by Teresa Hill
"Oh?" So maybe Sam McRae wasn't so rich, just lucky enough to have a wife who inherited a house like this and lucky enough to know what to do with it. Maybe he and Sam would have something in common after all. He'd have loved to get his hands on an old place like this. Not that he ever expected anyone to drop a house like this into his hands.
Emma led him into the front room. He ran a hand over the big, intricately carved, mahogany mantelpiece over the roaring fire, let himself glance at those photographs, trying not to be too obvious.
"That's your mother?" he asked, pointing to one of a pretty blonde woman with a baby in her arms. They looked sweet, both of them.
"Yes. And my sister, Grace. She'll be eight in a couple of weeks." Emma pointed to another picture of a boy, dark haired and mischievous looking. "That's Zach. He's twelve and almost as tall as Rachel and me. And, of course, that's Sam."
It was a casual shot, outdoors in front of a huge Christmas tree. They were all bundled up in coats and gloves, the kids in hats and scarves. Five people huddled together and grinning like crazy. The pretty blonde woman holding a much younger Zach, Emma leaning in close to her side, and the baby, a bundle of pink fluff, looking quite content in Sam's arms.
He studied the man, looking for something familiar in the shape of his face or the color of his eyes. He'd only had a glimpse so many years ago, when the man had been nothing but a stranger to him, maybe a hazy memory from so long ago when he was a little boy. He wasn't sure if he remembered Sam or if he'd conjured up an image in his mind, simply because he wanted so badly to remember.
This picture on the mantel screamed normal, happy family. His family had looked like that once upon a time. But it had all been an illusion, now faded away. Emma came to stand beside him, waiting quietly and letting him look.
"You have a lovely family," he said finally, and then had to turn away. Searching for anything to latch on to, his gaze caught on the intricate swirling pewter that made the base of a snow globe. "That's unusual."
"Recognize the house inside it?" Emma asked.
"Should I?"
He hadn't even looked, to be honest, but he did now. It was a Victorian, the same dove gray with light blue trim, lovingly rendered in such detail. He'd never seen such a beautifully made piece inside a ball of fake snow. Emma handed it to him.
"It's this house?" he guessed.
"Yes."
He flipped the heavy glass globe over in his hands, then flipped it back, making it snow, as it was outside right now.
"I had one of these when I was a kid. Used to love it."
"Me, too," she said. "I had a cheap version of this one, actually."
"This one?"
"Yes. That's a family heirloom, but copies are made here in town. You must not have come in from the east or you would have seen the factory. Rachel's grandfather was Richard Landon."
"The guy whose name's on all the signs?"
"Yes. This was his house. He used it as a model for this snow globe, which became his first well-known piece. He used a lot of the buildings in town as models."
"The Christmas town?" He'd seen all the signs, but had been too distracted by his mission to even try to figure out what they were talking about. Christmas town. Christmas festival. He wasn't big on Christmas.
But looking at the house inside the snow globe, he realized he did know it. He'd had a version of The Night Before Christmas illustrated with, among other things, pictures of this house. If he was a man who still believed in anything like magic or signs or things that were somehow meant to be, he'd have said that was significant. But he didn't believe in any of those things anymore, and that book was all over the place. Practically every kid had a copy.
"Yes, it's the Christmas town," Emma said. "If you're going to be here for the next week or so, you'll see. The festival's starting on Thursday."
He wasn't in the mood for any kind of festival, and he hadn't truly celebrated Christmas since maybe the last time he'd seen Sam. His life had gone steadily downhill from there. Handing the snow globe back to Emma, he said, "It's a beautiful piece."
"Come on." Emma put it back on the mantel, then steered him toward the kitchen. "The coffee's hot. I know it's closer to noon than morning, but I was on the train all night. I slept some this morning, and now I'm starving. I was about to make breakfast. Have you eaten?"
"No," he lied, not sure if he could choke down a single bite—but he wanted to stay.
Emma sat him down on a stool at the breakfast bar and poured him a cup of coffee, strong and black, just the way he liked it, then poured one for herself.
"How do you like your eggs?" she asked.
He took about two seconds to consider it, then said, "Any way you want to make 'em."
It would keep him here for a while longer, and he could probably keep her talking while she cooked.
She made great eggs, scrambled them with three kinds of cheese and some peppers, served them up with a toasted English muffin and blackberry jam she said one of her great-aunts made.
Great-aunts who made jam? It sounded so damned normal.
He'd grown up in a small town much like this. But now he lived in a big, anonymous place where hardly anyone knew his name or where he was from or what he'd done. He liked it that way. Emma seemed to fit right in here, in a pretty, old house with all her relatives out making jam and probably baking fresh bread. She seemed as wholesome a woman as he'd ever met in his entire life.
It was like a trip back in time to the childhood he'd left behind. He sat there for the longest time just watching her move through the kitchen and letting her chatter while she worked, mostly about Sam's business. It sounded like the man did well for himself, and the woman she called her mother did stained glass. Stonework couldn't quite compare, but it was construction and at the best of times a bit of artistry.
Under any other circumstances, he thought they all might have something in common.
"So, you think Sam won't be back for a week?" he asked, once he'd cleared his plate not once but twice and thanked her for the meal.
"I'm not really sure. It depends on what happens with Ann," she said, getting up and taking her plate to the sink. He followed her, doing the same. "Even if the baby doesn't come now, she might be in the hospital for weeks, and she has a three-year-old and a six-year-old. Sam and Rachel might bring them back here. I know that would be hard on Ann, but Rachel has tons of family here. Two other sisters, a sister-in-law, and two great-aunts. That way everyone could pitch in and help take care of the kids. Ann and Greg wouldn't have to worry about anything but the baby."
He nodded. Sam McRae seemed to have an abundance of family.
"I'm sure they'll be back in time for Christmas," Emma said, reaching for the dishwasher to load the plates and the silverware. "Can you wait that long?"
He thought about it. What else was he going to do? "I can wait."
"Well... Do you have a place to stay?"
He frowned. Surely she wouldn't invite him to stay here. Surely she knew better. He might have to stay just to make sure nothing happened to her.
"I'll find something," he said, as she pulled jam and salt and pepper off the table. He took them from her, put the jam in the refrigerator and the salt and pepper in the cabinet from which she'd taken them.
"Well... It's kind of hard with the festival and everything. The town just fills up, and it's not like we've got that many motels anyway."
"I'll be fine, Emma."
"You could head toward Cincinnati," she said, wiping off the breakfast bar with a hand towel. "It's not far."
"I'll do that," he said.
"Okay... If you're sure. But..."
Rye grinned as he figured it out. She thought he was down on his luck. Granted, his pickup looked beat-up. It probably needed to be washed after driving so long through all that wet, muddy snow. But it wasn't that old, and it was beat-up because it was a working man's truck. His clothes were nothing fancy. Jeans and a shirt were all he needed. But he suppo
sed she could have taken those two things together with what he'd said and come to the conclusion that he needed a job so badly, he'd come here with nothing but a passing acquaintance with Sam McRae and the most casual mention of a job. Not that he didn't know what it felt like to be desperate for work. But he wasn't at the moment.
"I just wrapped up a big job in a suburb of Atlanta, and I guess you could say I've been thinking about heading this way for a while. It seemed like as good a time as any. And don't worry. I can afford a hotel room. I won't end up sleeping in the truck or anything like that."
"Sorry." She'd finished with the table and hung the towel on a hook by the sink, facing him reluctantly. "I didn't mean to pry."
"I know."
He leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms, and let himself take another long, slow look at her. She was sweet, he realized. Kind. Generous. And likely very, very soft. Where had all the women like her gone? Probably they were all gathered in little towns like this one and the one he'd left behind as a boy. And somebody had to look out for them.
"Tell me you weren't going to invite me to stay in this house with you? Surely Sam taught you better than that. I'm a complete stranger to you."
"You said you know Sam."
"Anybody could walk up to your door and claim to know Sam. His name's on the sign on the mailbox."
"I know, but..."
"Emma, a woman's got to be careful these days."
"I know," she said, a little flush coming into her cheeks. "I wasn't going to invite you to stay in the house."
"Good."
"There's an old carriage house out back." She went to the back window and pulled the curtains aside. "See? Sam converted it into an office a long time ago. There's a cot and a bathroom, too. It's not much, but people have bunked there before, and I just thought... Just in case."
"Thank you," he said sincerely, grinning like he hadn't in years. "But I'll find a place on my own."
"Okay. The Baxter Inn on Main is nice and not too expensive. The diner next door has some of the best food in town, if you like home cooking. Nothing fancy, but filling."
"I like that just fine."
He stood up straight to leave, thinking it had been an altogether pleasant time here with her. It had been a while since he'd enjoyed something as simple as a meal shared with a nice woman. He thanked her once more, and all too soon found himself at the front door oddly reluctant to leave.
"What are you doing here all by yourself at Christmas?" he asked as he shrugged into his coat. "Why didn't you take off with the rest of them?"
"I was just finishing up at college..." she began.
Which made her... What? Twenty-two? Maybe twenty-three?
He felt ancient beside her.
"I'd planned to spend this week with a friend." She paused, for a moment looking uneasy, then pasted on a smile and continued. "But something came up at the last minute. I just left them a message on their voice mail and got on the train to come home early, while Rachel and the kids were already heading north. Sam sent them ahead in case the weather got bad today, and then he waited here for me. But I decided to stay."
"All by yourself?"
"Yes. A few days of peace and quiet sounds good to me." She took a breath. "Things have been hectic lately."
He nodded, thinking she seemed uneasy about something, thinking it was really none of his business, even if she was.
"Well, I guess I should go," he said, reaching for the door.
"Wait. You forgot something."
"What?" He turned back to her.
"Your name. I can't tell Sam who you are if I don't know your name."
"Sorry," he said, but it was no accident that he hadn't told her. "Emma, maybe it would be better if I just wait and talk to him when he gets back."
"But you came all this way," she said. "It must be important."
"It is, but..." He took a chance and admitted, "Look, it's more personal than business, okay?"
"Okay." She put her hand on his arm, ever so lightly, the touch thoroughly unsettling him. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"No." He stepped back. Her arm fell to her side, and he found himself missing her touch in a way he had no right to do.
"Sam's good when it comes to trouble, and he takes care of people."
He shook his head and tried not to think of the irony of that. One of those Sams had sure done a number on him. Not that he was going to explain it to her. He'd hang around town for a few days, see what he could find out, figure out what to do next.
"Look, it's nothing for you to worry about," he said finally. "Okay?"
"Do I at least get to know your name?"
He stared at her, not sure what to say to something as simple as that.
She laughed a bit. "It's such a hard question? Your name?"
"These days it is." But he'd gone and done it then. She was even more curious, and, he suspected, even more likely to go talking about him to Sam. Finally, he said, "It's Rye."
"Do you have a last name, Rye?" she asked, sticking out her hand for him to shake.
"I've got a couple," he said, forcing himself to grin.
"Aliases?" she teased.
"Not exactly." He took her hand. It was very, very soft and very smooth, small and slight. He liked holding that hand.
"You're just a mysterious kind of guy?"
"Ryan's the last name. John Ryan, but most everybody calls me Rye."
"Okay, Rye. I won't tell Sam. Not if you don't want me to."
"Thank you. And thanks for the meal."
She smiled again. "Any friend of Sam's..."
"I told you, anybody could walk off the streets and claim to know Sam."
"Okay. No more breakfasts with men claiming to be friends of Sam's."
Chapter 2
Emma felt better having him in the house.
She'd thought she'd feel perfectly safe here. Once she'd found out Rachel and the kids were gone and that Sam was leaving, she'd actually been relieved. Although she'd never wish for any kind of trouble for Ann or the baby, it meant Emma's secret was still intact. She hadn't had to explain anything.
But once Sam had left, she hadn't liked being here alone. She wasn't looking forward to trying to get to sleep by herself tonight, as ridiculous as that was, and she was reluctant to let Rye go.
Who in the world was he?
She puzzled over it as he buttoned up his jacket, one that wasn't going to keep him warm in this climate. She heard a touch of the South in his voice. He probably wasn't used to this kind of weather.
She was reaching for the front door to let him out when the phone rang.
They both froze, just looking at each other. She wished it was Sam, and he looked like he hoped it wasn't.
"I won't tell," she said.
One more secret she would keep from Sam, when there had been so few things she'd ever kept from him. She picked up the phone, thinking it was probably Rachel or one of her aunts wanting news about Ann. They were all on her list of people to call. She pressed the receiver to her ear and said "Hello."
"Emma," he said, his voice sounding smooth and easy, as if this were just any other old day. "I thought I'd find you there."
"Mark," she whispered, stunned.
"I wish you hadn't gone and left like that, Emma. My parents will be here any minute. What am I going to tell them? That we had some silly little fight?"
"What?" she asked. Silly? Little?
"Oh, hell. Never mind. Just come back, Emma. I'll tell them you're going to be late. We'll still have the rest of the week in the city with them. They've been waiting for months to meet you."
As if she'd just turn around and go back up there? As if she were going to forget what he'd done?
"No," she said. She didn't need to explain, didn't owe him anything.
"Emma, don't be like this."
"Like what?" she whispered.
"So silly."
"I don't think I am," she said, with a near-death grip o
n the phone.
"All couples have their little spats," he said.
Yeah, she knew all about little spats. "I'm going to hang up now."
"What?" The word positively exploded out of him.
"I'm going to hang up," she said firmly.
"Don't you dare."
"And I don't want you calling here. I don't have anything to say to you."
"Emma, this is crazy. You and me... You know what you mean to me. And this... I know I lost my temper, but... Surely you're not going to let something as silly as this—"
"I'm going to hang up now," she said again.
"Why, you little—"
She clicked the button to disconnect the call and cut off whatever else he might have said. But he'd been yelling, and the words carried through the air, the tone unmistakable.
She looked up and saw Rye watching her, his expression grim. She feared she was near tears, and her hands were shaking something awful.
He took the phone from her hand and set it down on the small table by the door, then said, "Come and sit down."
"I'm fine," she lied.
"No, you're not."
She went to turn away, thinking she didn't want to talk about this, and she didn't want him looking at her, didn't want him seeing. But he put his hands on her arm to stop her. For a moment, it just felt awful. Like she couldn't have gotten away from him if she'd wanted to.
She went a little crazy at that. For a second, it was like when Mark grabbed her and wouldn't let go.
Emma cried out, went to jerk herself away, and in the next minute her head cleared, and she realized this was Rye, not Mark. She was home, not at school, and then she felt so foolish.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, her eyes flooding with tears.
"No, I'm sorry." He waited, grim faced and fighting as hard as she was for breath, not moving a muscle, probably worried about scaring her again.
How had her life come to this?
"Will you come and sit down? Please?" he asked. "Because for a minute, you looked like the whole world was spinning, and I don't want you to fall down. That's the only reason I... I wouldn't try to hold you against your will, Emma. I promise."
