by Teresa Hill
"Is that what you wanted?"
"Yes. Perfect."
"What's going on, Emma? Where are we going?"
She gave him directions, little by little, until he realized she was taking him to the cemetery. They drove past row after row of graves, until she told him to park and got out of the truck, her steps getting slower and slower the closer she got to one particular spot under a big willow tree on the hill.
He followed two steps behind her. She knelt down to clear away a few stray leaves, then tucked the flowers against the tiny white gravestone with a lamb carved on the top.
The colors had his throat going tight, the stone so white, the flowers oh-so-soft pink.
He didn't really want to know this.
"Sam and Rachel had a baby once, a long time ago," she said.
He stared down at the grave. They'd named her Hope. She would have been nineteen in the spring. The gravestone showed that she died on the same day she was born, a long time ago.
Damn.
He couldn't say anything at first, and when he could speak without sounding like he was choking, all he could think of was, "They must have been young."
"Eighteen and twenty," Emma said quietly.
"What happened?"
"Car accident. Icy roads. The baby was born too soon. Sam was driving, and he blames himself. They did a hysterectomy to keep Rachel from bleeding to death, so there were no more children after that, something Rachel blames herself for. They've been through a lot, and they' re both very strong, but... If something happens to Ann's baby, they need to be together. They need each other more than I need them right now, and I don't want you to think badly of them because of that."
Rye nodded, not sure what to say.
He and Emma had drifted together once more, her arm against his, her hand slipping into his.
He just stared down at the gravestone, and a split second before he would have turned away, he went back to the date again. It happened nearly nineteen years ago.
March 12.
What happened in March nineteen years ago?
He counted back in his head, looking for some kind of way to mark the time....
It was when Sam came to see him. A stranger, he'd thought then. A stranger who was supposed to be his brother.
So this Sam had just lost his baby girl, when Rye's brother had come to find him. Both things would have happened within the same month.
Would a man do that? Lose a daughter, then try to find a long-lost brother? Did that make sense?
It felt like one big sign clicking irrevocably into place, and he found that the closer he thought he was coming to answers, the more afraid he was of what he was going to find.
This seemed like too odd a coincidence to ignore. It made him want to hope. It made him want to think the man he was looking for was right here. Or at least, he would be in a day or two.
Don't do this, he told himself. Don't.
"What?" Emma asked.
"Nothing," he lied.
But she knew it wasn't.
She still had that look on her face, like someone who understood. Someone who could see right through him. What would that be like? Having someone who saw it all and somehow understood?
He didn't know what to do or what to say. He felt like something inside of him was just crumbling, piles of rubble falling down and lying in ruins. He felt vulnerable in a way he simply hated, open and completely without any kind of defenses, and he wanted to reach for her and just hang on.
He had the most absurd notion about leaning on her, not just in a physical way but an emotional one. That beneath that slender build of hers, beneath the fear and the tears, beneath the bruise that now had the power to make him murderously angry, she was a very strong woman.
She had old eyes, he realized. As young as she was, she looked out at the world with eyes that had seen too much. He thought as much as he would be staying here to help her and to keep her safe, she was likely going to help him, as well, if he could find the courage to let her in just a little bit.
She'd said everybody needed somebody, and he sure seemed to need her. It was Christmas. He'd been so sure he was in the wrong place once again, and there just weren't that many more names on his list. But now, he thought maybe he was in the right place after all.
He'd never understood how frightening that would be.
He stood there thinking, Hold me, Emma. Don't let me fall.
She slipped her arm through his and with great trepidation, he turned to face her. She put her other hand to the side of his face and smiled up at him through those old eyes of hers, now wet with tears.
"If you think you've cornered the market on hard times, think again," she said. "We've all been there. Whatever it is you've been through, we'll understand."
He caught her hand and held it against the side of his face. She'd taken off her gloves and it was cold, and he wanted to warm it, wanted not to have to give up the kindness of her touch just yet.
And then he leaned down and sought the comfort of her mouth, ever so softly, thinking the woman had a way of reaching right down to his soul in ways he just didn't understand. She dug down inside of him, finding things he didn't want anyone to find, and giving back things he didn't quite understand in return.
He just knew that whatever it was she offered, he needed.
So he kissed her cold lips, soaking up the strength, the kindness, and the comfort of her, things he'd never sought from a woman before, things she gave so generously.
Emma, he thought. Quiet kisses and soft hands, old eyes and a seductively gentle touch.
Letting her go was one of the hardest things he ever did. Pulling his mouth from hers, drawing his body away. Life was just too hard some days.
And if he had found the right Sam McRae... This was Sam's daughter.
"Emma, I..." He had no idea what to say. "What is this?"
"I told you. I like you. And you like me, too. It's not really that complicated, is it?"
He held her with his hands on her upper arms, telling himself it was because he had to hold her away from him, but maybe it was because he simply couldn't let go.
He cupped her poor bruised cheek in his hand and ran his thumb over her lower lip. She made him want so much on so many different levels he couldn't even quantify it. He seemed to want her in absolutely all ways, all at the same time. It was bewildering, surprising, even frightening.
"Yes," he insisted. "It is."
"Why? You don't like women?"
"I like women just fine."
"But not me?"
He didn't say anything at first. What could he say to that? He liked her very much, he just couldn't let himself.
The silence stretched awkwardly between them. She looked confused, then doubtful, then hurt. "Oh." She stepped back. "And I was supposed to keep my hands off you, wasn't I? Sorry."
"Oh, hell. I wish I was sorry about all of this," he said. "I don't know what to do with this, Emma. Aren't things complicated enough?"
"My life's more complicated than I'd like at the moment, but I still think you and I—"
He pressed his fingertips against her lips, stopping the words. "Don't say it. Please. It's just not going to happen."
He would hate himself if he let anything happen. Sam would, too.
"Why?" she asked.
"There are things you don't know, Emma." He felt like he owed her that. "Things I've done, places I've been."
"Long, sad stories. I remember."
"Not things that have happened to me. Things I've done. It's different when it's a bad place you take yourself through your own actions, not ones you end up in because of what the people around you do. I'm talking about who I am."
"Who are you?" she asked.
"I'm a mess. Have been forever, it seems. And you..." He still had her by the arms, his hands rubbing at the long, smooth lines of her shoulders. "Look at you. You know the first thing I thought when I saw you? I thought you looked like a schoolgirl for a minut
e. All soft and sweet and innocent, and I still think you're all those things. A very good girl. The kind a man protects. The kind who shouldn't give someone like me the time of day."
"Because you're just so bad?"
"And you're just about the most tempting thing I've ever seen. Must have awakened every good-girl fantasy I never even knew I had," he said, trying desperately to lighten the mood.
"So you go for the bad girls, do you?"
"Oh, yeah." He made himself grin.
"I don't think I believe that."
"Okay, mostly I've just been trying to get myself together and stay out of trouble the past few years. It's not a bad plan."
"So maybe you're not so bad, after all?"
"I'm trying," he said. "Not sure how well I'm succeeding."
"And I'm not helping matters. I did promise to keep my hands off you. Sorry."
"Yeah, well... Who's got their hands on whom right now?" But he let them drop to his side and stepped back, his head still kind of spinning. How did he keep ending up with his hands on her, anyway?
And what was he going to do with her now?
Chapter 5
He drove her home without saying a word, which was fine with her. She was perfectly content to think about him kissing her.
No one had ever kissed Emma like that, so sweetly, so softly, and yet with so much need. A lonely, weary, save-me kind of need. She wondered what he might need and how she might give it to him, because she found herself wanting to give him anything.
If only she knew what he needed.
They pulled into the driveway. He walked her inside, carefully checking the entire first floor once again, finding nothing out of place.
"Emma," he said, standing in the living room, hands on his hips, shooting her a look that was vintage Sam, that don't-even-think-about-arguing-with-me-now look. "You know you can't stay here by yourself."
Amused, her chin came up. "I can't?"
"You promised Sam. I heard you. And even if you hadn't promised him, I won't let you stay here by yourself."
"You won't let me?" she repeated.
"Okay, maybe that's not the best choice of words. I couldn't. How about that? I won't be able to sleep at night for worrying about you. Do you really want to keep me up all night, Emma?"
"Well..." She grinned, letting the word trail off.
He looked completely dismayed, probably thought she was going to throw herself at him again. She never did that. If anything, she was usually a bit shy. He'd probably never believe her if she told him that.
"Emma, this is serious. Don't make me park my truck in the driveway and sleep there all night. Go somewhere where you'll be safe."
"You could stay with me," she suggested.
"Yeah." He nodded, not looking happy. "Me and every other guy claiming to be Sam's friend. We've been through this."
"I'm not issuing invitations far and wide," she pointed out. "Just to you. You're the one who won't be able to sleep anyway."
"Neither will you," he insisted.
She grinned, wanting to kiss him again, as a thank-you for caring and for being here. Kiss him out of that bad mood, or maybe out of his frustrations with her. She wanted to tell him everything was going to be okay, because she was starting to believe it.
"Okay," she admitted. "You're right. I won't, not here by myself. And I really do have some common sense, not that I've shown any of it to you. I told you about the carriage house the other day. There's a bed and a bathroom. We've had people stay there from time to time. I was hoping you'd stay. It's nothing fancy, but..."
"I don't need anything fancy," he said.
"I'd be locked up nice and safe, inside the house," she reasoned. "There's an intercom system connecting the two, so if anything happened, all I'd have to do is press a button. You could be right here in seconds."
"Emma?" He was still frowning, still obviously uneasy about something. "These people? Your family? They're good to you, right?"
"Yes."
"Then why can't you bring yourself to even tell them what's going on? Why won't you tell them about this problem with Mark? I understand about the baby, about you wanting them to be together now, but what about you, Emma?"
Emma closed her eyes. Damn.
Helluva time to fall for someone, wasn't it? When her ex-boyfriend had turned nuts on her. Now she was making Rye think there was something wrong with her family.
His family, too.
When he already seemed so reluctant to have anything to do with them.
Which meant it was time for more of that painful kind of honesty and openness she was hoping to escape for just a bit longer, until maybe it didn't sting so much and maybe she wouldn't look so bad in his eyes.
His family, too, she reminded herself.
"It's not about them," she said. "It's about me. About who I am and how I want other people—especially my family—to see me. Have you ever done anything you were ashamed of? Deeply, deeply ashamed?"
"Yes," he said, the word positively wrenched from him. "More than I'll ever be able to explain."
What in the world? She'd blown off every attempt he'd made to tell her how bad he was. She didn't believe it for a minute, still didn't, but there were obviously things he deeply regretted.
Hanging by his sides, his hands were clenched tightly into fists, as if he might pour every bit of tension in his body into them, making her want to touch him once more, something she'd promised herself she would not do.
"Rye—"
"We were talking about you, Emma, and you seem to misunderstand a basic fact about your situation. You didn't do this. Someone did it to you."
"I know that, and I'm not saying it makes a whole lot of sense, but that's how I feel—ashamed. I'm not used to feeling that way, and I guess I'm not handling it well."
"You don't have to handle it well," he said, looking like he might take her in his arms again and just hang on to her.
Come to me, Rye, she thought. Just come to me.
Whatever it was, she'd help him. There was a fine sense of give and take to a relationship. She'd seen it in Sam and Rachel's marriage. The way they depended on each other, propped each other up when things got bad.
She'd never imagined finding anyone she could depend on like that, but now, here he was. She wanted him to be able to depend on her, too.
"Do you always handle everything well?" he asked.
"Believe it or not, normally, I do."
"Well you don't have to do that now. It's time to let all those supposedly wonderful people you call your family take care of you."
"I was hoping you would," she said. "Just for another day? Please?"
He frowned at her, obviously torn.
"Let me get something in the hall." She went, hoping he'd follow, and he did. There was a desk tucked under the stairs, keys hanging on a neat row of hooks. "I'm going to pull myself together, I promise, and then I'll tell Sam, and everything will be fine. But I just need a day or two to figure things out."
And she needed to keep him here. She needed to know what was wrong. Emma found the spare key to the carriage house and held it out to him.
"Sam's not going to think any less of you," Rye said, making no move to take it. "Not if he's the man you claim he is. No one's going to think any less of you because you made a mistake about a guy, Emma."
"I hope not."
"We all makes mistakes," he said.
"You could tell me about yours," she offered, key still in hand. "I'd understand."
"My mistakes are in a whole different league from yours."
"Give it up, Rye. You're not going to convince me that you're not a nice man. You've been so kind to me, so helpful, so understanding."
"That's not who I am," he insisted, shaking his head.
"It's exactly who you are, and I'm grateful for all those things."
"Don't thank me again, Emma. Please. I don't think I could stand it."
Don't touch me, he meant. Don't kiss me. Don't get
that close.
He sighed and closed his eyes. She thought for a moment he was at war with himself, that she could feel him swaying toward her, catching himself just in time and then pulling back.
The room seemed charged with energy, want, and need, excitement and fear. Every little gesture, every word seemed to mean so much. She had a feeling that one misstep could ruin everything. It made her think every relationship in her life to this point had been nothing, that this was the first one that mattered.
She'd always thought it would happen someday, and she'd thought it would be fairly simple—she'd see him and she'd just know, and that would be it. She'd thought her heart would never truly steer her wrong.
It had told her all along that Mark wasn't the one. Just like she thought perhaps the man standing in front of her was the right one.
"All right, I'll stay," he said, finally taking the key. "I'll give you one more day, and then you call Sam."
Well then, that would have to be enough.
"I'll take you to the carriage house and make sure you have everything you need."
"I'll take myself. You lock the door behind me and go to bed."
"All right. Thanks for staying."
* * *
He waited until he heard the dead bolt on the back door click into place. He'd checked the place. It was sound. She should be fine, and he would feel better being close. Thankfully not in the same house as her. Emma curled up in a bed right upstairs or right down the hall was too much to even think about.
Emma with her wandering hands and sweet mouth.
Emma, Sam's daughter?
He hadn't begged the universe for anything in years, but he was ready to beg now. Please don't let him have come here, found his brother, only to be lusting after his brother's adopted daughter.
It was laughable really.
What an introduction that would be.
Hi. I'm your long-lost brother, and I'm sorry but I can't seem to keep my hands off your daughter.
Rye walked through the backyard and let himself into the carriage house with the key Emma had given him. What more could a man intent on snooping ask for than this—a damned key and hours alone with which to search.
As soon as he found something that told him he was in the wrong place, he'd stop and soon after that, he'd leave.
