by Camille Eide
“You can’t put him through that again, Emily. It’ll kill him.”
His words swirled around her like dead leaves in a whirlwind. Dizzy, Emily closed her eyes and felt his hands clamp her shoulders.
“Look at me.”
She opened her eyes and tried to focus.
“If you really love him, you’ll end it. Now.”
In her room, Emily lay on her back, smeared tears away from her temples, and stared at the envelope.
Creased, smudged, and unopened, it looked as if it had been through battle.
With trembling fingers, she drew out a handwritten letter bearing Uncle Thomas’s signature. The letter began with his sorrow at the loss of Emily’s mother, and an encouragement to remember the Lord is good, always, and is near to comfort the brokenhearted.
She read on, noting his apology and reasons for not giving her this news himself. When he learned of the disease, Emily was so young. He felt she needed time after the loss of her mother. She read each line slowly until she got to one particular phrase.
Freyer’s Syndrome. A rare form of Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy.
Emily was right about the diagnosis. It even had a name.
The monster that killed her mom and grandma had a name.
And it’s going to kill me.
The letter said that after taking part in a study of the disease, Thomas and a research team were able to isolate the mutant gene by performing a DNA test on Emily from a sample of her hair. The test of her DNA was beneficial in confirming the study. And for Emily, the result was positive for Freyer’s.
Positive.
Emily forced her hand to hold the paper steady and stared at the word until it blurred. Uncle Thomas said he hoped that when she’d had time to accept the news, she might consider participating in research to help the medical community better understand this rare disease. Perhaps in time, she might see her participation as a way to make something good come from all the suffering her family had endured. Make the pain count for something, turn loss into gain.
So that was it.
Hadn’t she prayed and asked God to help her know one way or the other? Here was her answer in bold black and white. If the disease progressed for her the way it had for the others, she might have four to six years. She had no future. No hope for a family. No home of her own.
The time she’d spent with Aunt Grace and the kids at Juniper Ranch had been special, but she’d wanted to see those kids grow up secure and confident, ready to take on the world. She wanted to make a real difference in the life of a child. She’d wanted her life to count.
And so it could. When she returned from Scotland, she wouldn’t waste a minute. She would love those kids and help them believe in themselves enough to make a difference with their lives.
But it wasn’t fair. What about a life of her own? What about ...
Ian.
“God, why did You let us meet?” Her agonized whisper sounded like someone else, like some other dying woman, not her. Why had God allowed this amazing man into her life if she couldn’t have him? Didn’t God know the silent desire of her heart, her deepest longings?
Dragging herself upright, she leaned against the wall with a groan and saw Ian’s face. The way his eyes sparkled when he teased her. His kindness and the quiet way he cared for others without calling attention to it. His deep desire to do the right thing. His tender embrace. His spoken words of love to her.
A subtle whisper sneaked in from someplace deep in her heart: Hadn’t she waited long enough for someone to love? She’d never dreamed she would meet someone like Ian. Wouldn’t a few years with him be better than none?
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head with dizzying force. Her dad was right. She couldn’t put Ian through that kind of pain and grief again. It would be far better for him if she ended her involvement with him now—the sooner the better.
How would she tell him? She couldn’t drop something like this on him by phone or email—it had to be in person. And how would he take the news? She could picture him waiting for her to arrive, eager to share what was on his heart and show her what was special to him.
God, I encouraged him to pray and seek the ability to forgive. Because of me, he is finding healing in his heart. The heart I’m going to crush now.
Maybe she should send him a brief message, to help prepare him a little. But what?
She slid her laptop onto the bed and pulled up her mail server. In her inbox, there was a new message from Ian. Her pulse raced as she clicked it open.
Dear Emily,
I’m thinking about you and what you said. If it’s true—if you love me even a little—then I’m the luckiest man alive. But I should warn you about what you’re getting. If you could look at my heart, you would see some ugly scars. But if you can look past those, I promise you my heart is whole now, thanks to you. It’s yours, so do with it as you please. All I ask is that you take it. And keep it.
Emily, I’m not the patient man you think I am. I love you. I can’t wait to tell you in person. I don’t know if I can say it right, so perhaps you’ll let me show you. It may take the rest of my life to do that properly. I hope you don’t mind.
Two days, love. I’m dying here.
Love, Ian
Emily squeezed her eyes tight, but the crushing ache in her chest rushed to her throat. Falling to her bed, she grabbed the pillow to muffle the sobs and cried long and hard until her tears were spent and she drifted to sleep.
When she awoke, her head throbbed. She dragged herself off the bed, shuffled to the kitchen, and found Aunt Grace up and collecting more items to pack.
For their trip tomorrow.
How could Emily handle an entire month with Ian? She could cut the trip short, but that would break Aunt Grace’s heart. She’d just have to deal with being near him as best she could.
The decision not to share her news with Aunt Grace came easily. Her sweet little aunt had suffered enough. Apparently Uncle Thomas hadn’t told her his findings about Emily either.
Emily followed Grace in a disconnected fog and went through the motions of packing. Movement was an effort, as if sand bags hung from her limbs. As Emily put some of Grace’s things in little zipper baggies, it dawned on her. The Juniper Ranch kids and Dad and Ian weren’t the only ones who could be affected by Emily’s early death.
Grace could outlive her.
She froze and stared at her aunt, a zipper bag in one hand and a tube of toothpaste in the other.
“What is it, dearie?”
“Nothing.” Emily shook her head and poked through the pile without seeing. What would another loss do to Aunt Grace? And how would the old woman manage all alone?
“Ye’re tired today, child.”
“I’m fine.” She avoided her aunt’s eyes—she had to. There would be no turning to Aunt Grace for comfort.
And with a dull twinge to the heart, it hit her.
Without Grace to turn to, there would be no comforting arms for Emily at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ian’s arms ached to scoop Emily off her feet and hold her tight the moment she walked through those doors. But he wouldn’t. He would show some restraint.
Maybe.
He and Claire had found a place to sit where they could watch the throng of travelers emerging from Passport Control. Many of the bleary-eyed, dazed souls shuffled like zombies toward Baggage Reclaim, while others greeted loved ones with smiling faces and hugs.
He wanted to see only one face. That warm smile and those amber-brown eyes that couldn’t hide what she was feeling. He wanted—no—needed to see what was in those eyes.
“Well, at least one of us knows who we’re looking for,” Claire said above the buzz of people noise. “I’d hate to think we’d walk right past them in the crowd.”
Impossible. He grinned like an idiot.
The days since he told Emily he loved her—and she turned him inside out by telling him the same—had gone by painfully slowly. And no
w, though he’d intended to wait for the right moment to kiss her, he wasn’t sure he could.
Emily was likely the kind of woman who would like their first kiss to be special, which meant he would wait for the right moment, the right place. And he had the perfect place in mind. The honeysuckle glen in the woods, where he would ask her to share her life with him. Forever. Just as soon as she had a chance to rest and get her bearings. Of course, if she gave him any sign that he’d figured her wrong and an opportunity presented itself sooner ... well, after all, he was a MacLean. He certainly wouldn’t hesitate.
“I still can’t believe you were going to put them in that musty, old cottage.” Claire closed a magazine and tossed it onto a nearby seat.
“Sorry?”
“Did it not occur to you that Grace would have to walk up to the house every day?”
“I suppose not.”
“Of course not.” She huffed. “Men.”
With a sigh, he realized he hadn’t thought about much of anything besides the slowly dwindling number of days until Emily would arrive.
“If I’d known you didn’t have that downstairs bedroom ready for her, I would have come out sooner and given it a far better scrubbing.”
“You did a top job, Claire. It’s perfect.”
The crowds milled in every direction. Too many people.
Ian stood to get a better view, eyes still glued on the terminal entrance.
“Humph. You still should have told me sooner. I don’t mind cleaning. And I certainly don’t mind taking them home in my car instead of that beast of a truck. What were you thinking?”
He shook his head. “Glad you thought of that too.”
She puffed again. “Someone has to, daft as you’ve been.”
He kept a constant vigil on the newcomers, craning his neck.
There—reddish-brown hair, tucked back on one side.
His heart hammered.
Not her.
He let out his breath.
Claire stood beside him, arms folded. “You’re wigglier than a wee lad in church. What’s wrong with you?”
The woman I love is about to walk through that door. Ian checked his watch. The boards said their flight had arrived on time. They should have come through by now. He held his breath as another batch of travelers emerged. He studied every young woman and scanned each face that passed by.
“You’ve lost your mind then, haven’t you? I knew it would happen. You’ve been on that farm too long.” Claire turned to him as though a sudden light had dawned. “That’s it! You’re planning to force them to stay with Maggie so you can escape.”
The crowd thinned.
He checked his watch again. They should’ve been amongst this group. But then, Aunt Grace did move slowly. Maybe he should ask at the ticket counter.
“Aye. You should do it, Ian. I dare you.”
“What?”
A few more people entered—a cluster of dark business suits.
Ian blew out a sharp breath.
Claire poked him in the arm, her brow deep in a frown. “Hey, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said. What are you so fashed about? They can’t get past us, Ian. They’ll be pure exhausted by now.”
“Ah, right.” Especially Aunt Grace. That would explain the delay.
Two more people emerged, two women—
Emily. His heart raced instantly, right on cue.
“I’d send you on a long walk, if I knew—what? Do you see them?”
Emily had one arm wrapped around Grace and the other arm supporting her elbow and was searching the filled seats in the waiting area.
“Is that them?” Claire frowned. “Who’s the young woman?”
“Emily.” His smile stretched broad enough to draw stares. He didn’t care.
Emily must have heard her name, because at that moment, she lifted her face and caught his eye.
For a second, everyone else in Glasgow International Airport disappeared.
“Ian?” He felt Claire’s hot stare boring into the side of his face. “What? Are you and Emily—?”
Ian tuned her out. All that mattered was the two women coming toward him.
Grace faltered and Emily struggled to support the trembling, old woman.
Idiot! He forced his feet to move and bolted forward. As he reached them, he could hear the weariness in Emily’s voice.
“You can rest now, Aunt Grace. We’re going to sit down right over there.” Emily tried to help Grace to a nearby chair, but instead of moving, the older woman began buckling at the knee.
“Let me.” Ian reached for Grace, his hand brushing Emily’s bare arm.
She pulled back.
He took hold of Grace, helped her to a seat, and gently eased her down. Bending low, he smiled at the old woman. “Hello, Aunt Grace. It’s good to see you again.”
She gave him a sleepy nod.
He straightened. Emily was close enough that he caught her familiar scent and their gazes locked. “Emily.” He smiled. Joy leaped in his chest like a happy, dumb puppy.
Claire joined them and crouched down, level with the older woman. “Hello, Aunt Grace, I’m Claire. I’m pleased to meet you.”
Heart thudding, Ian’s eyes never left Emily. He reached for her hands, took them in his, and smiled.
And there it was—the look he’d been waiting for. The love shining there nearly knocked him out.
He held his breath and took in everything: the color of her eyes, the soft curve of her cheek, her lips. Leaning close, he smiled and spoke low in her ear, “Welcome home.”
She gasped, eyes wide. But instead of the telltale blush, her face paled. She pulled her trembling fingers away.
Claire stepped in. “So you must be Emily. I’m Claire, Ian’s sister.” She shot Ian a sideways glare, then smiled at Emily. “You two must be exhausted.”
Emily looked at the old woman. “Aunt Grace needs to lie down.”
“Aye,” Ian said. “Let’s get you home, then. You can rest as long as you need.” He nodded. Not too long, I hope.
Emily grew even paler. With a quick glance at Grace, she whispered, “Please excuse me,” and hurried off.
Travel fatigue, no doubt. That trans-Atlantic flight was brutal.
“She’s ill, poor girl.” Claire turned to Ian, concern creasing her brow. “Should I go with her?”
“I don’t know.” Ian frowned, watching Emily make her way toward the restrooms. “Let’s give her a minute.”
Aye. Give her some time to steady her legs and catch her breath, man. Be patient.
But the drumbeat in his chest grew into a wild jungle rhythm as Emily pressed through clusters of travelers and disappeared.
Where am I? Aunt Grace?
Layers of fatigue, like blankets of lead, pressed Emily down, hampering her efforts to surface.
She needs me.
“Wheesht!”
“If ye don’t go in there, lassie, I will!”
“No, Maggie. Let the poor woman have a lie-in.”
Muffled female voices reached down and pulled Emily up through the heavy fog. Her eyes opened to a grayish light that filled the room at an odd angle.
“I dinna care how late in the day it is. No one goes without breakfast in my house.”
“Och, Maggie, let her sleep.”
More shushing pulled Emily’s blurry gaze to the door beyond the foot of her bed, but it remained closed.
Creaky footsteps faded away.
She vaguely remembered slipping into this bed, but it had been dark then. She didn’t remember this room. The long trip and deep sleep had sent her adrift. But how long ago? What day was it?
Without a clock in sight, Emily looked to her surroundings for something to anchor her, give some sense of her place in time. With clouds filtering the daylight, she couldn’t tell what position the sun held in the sky.
A window across from the bed, framed by thick curtains, gave her a view of a steep, green hillside behind the house. Dense patches of evergreens an
d leafy trees shifted and swayed under the power of a steady breeze.
She inhaled, long and deep. A damp, earthy scent lingered, as fixed a part of the room as the furnishings. Pulling the bed covers close to her chin, she looked around the room.
An old, cushioned chair claimed the corner between the two windows. The table next to the chair held a reading lamp and a single book, the page reserved with a pencil serving as a subtle reminder for its reader to resume. More books waited in a neat stack on the floor beside the table. At the other end of the room, a wardrobe stood near the door, and next to it, a small chest of drawers. On top of the chest were a Bible, a small box, more books, and an old, framed photo. A thick, plaid quilt covered the bed, beautifully rich in color, soft and well worn. It smelled wonderful, like—
This is Ian’s room. Ian’s bed.
Emily closed her eyes as the scene at the airport and the drive to the MacLeans’ farm came flooding back. Her cheeks burned at the memory. She had known it would be difficult to see him face to face, and she had tried to prepare herself. Yet nothing could have prepared her for the overwhelming love she saw in his eyes and the burst of love she felt in response. She had struggled to hold it back, but lost the battle when she saw the eagerness in Ian’s face, the anticipation.
The hope.
Like a panicked child, she’d fled, leaving poor Aunt Grace with Ian and Claire, barely making it to the restroom before she broke down. She had no idea how long she’d hid in the stall, struggling to pull herself together. By the time Claire came into the restroom to check on her, Ian had their bags loaded on a cart and Aunt Grace in a wheelchair, ready to go home.
Home.
The threat of tears stung her eyes and nose. She rubbed it away, pushed the warm covers off, and sat up on the edge of the bed. Her head still felt fuzzy, as though she’d been yanked up through deep water. She waited for the feeling to pass.
Her bags stood near the foot of the bed. But then—Ian had brought them upstairs for her, hadn’t he? Much of their arrival was a blur. She had reached a state beyond exhaustion.
