Emma gave him a tremulous smile. "Then you must understand how desperate I am to see my children. Why, if anything happens to them ..."
The sheriff got up."Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt to go and talk to these folks. Then we'll see."
***
Emma's legs could barely support her as she followed the three men into the hotel lobby. Fatigue, fear, and anger all warred with each other inside her. Her heart pounded inside her chest, and tears hovered just inside.
After speaking to the bespectacled little man who was apparently the proprietor, the sheriff led them up the stairs to the rooms the Howards were occupying for the night.
The sheriff stopped in front of a heavy oak door. "They've got the room next door, too," he said to Sam, indicating another closed door a few feet down the corridor. "There's a door between the two inside. Dangdedest thing I ever heard of," he muttered. "Who'd ever want a room with a door to the one next to it anyway?"
Sam raised his hand to knock at the door, but the sheriff pulled him away before he had a chance. "I want you three to stay out of sight and let me handle this."
"Look, sheriff--" Sam started to say.
"Sam," Fred put in. "Let the sheriff do his job."
Sam nodded. The muscle in his jaw tightened, and his fists clenched at his sides. Emma could tell it was taking every ounce of self-control he possessed not to break down the door and charge inside. But he took a few steps back, out of sight of the door.
As for her, her heartbeat was so loud in her ears she could scarcely hear what the sheriff was saying.
Emma could hear a child crying on the other side of the door. A harsh voice spoke, and the child's cries faded. She rested her hand on Sam's arm. "Oh, Sam, it's Nathan." Turning to the sheriff, she pleaded. "Please hurry. Something's wrong with my son."
The sheriff knocked at the door.
"Who is it?"
Emma recognized Winston Howard's voice.
"Sheriff Colby. I'd like to speak to you a minute."
The sound of muffled voices filtered through the walls.
"It's late, sheriff, and my wife is ... indisposed. Can't it wait until morning?"
The sheriff raised his voice a little louder. "Sorry, folks, but it can't. It'll only take a few minutes."
Still, the door remained closed.
"I won't tell you again," the sheriff ordered. "Now open up."
The door opened. "Do you have any idea what time it is--?"
"I sure do," the sheriff replied. "And I'm real sorry to bother you this late--"
"What do you want?" Winston huffed. "State your business, then leave."
Emma couldn't hear the children. Panic seized her. If they had harmed even one hair on any of them--
"Those children yours?" she heard the sheriff ask as he pushed past Winston to enter the room.
"They're our grandchildren," Winston announced. "Is there a problem?"
"You don't mind staying in town while I verify that in the morning, do you?"
Emma tapped her foot impatiently on the scarred wooden floor. She couldn't stand not being able to see the children, to know they hadn't been harmed. All she could do was wait until the sheriff gave them permission to go into the room.
Sam gave her an encouraging smile and squeezed her hand. "Won't be long," he mouthed.
She nodded. But every second seemed like an eternity--
"Sheriff, we'd be happy to oblige, but we must leave at dawn. We do have a train to catch--"
"Really? Where you folks headed?"
"Fort Worth," Winston replied. "We're catching a train there."
"I don't think you're going to make it," the sheriff said, then waved Sam, Emma and Fred forward into the room. "These folks here seem to think those children over there belong to them."
Winston's face paled as he met Emma's gaze, but she didn't miss the outright hatred in his eyes.
Emma's gaze searched the room, finally coming to rest on Florence standing in the corner, one hand resting on Joseph's shoulder and the other on Becky's, using them almost as a protective shield.
"Mama," Becky cried out, wrenching herself out of Florence's grip. She raced across the room and threw herself into Emma's arms. The incredible feel of her tiny arms squeezing Emma's neck was something she'd never forget.
Moments later, Joseph followed Becky's lead, tucking himself beneath Sam's arm. "You okay," Sam asked.
Joseph nodded. "But what took you so long?"
Emma's heart almost exploded with love for these children. But where was Nathan?
"Sam. Nathan--"
Then she noticed a movement in the room beyond the open door. Freeing herself from Joseph and Becky, she ran into the other room. Nathan was curled into a ball in the centre of the bed, his eyes closed. Emma rushed over and sat down beside him, brushing his hair from his forehead. At her touch he opened his eyes. "Ma! I'm real glad you came."
Emma's breath hitched in her throat.
Ma. He'd called her ma. After all this time ...
Never had those two letters ever sounded so sweet.
"Of course we came, sweetheart. Nobody's every going to take you away from us. Are you feeling sick?"
"She wouldn't listen," he said weakly, lifting his head to glare at his grandmother who had followed her into the room.
"Hush, now. Go to sleep. I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning."
"Long rides upset his stomach," she said to Florence. "Didn't he tell you that?"
Florence didn't answer, merely turned and stalked out of the room. Nathan closed his eyes, and moments later, his breathing slowed.
Emma got up and joined the others.
"I told you we should have kept going, Winston." Florence's voice rose in fury. She was becoming hysterical. "But no, you had to stop and rest. Now look at what you've done."
"Be quiet," Winston said.
Florence sucked in an audible breath, but it didn't stop her tirade. "It wasn't enough that you drove Catherine away, now you've ruined this too."
Winston crossed the carpet to his wife. "We'll discuss this later."
The sheriff folded his arms across his chest as he took a few steps to block the doorway. "I think you folks had better come with me. If these folks are telling the truth, you'll have plenty of time to talk while you're serving out your prison sentence for kidnapping."
Chapter 20
The children were finally asleep.
After the excitement of their rescue and the trip home, by the time they reached Charity, they were exhausted. Nathan was still feeling the effects of the long journey. Emma had given him something to help him sleep, and she was sure he'd be completely recovered within a day or two.
Emma closed the bedroom door and tiptoed down the stairs to where a pot of water was heating on the stove. Sam had gone to help Fred catch up on the chores that had been neglected for the past two days. He would be gone for at least another few hours. Plenty of time to take a long, hot bath.
After adding a few drops of scented oil to the bath water she’d heated, she stripped off her clothes and sank into the steaming water.
Breathing deeply, she inhaled the perfume, letting her muscles relax. She leaned back, allowing the water to wash way the tension of the past few days.
Life was perfect. She had everything she'd ever wanted. The children had accepted her as their mother. Even Nathan, sweet Nathan, had finally called her Ma.
And Sam. Sam cared for her, perhaps not the way he'd loved his first wife, but she could live with that. Maybe in time he would come to love her the way she loved him. He'd proven time and again what a good man he was. Heavens, he'd even allowed her to stay covered while he claimed his marital rights.
A faint smile tugged at her lips as she recalled that evening. She'd been shocked at how she'd reacted to him. What she'd always believed to be something unpleasant a married woman was forced to endure had turned out to be ... amazing. There was no other word for it.
Yes, she thought as
she sank further down in the water and closed her eyes. Life was as perfect as it could get. What more could she possibly ask for?
A sound filtered through her brain, and she opened her eyes. The water was cool against her skin, and she realized she must have dozed off. She shivered, and began to scrub her skin vigorously with the washcloth.
She heard the noise again, a thump like boots climbing the porch stairs, then hitting the wooden floor.
Sam!
He couldn't be home already. How long had she been in the bathtub?
Oh, no. She couldn't allow him to see her this way. She bounded up, frantically snatching at the drying sheet she'd hung on the back of the chair. With lightning-quick movements, she covered herself, making sure her scars were hidden. If she just had a few more seconds to dry herself and reach for her nightrobe ...
She jumped out of the tub, ignoring the water sloshing over the sides and running in rivulets across the bare floor.
Too late! she realized as the door opened and Sam stood in the doorway.
His eyes widened as he took in the sight of his wife standing practically naked in front of him. His lips curved in a surprised smile. "If I'd known I was going to get a welcome like this, I'd have been home a lot sooner," he said, taking a step towards her.
She swallowed thickly. "I ..." She couldn't voice her thoughts. What could she tell him? That this was not a welcome? That she'd planned to be sound asleep before he came back?
He moved closer, and the scent of soap and sunshine filled her nostrils. He'd obviously bathed before he came in, probably in the river.
"Here," he said softly, reaching for the drying cloth, "let me help you."
She backed away, leaving a puddle of water on the floor. "No."
He followed, she retreated, until she felt the cold wall on her bare back. She swallowed thickly at the unbridled need in his eyes. He wanted her, and God help her, she wanted him, too.
She shivered as he reached up and traced the line of her jaw with his callused finger. "You're cold," he said, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her against him. The heat from his body warmed her skin, and his hands on the skin of her naked back burned their imprint into her flesh. His hands moved lower, cupping her buttocks and drawing her closer. Close enough to feel the evidence of his desire. "But I'd be happy to warm you up."
Heat flowed through her. Heat, and want. Want unlike anything she'd ever known. Her knees almost buckled with the intensity of her reaction to him.
"Let's get rid of this," he whispered into her ear as he reached for the drying sheet.
Emma's grip tightened on the fabric. "No ... I can't ..."
"What?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
How could she explain? "If you want to ... you know ... I don't mind ..."
He chuckled. "I'm glad to hear it."
"But I can't let you see me ..." she whispered.
"What?"
She lowered her eyes. "I don't want you to look at me."
He took a step back and frowned. "Why the hell not?"
"You know why not.” Because I can't bear to see the revulsion on your face, she wanted to say. Because I'm afraid you'll never want me again if you see ... “I just don't."
"I know you're shy, sweetheart, but you'll never get used to it--"
She shook her head. She'd doubted she'd ever get used to allowing a man to look at her body, even if she'd been perfect. But the way she looked now ...
"Are you still worried about your scars?"
She nodded.
"Hell, Emma. When are you going to believe that I love you and I don't care about a few little scars. It's the woman you are that I love--"
"I know you say that, and I don't doubt you really do believe it --"
"But you don't trust me."
Emma didn't miss the frustration in his voice.
She shook her head, unable to believe that this man, this wonderful, virile man who could probably wed any woman in Charity would want a woman who was less than perfect. How she wished she could believe him.
She looked up at him, then turned away. She couldn't bear to see the expression in his eyes.
She'd hurt him. Deeply. Because she didn't trust him. Even now, after all they'd been through together, she didn't have enough faith to believe him.
Silence filled the room. Finally, she turned back to face him. "We can still have a good life, Sam--"
He backed away. His voice became gruff. "No, Emma, we can't. I want a wife, a real wife. I want a woman who loves me, who trusts me enough to know I wouldn't hurt her. I've done everything I can do to convince you that I'm not like your father or like Barclay, and you don't believe me. I'm sorry, Emma, but I'm finished trying."
"I--" What was he saying? Did he want her to leave? Or did he plan to continue with their marriage, but treat her as nothing more than someone who happened to share his home and care for his children?
He turned towards the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back to face her. Emma could see he was angry. "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Emma," he said, his voice low and controlled. "The trouble is, no matter how many times I tell you that, you won't believe me. You think everyone else is shallow, that all they care about is physical appearances. The truth of the matter is that you're the one who's shallow. You're the one who can't accept anything less than perfection."
"That's ridiculous."
"No, it isn't. You can't accept that you have a flaw, and rather than face it and deal with it, you've convinced yourself that it's everyone else who can't accept you. You can't accept it yourself."
Tears welled up in Emma's eyes, threatening to spill over. She blinked. She wouldn't let him see her cry. "No ... you're wrong ..."
"Think about it, Emma. Think about why you're so scared to let me see that you aren't perfect. Is it really because you think I'll turn away from you, or because that's how you'd react if the shoe was on the other foot."
"How dare you! Outward appearances mean absolutely nothing to me--"
"Then why do you assume it means anything to me? Why are you so scared to trust me?"
"Because if I'm wrong ... I'm afraid ... you'll be disgusted ... I'll lose what we have ..."
"If you can't trust me, then we have nothing, and you've lost it anyway," he said sadly, then turned away and picked up his hat. "I'll sleep in the barn." Then he left, letting the door close behind him.
Emma ran upstairs and sank down on the side of the bed, the drying sheet falling unnoticed to the floor. Sobs racked her body, and her tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks.
She'd lost him. Because she was afraid she would lose him, she wouldn't allow herself to trust him. Yet because she hadn't trusted him, she'd lost him. No matter how she looked at it, the result was the same.
Could he be right about her? Could it be that she had made assumptions about other people's reactions to her based on how she felt about herself?
And what of Barclay and her father? Granted, they were the two men in her life who should have cared enough about her to love her anyway, but was it possible she'd expected too much from them? That perhaps those two particular men weren't capable of real love?
Could Sam truly be different?
The flame in the lamp on the dressing table flickered, then went out, plunging the room into darkness.
Darkness.
This was how she'd spend the rest of her life. Hiding in the darkness.
Because she was afraid of the light - always afraid someone would find out who she really was.
But was life worth living that way? Could she spend the rest of her life living with Sam, but living alone in all the ways that mattered?
She climbed under the quilt and tucked it around her. It didn't matter that she was naked. Sam wouldn't be back.
There was only way he would share her bed - and her life - again.
But did she have the courage to risk it?
***
Sam tugged a horse blanket from the t
op rail of one of the stalls and spread it on a bed of straw. He laughed bitterly at the realization that he'd be sleeping here every night from now on. On their wedding night, when sleeping apart would have been the gentlemanly thing to do, he'd insisted on sharing her bed. But here he was now, less than three months later, getting ready to bed down with the horses.
Maybe he'd been too hard on her. Hell, he wasn't good at figuring out female feelings. Just because a few scars didn't bother him, that didn't mean females, particularly beautiful females, would feel the same way.
Maybe if he was patient, in time she'd come to realize he didn't care. He loved everything about her, scars and all. He wanted to look at her without her cringing in fear. He wanted to memorize every dimple and every curve of her body, kiss every inch of her naked flesh. And more than anything, he wanted to bury himself in her, hear her cry out his name, and spill his seed inside her.
Heat washed over him, settling in his groin. Damn! If he didn't stop thinking about what he'd like to do to her, he was going to be in trouble.
He'd told her he was finished trying to convince her he didn't care about the scars. But he knew, deep down, he'd keep trying until his dying day.
Yeah, maybe in time, he could get her used to the idea ...
Maybe ...
***
Emma threw off the quilt and lit the lamp on the small table near the window. For the past two hours, she'd lain in bed, alternately sobbing and trying to figure how she could spend the rest of her life this way.
Finally, she had realized there was only one thing she could do. Even though at first she believed it was a huge risk, when she really thought about it, there was no risk at all.
She had nothing to lose.
And everything to gain.
Kneeling down, she tugged the package from under the bed and unwrapped the gown Sam had bought for her weeks before. It seemed so long ago, and so much had happened since then, yet even now, she could still see the disappointment on his face when she'd refused to wear it.
Emma's Wish Page 22
