“You’re a princess, too,” Annabelle said, stroking her hair. She rewrapped the fleece blanket from Emmie’s bed around them like a cocoon, and Annabelle’s weary bones seemed to melt. In the time—less than a week—Emmie had stayed with her, Annabelle had acquired quite a few things she wouldn’t have any use for once Sierra was well and could take Emmie with her again to wherever they went. This blanket, a few toys, half a dozen outfits to replace the clothes that were lost in the accident and some books and DVDs now graced her temporary home. Annabelle had signed up for a new trial cable package that included several children’s channels.
They were both half asleep when the doorbell rang.
Finn stood on the porch with a serious expression that made her heart skip a beat. Annabelle touched her throat then stepped back to let him in, willing her face not to heat until her skin felt as warm as Emmie’s forehead. He carried the clean scents of night air, a hint of smoke from someone’s chimney, the leather of his jacket and a subtle aftershave.
In the front hall Annabelle laid a finger across her lips. “Emmie’s almost asleep.” She hadn’t said the words before Emmie wandered into the hall, the blanket trailing with her. Blinking in the light, she looked Finn up and down. He looked back, as if uncertain what to say to her. Then her face cleared and she walked up to him and leaned against him, a trusting look in her baby-blue eyes.
“You the man,” she said, which made Finn laugh.
“Hey, Emmie.” He reached down to brush a hand against her tangled hair then quickly drew back. “I heard you aren’t feeling well.”
She spoke into his knee. “My froat hurts.”
After another brief hesitation, Finn picked her up then patted Emmie’s back, murmuring words Annabelle couldn’t make out, and the very tone of his voice, low and deep, seemed to work. Emmie nestled her face into the crook of his neck. “She’s just about out now,” he said. “Want me to carry her up to bed?”
“Please.” He’d done that once before, the night of the accident, then escaped as if he hadn’t wanted to be here.
In the spare room Annabelle stayed back while Finn gently put Emmie on the bed. He half smiled, tucked the covers around until only her face showed and with a brightness in his eyes bent down to kiss her forehead. “Not much fever,” he said, straightening then turning toward Annabelle.
He blinked a couple of times then walked back into the hall with her, leaving Emmie’s door ajar. “In case she wakes again.” Annabelle crossed her fingers that she wouldn’t.
In the living room, taking a seat on the sofa, Finn laced his hands together between his knees, his gaze avoiding hers. He appeared lost in thought. Annabelle didn’t relish another talk about Emmie’s wel
fare. She’d had enough from him and Sierra today. What might his objections be if he found out she was thinking of taking Emmie to Denver with no real plan for her care there?
“You’re good with her,” she said to fill the silence.
Finn’s mouth tightened. “She reminds me of...someone.” He cleared his throat. “Annabelle, I didn’t come here just to see how Emmie was doing—though I am glad she feels better—or to put you on the spot again about her, and, before you ask, I’m not here about the warrant.” He looked toward the stairway, and Annabelle guessed this had to do with Emmie. “I won’t have to serve it after all,” he said.
She stiffened. What was he saying?
His gaze lifted to meet hers. “I got called to the hospital an hour ago. They said they tried to contact you—”
“My phone isn’t working.” She hadn’t been able to check her voice mail. “While I was bathing Emmie, it fell into the toilet. I’ve put it in a bag of rice to dry out but—”
“I’m sorry, Annabelle,” he said. “Sierra’s gone. She didn’t make it.”
For a long moment, that didn’t register with Annabelle. I just saw her this afternoon.
“She took a turn for the worse and crashed. The hospital staff tried everything to bring her around—Sawyer was there with her—but...” He shook his head.
The look of sympathy in Finn’s eyes didn’t penetrate either until she thought of Emmie, sleeping soundly in her bed in the house Annabelle meant to sell. Emmie, without her mother now and with a father Sierra had called, “tall, not so dark, and dangerous,” but then said nothing more about him.
Sierra is dead.
Except for Annabelle, Emmie was now alone in the world.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FINN STAYED OVERNIGHT on the sofa. He didn’t want to but remembered how it felt to be alone in Chicago after Caro and Alex died. He’d seen the exact moment when shock set in for Annabelle. She had no family here except Emmie, who had wakened, crying—as if she already sensed her mother was gone. Finn had suggested they not tell her until morning, and in the meantime he’d tried to be of help to Annabelle, phoning other people who would want to know about Sierra—Grey and Shadow, Blossom and her husband Logan, Sawyer and Olivia for starters—and trying to keep Annabelle from what appeared to be an imminent breakdown.
She knew as well as he did that her cousin’s death changed everything, and Finn had plenty of experience in dealing with the aftermath of tragedy—as well as he knew how. Even over coffee now, which he’d brewed at five this morning, Finn tried not to make things worse for Annabelle.
“Sierra said nothing more about Emmie’s dad?”
Annabelle rubbed her forehead. “No, but he needs to be notified, now more than ever. I wonder if Sierra made any arrangements for Emmie’s care—if something should happen to her? I mean, other than asking me to find him.”
Finn toyed with his coffee spoon. “Sierra’s personal effects are still at the hospital. As next of kin, you can pick them up. Maybe there’s something in them that will help. It’s possible that, because of Emmie, she made a will but that also means finding the lawyer who drew it up.”
“Who could be anywhere, too,” she said, and Finn guessed she was about to cry again. “I don’t even know where to start. At least your department still has her car. I know it was totaled, but there might be something—other than that warrant—in the glove compartment that we overlooked.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t seem to realize she’d said we, as if she and Finn were a team, working together. “And there should have been an insurance card, which might help, but there wasn’t.” He shifted in his chair. “I’ll have a deputy empty the glove compartment before the car gets towed away for scrap.” Finn didn’t want to care about anyone. Yet, at the moment, Annabelle and Emmie both needed him. He couldn’t help but respond to that. For Emmie’s sake, he’d have to put aside his awareness of Annabelle, the sleek fall of her hair, the changing brown to green of her eyes, even that ever-present apron she wore at the diner that always made him want to smile.
For now he’d avoid any discussion about Emmie’s future. He needed to get past the events of the next few days...then return to his solitary routine. “I hate to bring this up, but you’ll need to see the funeral director this morning—pick out a casket, decide on a service, prepare an obituary for the newspaper.”
Annabelle’s mouth quivered. “I don’t have any idea what an obit should say.”
She must have written ones for her parents, but Finn let that go. He didn’t mention the funeral home transporting Sierra’s body from the hospital either. He knew that would make the sad fact of her cousin’s death seem all too real, but before he could offer to go with Annabelle—and risk bringing up his memories of Chicago—he heard footsteps on the stairs.
Her thumb in her mouth, Emmie padded into the kitchen. “Why you still here, Finn?”
He half smiled at the tone of her voice, curious yet pleased to see him again when he’d thought, from Annabelle’s reports, that Emmie wasn’t a morning person. In spite of his vow to avoid her, too, her calling him by his first name was charming, and when she climbed onto his lap Finn automatically drew her close at the same time he struggled not to push her away. He would never hold Alex like this again. He was here only to fulfill his official duties. Call it community outreach.
Annabelle rushed across the kitchen, as if she were trying to prevent the scene with Emmie that might come next. “We have oatmeal for breakfast,” she said in a questioning voice, “or I can fix eggs. Which would you like, Emmie?”
Finn expected her to say doughnut, but instead she looked up at him then pressed her tiny hands to either side of his face. “What you want?”
“Eggs,” he said. “They’re good for you and they taste great.”
She wrinkled her nose. Then, “Okay. I eat eggs too.”
With one hand on the refrigerator door, Annabelle gaped at him. “How did you do that?” Her reddened eyes held his gaze.
“Emmie made her own decision.”
With the kind of brisk efficiency she displayed at the diner, Annabelle put breakfast together. Bacon sizzled in one skillet, scrambled eggs in another and glasses of apple juice and a slice of cinnamon coffee cake waited at each place. “I brought this home, hoping Emmie might like it,” she said, setting their plates on the table then going back for her own. “But I doubt she will.”
As if to prove her wrong, Emmie devoured every bite, glancing now and then at Finn to see if he was eating too. When he asked for a second helping, so did she. Annabelle was still shaking her head when they finished—she had eaten hardly anything—and Finn knew they couldn’t wait any longer to tell Emmie about her mom. Earth-shattering news. How to say this without traumatizing her any more than he knew they would? When he’d lost Alex and Caro, at first Finn was the only one to absorb the blow.
He tilted his head toward Emmie who sat on his lap again, leaning against him. She felt warm, smelled sweet in his arms. “What do you think?” he said, dreading what had to be done. “Now?”
“We’d better. I expect Shadow, Blossom and Olivia to show up any moment. I have the best friends in the world and I know they’ll want to help.” She hesitated. “But I’m glad you’re here, Finn. I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Yes you could, but maybe it’s better this way. Strength in numbers.” For sure, he never relished giving bad news, especially to someone who was alone. He turned Emmie in his embrace so she could see his face, and the memories shot through him with the speed of those bullets heading for their targets. Caro and Alex. The two people he’d loved most. The loss still seemed unbearable, and he was an adult who should cope better. What would this do to Emmie?
“Sweetie,” Annabelle began, her hands folded on the table. “I wish we didn’t have to tell you this—with all my heart, I do—but it’s about your mom. She’s
been very, very sick...” Annabelle clamped her lips tight but didn’t continue.
“Her froat sore, too?” Emmie asked. “The doctor make her better. Like me.”
Finn winced. From the look on Annabelle’s face, he knew it was his turn. Stalling, wishing he was anywhere else, he stroked Emmie’s hair, his fingers gently untangling the long blond strands, but Emmie spoke before he could.
“She coming home now?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“I know you want that, baby.” Finn pressed her head to his chest again. “But she can’t...she isn’t able to come home.”
Emmie’s head popped up, nearly hitting Finn’s chin. “When?”
Annabelle managed, “I’m so sorry, Emmie, but...”
“She’s with the angels now,” Finn murmured, his voice tight. Could she understand even that? At three, the very concept of death must be foreign to her.
“Mama’s not there!” Emmie cried out. “No a—a angle!” She lurched from Finn’s embrace, tumbled to the floor then ran toward the stairs, her little legs pumping. Climbing at a rapid clip, slipping on one step, she yelled, “Mama!” as if Sierra were waiting for her upstairs. “Mama!”
Annabelle sat frozen at the table. “Oh, Finn,” she said.
He fought the urge to go to her, to embrace Annabelle as he had Emmie. But all he could get out was, “Give her time.”
* * *
IN HER ONE AND ONLY black dress, Annabelle stood in a short receiving line—just her, actually—at the only funeral home in Barren. Tasteful music played softly in the background, and the lights were dimmed. It was the night of Sierra’s viewing, but thank goodness the walnut casket was closed. She could only term the past two days horrid. Emmie had alternated between bouts of crying and insisting her mother would be fine. She’d taken up a vigil near the front door, certain Sierra would walk in any minute.
Tonight, wearing the new dress Annabelle had bought her with a red-and-black-plaid taffeta skirt, she’d stayed beside Annabelle for only a moment before she wriggled free, and now with her patent leather Mary Jane shoes flying, made a beeline across the thick carpet to Finn.
