by Teresa Hill
It was hard for him to breathe indoors sometimes, even when he wasn't inside a cell. Just an enclosed room could do that to him, just the idea that he was trapped inside, unable to get out. It had taken him years to get over that sick, claustrophobic feeling.
Right then, he felt weak and dizzy with relief at the thought of standing at the top of the steps, outside in the bright December sunshine.
"You okay?" Sam called out from the sidewalk below.
"Yeah," Rye said, wondering how long he'd been standing there, how long Sam had been staring at him.
"You're welcome to stay at the house for as long as you like, or in the carriage house, if that's what you want," Sam said.
Rye shook his head. "I can get my own place."
"Okay." Sam nodded in the direction of a big red Suburban parked by the curb. "I've got a cell phone in the truck. We can call Rick, see if he's rented that room, if you like."
Rye walked down the steps and couldn't quite look at his brother once again. "You know, you don't have to do this."
"Help you find a place to stay?"
"Any of this."
Sam looked honestly surprised. "Did you think I'd just walk away?"
"I didn't know what you'd do." Not when he'd come here to find Sam and certainly not now. He'd been kind of hoping they could get to know each other a little before he sprung the whole ugly picture of his past on Sam.
"Robbie..." Sam's voice trailed off. He looked like it was pulling teeth to get the words out. "Sorry. I didn't want to leave you there with the Ryans. Nobody gave me a choice in the matter. But I've never forgotten you. I've asked myself a million times whether I was right or wrong to walk away without telling you who I was eighteen years ago, and I still don't know the answer to that. But there's not a day that's gone by since then, that I haven't wondered where you were or what you were doing. When I haven't thought about going to find you again."
"But you didn't," Rye said.
"Neither did you," Sam pointed out. "Not until now. You've known for what? Almost eighteen years? Look, I just didn't want to screw up your life, okay?"
Rye laughed at that. "I sure didn't need any help doing that."
"Mine hasn't exactly been a prime example to follow."
"Ever kill anybody? Ever been to prison?" Sam just stared at him. "Look, I'm sorry I can't just leave, okay? We're both stuck in the same town for a while. I can't change that. But you don't owe me anything, and I sure don't expect anything from you."
"Then why'd you come here in the first place?" Sam asked.
Shit. "I don't know."
What was there to say after that?
He couldn't change a damned thing.
"Come on," Sam said. "We'll call Rick. I'll take you over to meet him, if you like. We'll get your truck and your things from the house, and then you can do whatever you want."
* * *
Rick did indeed have a room to rent. It wasn't much, a place to sleep, place to wash up. But then, it was bigger than any cell Rye had ever been in. It looked just fine to him. He struck a deal with Rick on the rent, and Rick said he could move in that day. Then they drove to Sam's house to pick up his truck and his things.
They got there, and a pretty blonde woman came out onto the front porch. She gave Sam a beautiful smile. Tears glistened in her eyes as Sam introduced them. Rye nodded politely and couldn't quite imagine his stern-faced big brother with someone as open and gentle as her.
She ignored the hand Rye extended to her and wrapped her arms around him tightly instead, squeezing hard and reminding him of Emma.
"I can't believe I finally get to meet you." She stepped back, beaming up at him. "We moved your things into the back bedroom. It's as out of the way as things get around here, so it should be fairly quiet, even once the kids get back."
"Rachel, he's not going to stay here," Sam said.
"Oh..." She looked from one man to the other, obviously wanting to protest, but fighting the impulse. "Well... whatever you want."
"I appreciate the offer," he said.
"And I'm so thankful that you were here when Emma needed you." She did start to cry then. "I can't help but think of what might have happened, and... Well, we couldn't bear to lose her."
Rye wasn't quite sure how he was going to manage without her himself.
"She's a great kid," he said, because she was as lost to him as any female possibly could be. He had to both remind himself of that and reassure Sam and Rachel that he was very much aware of the fact that Emma was just a kid.
"Where is she?" Sam asked.
"Dozing on the sofa in the family room." Rachel looked to Rye and explained, "She hasn't been sleeping well at night."
Rye certainly knew that.
"I should get going," he said, wanting to be gone before she woke up. "If you don't mind, I'll just get my things."
Rachel looked like she might well argue about him going. Could she really want him to stay? In her house? With her kids? Surely the past few days had proven that they really didn't know him. What did a blood tie really amount to when two people were strangers?
"Come on," Sam said, leading Rye into the house.
Rachel followed, offering to pack his things for him, but he declined her offer. So she directed him to a bedroom upstairs at the far end of the hall.
He scarcely let himself glance into the rooms. It all looked so ordinary, much like the place where he'd grown up. Grace's room was hot pink and filled with stuffed animals and what looked to be leftovers from the seventies, a decade he understood was in the middle of a comeback. Zach's room was plainer, with none of that fuss, just about three-dozen sports trophies. Looked like he was a ball player, baseball and basketball.
Emma's room...
God, he thought, don't even look into Emma's room.
But this had to be it. Soft and romantic looking, the walls a rich, creamy, soft butter color and the bed... Damn. It was made of swirling iron, washed in that same creamy color, four posts nearly touching the ceiling and draped in gauzy fabric in the palest of lavenders that matched the sheer curtains.
He really didn't need to have a picture in his head of Emma in her bed, but damned if it wasn't right there now that he'd seen her room.
Rye walked into the last door on the right and saw that Rachel had indeed intended to make him feel at home. She'd put fresh flowers here, and the room smelled faintly of cinnamon, warm and inviting. Like he was an honored guest.
No way he was staying here.
He threw things into his bag, had very nearly made good his escape when he heard footsteps coming down the hallway. He turned around and there was Emma.
Chapter 14
She stood in the doorway wearing a soft pink sweater and a pair of blue jeans that lovingly followed every curve of her eighteen-year-old derriere. Her whole face lit up with a smile, and then she threw herself into his arms.
Rye had no choice but to catch her.
"You're free." She wrapped her arms around him, buried her face against his neck.
For a minute, he couldn't do anything except breathe in the scent of her, the sweet hint of vanilla and warm woman-child. He hadn't thought to ever have her in his arms again, and he shouldn't even want that, not now that he knew her little secret. But she'd gotten under his skin.
He was dismayed to learn that it wasn't enough—knowing how impossibly young she was—to stop him from remembering the way it had been between them. How sweet it was, how soft she was, how good she smelled, the distinct pleasure of holding her close and kissing her soft lips.
Damn.
He really hadn't expected to have to fight this particular battle anymore, thought whatever was between them would have magically disappeared, like smoke dissipating into thin air.
"Emma?" He set her firmly away from him and stepped back.
Eighteen, he told himself, trying to construct a huge blinking, neon sign in his mind and superimposing it over her image. Eighteen. Eighteen.
It was
n't quite doing the job.
He was so happy to see her.
"You okay?" he asked.
Tears swirled up in her eyes, but she smiled and nodded. "Are you?"
He nodded, then wanted to growl at her. "They told me what you did. You shouldn't have, Emma."
"What? I should have let you go back to prison? I couldn't do that. I couldn't have stood it."
Sam was right about that part. She never would have been able to put this behind her if he was locked up. Still... "I know how much that guy scares you."
"He's in the hospital," she shrugged. "They're still trying to pretty up his face, and when they're done, he won't be anywhere near here."
"You're still going to be scared," he said.
"For a while." She was too honest to lie about something like that. "But I'll get over it, and I've got Sam and Rachel and... What about you? Do I still have you?"
"Emma," he protested.
She stared at the suitcase on the bed, nearly full of his things. All the light went out of her eyes. "You're not staying?"
"Not here, but I have to stay in town." Away from you. He'd have thought that wouldn't be hard at all, but saw now that he was wrong.
It wasn't that he wanted anything to do with an eighteen-year-old girl. He just wanted the woman he'd thought she was, all that hope and understanding, her all-knowing eyes. What had happened to that woman? Where had she gone?
Sometimes he thought he must have made the whole thing up, that the things he remembered couldn't possibly have happened between him and Sam's little girl. But here she was, looking so innocent and yet so hurt. God, he didn't want to hurt her or for anyone else to ever hurt her.
"I want you to be careful, Em. I don't care where you think that jerk is."
"I will. Rachel and I are going to take self-defense classes at the Y. Sam said if I knew where to hit and how, I could hurt just about anyone."
"You could." Rye could teach her a thing or two about how to hurt somebody in a fight. He'd learned the hard way. "Still, promise me you'll be careful."
She lifted her chin and smiled at him. "You do care about me."
Oh, hell. "I told you, I don't want anything to happen to you."
"That's part of it."
"No, that's it," he insisted, backing up a step.
"If you say so," she said, but by her tone, she might as well have come right out and called him a liar.
He decided retreat was his only answer. "I have to go."
He zipped up his bag, took one more look around the room, and when he turned around, she was right there, wrapping her arms around him once again. She just never learned, he thought. This really had to stop.
"Emma—"
She hung on tight. "I'll never forget what you did for me."
"Forget it, please."
"No, I won't."
He closed his eyes and hugged her close, in spite of himself. "Emma, I killed somebody. That's got to mean something to you. That you should stay the hell away from me, at the very least."
"No." She backed up enough to look him in the eye, looking as sure of herself as he'd ever seen her. "That's not what it means."
"I almost hit you," Rye said, firmly pushing her away. "You know that, don't you? It's like a fog comes over me in a fight like that. All I know is that someone's after me, and I've got to be tougher than they are, or I might end up dead. It was true when I was in prison, but I'm not in prison now. I was in your living room, and I nearly hurt you before I figured out who you were."
"But you didn't hurt me," she insisted. God, she had to be the most stubborn woman alive.
"I scared you half to death. I know that."
"Yes, it scared me. But you know what? Lots of things in my life have scared me. I've come through them all. And I'm not scared of you. I know you would never hurt me."
He wished he could believe that. Not that it mattered. He wouldn't be anywhere near her. "Just be careful, okay? Promise me that?"
"You sound like I'm never going to see you again."
He shrugged, carefully trying to keep his distance. "It's a small town. I'm sure we'll run into each other from time to time."
"But you and Sam... You're his brother."
"I know, Emma."
"Did you two have a fight?"
"No."
"Over me?" She drifted closer.
"No." What was there to fight about? She was eighteen.
"You promised me you'd give him a chance."
"I've got a whole year. I'm sure I'll run into him, too." Who knew what might happen then? He hadn't thought much about it. He hadn't had many second chances in his life.
"I'm glad you have to stay."
She reached out and put her hands on his shoulders, lightly. They fluttered against the muscles at the top of his arms, and before he could protest, she was coming closer still.
It wasn't such an inappropriate kiss, just a feather-soft touch. It was everything that had come before that made it decidedly inappropriate. It was him remembering and wanting her back, the Emma who couldn't possibly be eighteen. The good girl who made him wish he could be a good guy. The woman who constantly had her hands all over him.
Again, he thought, where exactly had she gone? That woman had been here with him just a few days ago. He knew what they'd shared, cursed himself for showing so little restraint in that time, yet was profoundly grateful for what restraint he'd mustered. When he thought of what might have happened...
Rye took her by the arms and pushed her firmly away.
She gave him a downright wicked grin that said she knew exactly what he'd been thinking.
There was a sound from the hallway. They both looked up in the same instant and saw Sam.
Emma went completely still, as did he. Sam glared at them both. Emma started to say something. Rye could have told her she was wasting her breath. Obviously, there was no reasoning with Sam at this moment.
A moment later, Sam sent her away. Rye gathered his bag, walked downstairs, and said good-bye to Rachel. He thanked her once again for the offer to let him stay and made a noncommittal reply to her assumption that as part of the family he would of course spend Christmas with them.
Sam followed him every step of the way. Outside, in the driveway, as far as they could get from the house, Rye turned around and waited, thinking it would be a fine thing to get into a fight on the day he got out of jail. He might be going right back. Not that he had any intention of fighting Sam. But he wasn't sure what Sam was going to do, and as he'd told Emma, he wasn't quite rational when it came to people hitting him. A man in prison learned to fight back or else.
"We've got a problem," Sam said. "She thinks she's in love with you."
Rye tried not to think about that. Emma loving him. About how that might feel under any other circumstances. The circumstances were what they were. She was much too young. She didn't really know him. She was never really going to know him, because they were done.
"I don't want to hurt her feelings," Rye said.
"You may have to, because she can't go on thinking there's going to be anything between the two of you."
Rye swore softly. "Okay, I'll do it."
He'd hurt her.
Dammit.
"Soon," Sam said. "And I don't want you alone with her."
"Fine," he said.
He'd break her heart in public, if that's the way it had to be.
* * *
Rye made a quick trip to Georgia, sublet his apartment, packed his things, and told the contractors he worked with regularly that he was leaving.
He was back in Baxter before Christmas, spent Christmas Eve in blessed solitude, but let his brother's wife somehow convince him to come by Christmas day for what she said was an informal open house with family and friends dropping by all day.
Rye parked a block away, found cars practically crawling all over the house, men standing on the front porch smoking, kids all bundled up in their coats and hats, playing in the snow. It looked li
ke half the town was there, and he had second thoughts about coming. How was this supposed to work exactly? Him being part of this family but staying away from Emma? It was more her family than his.
He made his way down the front walk and onto the porch, where a white-haired man in his fifties with a noticeable limp came forward to shake his hand.
"You must be Sam's brother. I'm George Phelps. I own the drug store on Main," he said. "Merry Christmas. Welcome to Baxter."
"Thank you," Rye said.
He shook four more hands, then rang the doorbell. Rachel answered it, looking festive and very happy. She pulled him inside and gave him a big hug and then a kiss on the cheek. Maybe this was where Emma picked up that particular habit.
"Merry Christmas," she said. "I was afraid you weren't coming."
"I almost didn't," he admitted.
She frowned at him. "We would have come looking for you, you know."
"Then I guess it's a good thing I came on my own."
"Yes, it is. Come meet my family."
She slipped her arm through his and led him from person to person, neighbors and relatives alike. He couldn't begin to keep all the names straight, just smiled and nodded. It seemed any brother of Sam's or defender of Emma's was welcome, regardless of his checkered past.
The house glowed with the light of dozens of candles, fires blazing in the fireplaces. Christmas music was piped in from the stereo in the family room in back. Food was everywhere, as was laughter and conversation.
"I know it's a bit overwhelming at first," Rachel said, when they stopped in the kitchen long enough for her to check on something in the oven.
It was. He wasn't planning on staying long.
"The last time I saw Sam he was in the backyard with my father, but this..." She snagged the arm of a boy of passing by. "Hey, wait a minute. What about me?"
"Sorry, Mom," the boy said, grinning as he turned to face Rye, seeming perfectly at ease having his mother with her arm around him, even in public, surprising for a kid who looked to be twelve or thirteen.
"This is our son, Zach. Zach, this is Rye."
"Hi," the overgrown boy said. He was taller than Rachel, with long, lanky arms and legs, and huge feet. Around the eyes, he looked a little like Emma.
