Edge of Heaven

by Teresa Hill

  "Rye, I don't know what you think you can't tell me—"

  "It's all going to come out, but I'd like to have the chance to explain it to Sam first, if that's all right with you."

  "Sure." She looked away, and he thought again that something was wrong, something she wasn't telling him.

  Was this about them rolling around on the floor this morning? About her sleeping in his arms last night?

  He'd apologized for that, hadn't he? He'd explained. Not that he thought there was a particularly good explanation, but it had happened. He couldn't change it now, and he was the world's expert on regrets. There was nothing left to do, except to stay away.

  Yes, he decided, looking at her again. Something was wrong.

  Emma slid a stack of papers toward him. "I found some things. Photographs of Sam and your parents, I think, and a couple of them with you."

  It was the last thing he expected.

  Her generosity, her kindness overwhelmed him.

  She was giving him back his past, whatever there was of it.

  "Thank you," he said.

  "You're welcome. I'll leave you to... I'll just be in the other room."

  * * *

  He didn't even reach for the photographs, just looked from them to her, then back again, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to look at them, as if someone might come snatch them away.

  She stepped outside for a moment to give him some privacy. It was the first day of Christmas, at least according to the town's festival schedule, so she turned on the Christmas lights she and Rye had put up. It was tradition here that on the first day, all the lights came on.

  Emma stood on the porch once she was done, staring up and down the street, remembering that she'd thought it was a winter wonderland the first time she'd seen it. She'd been sure it was all going to disappear into thin air, had felt the same way about Sam and Rachel and the way they'd opened their home to her and her brother and sister. She'd been so afraid it wouldn't last.

  What kind of demons had made Rye feel that way? No doubt what had happened with his adoptive parents, but what else?

  Emma wondered what it would have been like if she'd lived her life in reverse. If it had been completely stable and normal until she was twelve or fourteen and then someone had taken it all away.

  Instead, hers had been chaos and terror for nearly twelve years, and then she'd come here. Other than losing her mother shortly after that, life had been a Cakewalk.

  Of course, the difference was in what the person was left with in the end. This was her family now. There was stability, dependability, and so much love. Rye, it seemed, had nothing. She'd take her life over his any day.

  Except, he wasn't alone anymore. He had all of them now.

  She went back inside a few minutes later and found him still sitting in the chair by the window, looking dazed and overwhelmed. She wanted to draw him into her wonderful, strong, generous, loving family, and at the same time, she wanted so much more.

  "Thanks for these," he said, holding up one of the photos.

  She didn't say anything, just nodded.

  "Emma, has something happened that you haven't told me about?"

  "No." She stared intently at a spot on the wall three feet to the left of his head, trying not to think of what she'd learned. He was fourteen or fifteen years older than she was.

  Would it matter to him that she was the oldest almost-nineteen-year-old on earth? She doubted it.

  Which meant this was likely her last chance to be with him. Sam would be home. Rye would find out how old she was. It hurt just to think about it.

  She crossed the room to where he sat, sank down to the floor, her back to his chair, circled her arm around his leg, and rested her head on his knee.

  "What's wrong with you?" he asked, ever so softly as one of his hands slowly stroked her hair.

  She thought maybe if she didn't move an inch closer, he'd let her stay, and she needed to be here right now for as long as he'd let her.

  "Sometimes, it just seems like everything's gone all wrong," she said.

  "I know, Em."

  He still had his hand in her hair, and it felt so good.

  Touch me, Rye, she thought, her tears starting to fall. Touch me anywhere, and just don't stop.

  It seemed like he was meant to be a part of her life—maybe the most important part—but it also seemed absolutely impossible that they'd ever be together. How could that be?

  Emma cried even harder.

  He went still. She heard him swear softly, and a moment later, he slid to the floor and pulled her to him. She wrapped her arms around his chest and pressed her face to his shoulder. He wasn't happy about this, but he held on to her while she cried. His arms were so strong, so reassuring. She felt perfectly safe here, felt cherished in a way that she'd never felt before.

  This was her spot. Her one safe, special place. In his arms, where he was so determined that she should not be. He'd be running her off any second.

  "I'm sorry."

  She tried to pull herself together, tried to stop crying, but she found herself burrowing closer. She thought of what she would say to him once he knew, if she could explain that from the time she was born, it seemed, she'd been taking care of everyone around her. Herself, Zach, her mother, Grace. By the time she'd come here, it was too late. She'd forgotten how to be young.

  Rye didn't seem too old to her at all. He seemed just right. A bit lost and lonely and obviously searching for something, but Emma knew all about being lost and lonely. She thought he was her reward for growing up too fast and having the weight of the world on her shoulders for too long.

  "Have you ever been in love before?" she asked, when the worst of her tears had abated. Because it was hard to let yourself love anyone when you'd lived through the kind of chaos she imagined they both had.

  "What kind of a question is that?" he murmured.

  "Just a question," she insisted.

  "No, I don't think I've ever been in love before."

  "Me, either. But I think it's out there, and I think it's real. When you see Sam and Rachel, you'll know."

  "Demonstrative, are they?"

  "Yes, but that's not what I'm talking about. It's strength, Rye. Faith. Patience. Generosity. Hope. Kindness. Understanding. Staying power. All those things. It's enduring, and it's real."

  "I've never seen anything like that," he admitted, still stroking her hair. It felt so good. Every time he touched her, it was so good.

  "But you came to find Sam. You have to have some hope...."

  "It was a mistake. It's not going to work, Em."

  She lifted her head just enough to look at him. He looked so sad, like it was torture just to be there. "Why would you say that?"

  "Because things just don't work. Not long-term."

  "You can't believe that. You can't be completely without hope. Otherwise you wouldn't have come here." She put her hand to the side of his face, and heat flared between them, just like that. "And if you hadn't come, you would never have met me. Do you regret that so much?"

  "No, but I will before we're through."

  "I don't regret it," she said. "I never will."

  "How can you not? Look at where it's taken us."

  "Right here," she said, her mouth about a centimeter from his.

  "Emma, I am trying so hard not to hurt you. Not to touch you."

  "Doesn't that tell you something? How hard you have to fight to stay away from me?"

  "It tells me that once again, I want something I just can't have."

  "Rye, you can have me. I'm right here."

  He groaned and closed his eyes. She truly had no shame where he was concerned, because all she saw was that she was losing him, and if there was anything she could have of him, she wanted it. Anything at all.

  She kissed him softly on his cheek, his closed eyes, the corner of his mouth. She kissed him until he took her mouth once again with the kind of fierce, rolling hunger she'd never known.

 
He was a little bit rough and dangerous, impatient and needy, strong and moving very fast. He hauled her into his lap, and she wound her arms around his neck, curling her body into his. His mouth was hot and eager, and she was burning up deep down inside, her body practically singing with pleasure.

  He did want her. She hadn't been quite sure of that. So often, he was pushing her away, as if it might be nice to have her, but he could certainly do without her. But he must have been fighting himself every bit as hard as she had, and they were both failing marvelously at the moment.

  Touch me, she thought. Anywhere. Everywhere. Touch me, now.

  His hand came to the side of her face, angling her mouth against his so he could go deeper, harder. He was thrusting against her with his tongue and doing this little rolling thing with his hips that had her squirming to get closer. There was a spot way down deep inside of her where she just ached for him.

  "Rye," she said, thinking she'd hang on to him.

  This would bind them together, and when the truth came out later, they'd deal with it. Which made what she wanted now blatantly unfair to him, but she'd never wanted like this.

  He dragged her down to the floor, first with her sprawled out on top of him and then he rolled her, until he was lying on top of her, six feet of gloriously hard, sexy male smothering her in a very good way.

  Oh, my, Emma thought, nerves hitting her hard in that moment.

  "Tell me you've done this before."

  "I've done this before." If rolling around on the floor counted, she'd been here, but it hadn't felt like this.

  "How old are you, Emma?" he growled the next time he lifted his mouth from hers.

  Damn. "Does it really matter?"

  "Yeah, right now, it matters."

  It wasn't right of her not to tell him. It was one of the only times in her life she'd knowingly, willfully done the absolute wrong thing.

  The only answer she gave him was a kiss, a very wicked kiss. She wriggled her body against his. He swore and pressed her harder into the floor. He was so big, big everywhere, and he was crushing her, and she liked it.

  "You make me crazy," he groaned. "You make me forget everything. Everything but you and how much I want you."

  "For me, too. It's just like that."

  Emma opened her eyes, wanting to see him then, wanting to know everything there was to know about him and about love.

  When she looked up, happiness turned to terror.

  She opened her mouth to scream, to warn him, to save him.

  Mark was there, standing over them with the little shovel they kept by the fireplace. Before Emma could utter a word of warning, Mark raised the shovel over his head and smashed it into Rye's head.

  It made a sickening thump.

  Rye jerked back for a moment, flinching from the pain.

  The look on his face was one of surprise at first and at the last minute, before he collapsed on top of her, sheer terror.

  Because he knew.

  He knew Mark was there, and that he wasn't going to be able to save Emma from him.

  Chapter 10

  Emma finally screamed.

  Too late to do any good, but finally, she screamed.

  Mark stood over her, shovel in hand and the ugliest look she'd ever seen on his face. Rye was out cold, sprawled on top of her.

  At least, she hoped he was only unconscious.

  She put her hands against his head, searching for the bruise, and they came away with blood on them.

  "Oh, my God," she said. "Rye."

  Had Mark killed him? Had Emma gotten him killed with her own stupidity?

  "Get up," Mark growled.

  Emma whimpered. She'd been reduced to a shaking, whimpering mess.

  "I said, get up!"

  "I can't," she tried.

  "Sure you can." He took Rye by one arm, dragged him off her, and dumped him on the floor. Rye didn't make a sound. He felt like dead weight.

  Please, God, she prayed, don't let him be dead.

  "For the last time. Get up."

  Mark hauled her to her feet, nearly pulling her arm out of its socket, then kept a brutal, biting hold on her arm, the one he'd bruised four days ago.

  Had it only been four days? Had her life sunk into sheer chaos in just four days?

  Mark finally let her go. He backed up one step, then two, the shovel still held in his right hand. He swung it aimlessly back and forth like a kid might swing a bat to warm up before a big hit, as if he couldn't quite decide what to smash next. He looked dazed and a little bit crazy, so different from the person she'd thought she'd known.

  "Dammit, it didn't have to be like this," he said finally.

  "What?"

  "This," he said, gesturing between them and vaguely toward Rye.

  He hadn't moved. Emma tried not to think about that, because she had to concentrate on handling Mark. Her wits were all she had to help them both.

  "What do you mean?" she asked, trying to calm down, to calm her voice. Let him talk, she thought. Find out what he plans to do.

  "Things just get so messed up sometimes." He was pacing back and forth now, his movements faster and jerkier, increasingly agitated. "That idiot chemistry professor of mine..."

  He wanted to talk about a class? Standing here swinging a fireplace shovel in her face after breaking into her house?

  Okay. Talk. "What did he do?" Emma asked, her eyes following him warily.

  "He flunked me. I'm premed. I can't flunk organic chem."

  She'd had no idea he was flunking chemistry. She didn't care in the least, but she could pretend. "I thought you were doing fine."

  "I was, and then... Oh, hell, I don't know what happened. I got a little behind, that's all. Everything would have been fine, except for that one test. No way I did as bad as he said."

  "Well, he must have made a mistake," Emma said, turning with him slowly as he circled her. "That's all. We'll talk to him. We'll straighten it out."

  "You have no idea how hard it is to get into a good med school, and it's got to be the best for me," he said, still pacing. "It's always been that way. The best. All along. I can't flunk chemistry."

  "Of course not."

  "My dad... You didn't get to meet my dad." He glared at her.

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "They're still there. They're waiting for you. I told them something came up, some family thing, and that you'd be back, because you really wanted to meet them. They're counting on meeting you. I was counting on that."

  "I was, too," Emma lied.

  "They would have liked you." He kept going, round and round. She did, too, not wanting her back to him. "I could have straightened out that idiot professor, and I just dropped the other class. I was doing fine, but I dropped it. Things just got so hectic. But I can hold them together. I always have. People just don't listen to me sometimes, that's all. If they'd all just listen to me, everything would be fine."

  "I know," Emma said. She knew his father could be a real jerk, and he set the bar high. This was the first she'd heard about any problems at school.

  "You should have listened." He pointed the shovel like a scolding finger.

  "You're right. I should have. I don't know what came over me. I was just nervous about meeting your parents, I guess. I wanted everything to be perfect."

  "I told them all about you, about how well everything was going. When you weren't there, they had all kinds of questions for me. About everything."

  So, it was all her fault, was it?

  "Well, then... If they're still in Chicago, let's go," Emma said. "I'll tell them it was all my fault. Family emergency. We'll fix everything."

  Mark stopped and looked down at Rye. God, he still hadn't moved.

  "I saw you rolling around on the floor with him when I came in," Mark said. "You're not supposed to do that, Emma."

  "I know," she said, thinking she had to get him out of here. Rye was unconscious. He didn't have a prayer of defending himself. She just had to get Mark away f
rom him, and then she'd think about herself.

  "You're mine," Mark said.

  "I am. I know that now." He swung the shovel in front of Emma. She felt the whish of air as it passed and imagined what it would feel like if it hit her. "I'm sorry, Mark. I'm so sorry. I won't ever do anything like that again."

  "No," he said. "You won't."

  She was thinking he meant she wouldn't be around to do anything like that again, that maybe he was going to kill her and be done with it.

  Emma had never really thought about dying before. She'd always thought about surviving. When her father hit her mother, that one time when he had hit her. When her mother died. Emma went right on. She had no idea what to do now.

  "Please, Mark, let's just go. Now. I want to see your parents. I want to tell them all about us and all that we have planned."

  "You'd be a good doctor's wife," he said, coming a step closer. "You'd be perfect. They want things to be just perfect for me, and I don't know what happened. That idiot in chemistry..."

  "We'll straighten it out. All of it. But we have to go to Chicago."

  "We could," he said. "If you were there, we could make it work."

  "Of course." So she was part of the image he thought he had to maintain, the best grades, the best school, and a perfect little moldable woman as wife material. "Let's just go."

  Mark had a sick look on his face as he looked down at Rye. "He hasn't moved. Do you think... He's not dead, is he? Because, if he is... How would we fix that?"

  "He's not." Emma refused to believe he could be.

  "We can't just leave him here."

  "We can. I want to. I knew it was a mistake to go, the minute I left you."

  "You did?" Mark looked hopeful at that.

  "Yes."

  "But you wouldn't come back," he said, swinging that shovel once again and advancing one step toward her. "I begged you, Emma. I begged you to come back."

  "And I should have." If she'd gone, this wouldn't have happened.

  "You're going to have to learn to listen to me," Mark said, closer still. "I can take care of you, but you have to listen."

  "I will," she said, tears pouring down her cheeks.