by Teresa Hill
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.
As soon as he knew Emma was okay.
This was all some odd coincidence, anyway.
His brother wasn't supposed to have a grandfather, for one thing. And he hadn't lost his parents at fourteen or fifteen. He'd been much younger, if Rye could trust the records he'd found. But honestly, how could that be? In those hazy images in his head, his brother had always seemed so much older than Rye. So even the ages didn't make sense.
Hell, he might not even have the right man's name on his list, but he could cross them off one by one, because there was nothing else to do.
He locked the door behind him and pocketed the key, then flipped on the lights and found himself in a big room. The carriage house was indeed very, very old, but it was solid. A neatly restored structure that now housed a large, well-organized, well-equipped workshop. From the looks of it, he suspected Sam McRae was very good with wood.
He ran his hands along a very old piece of crown molding, intricately carved, chipped in places, broken in others. Someone was painstakingly restoring it. It was nice work. He couldn't have done it himself, but he appreciated the skill and patience it took to do it right.
Passing through the workshop, he came to what had to be Sam's office. There were papers piled everywhere, but again, things were orderly, organized. Along the back wall, he saw a cot and through a doorway to the left, he suspected he'd find a bathroom. Everything he needed.
He reached for the top middle drawer in the desk and slid it open. It was that easy. Slide open drawers one by one.
"God," he muttered, sitting down and staring at the wall.
It was an awful thing to want so very much and be scared to have it.
He'd been living scared for a very long time, living like everything he had might be ripped away from him at any moment, and it seemed safer just to never have that much in his life.
But surely he could have something. Surely it was safe now.
He started digging through the drawer. Almost everything here was work-related, he realized an hour later. Sam McRae had a very prosperous business. He wasn't a wealthy man, but he was clearly comfortable. His customers sure seemed happy with him. They wrote him letters thanking him, sent pictures of their newly renovated houses, everyone beaming at the camera.
There were few personal bits of information. His social security number on a few of the forms Rye found. If he had the social security number for the man he was looking for, that might prove quite helpful. Unfortunately he didn't.
Other than that, the personal papers must be in the house.
If he wanted to search, that wouldn't be a problem. All he had to do was get Emma back into the bathtub. He could probably get through the whole downstairs in the time she was up there soaking, if he could keep his mind on what he was supposed to be doing.
Sam's daughter, he told himself.
No more kissing her. No more hanging on to her. No more sweet lips or sad, understanding eyes. Not for him.
He glanced out the window one more time, finding everything just as it had been. Nothing moving in the yard. No sounds of any kind, except for a dog barking a few houses away.
The light was still on.
He didn't blame her. If he was scared someone was coming after him, he might sleep with the light on, too. It was so much easier to get lost in your fears in the dark, so easy to get lost completely.
He paced the narrow confines of the office for the longest time, and he thought about going outside and walking around the backyard. But Emma might hear him, and she might be afraid. Someone might see him and call the cops. He really didn't need that. So he forced himself to calm down and not to think of this little room as a cell. Narrow spaces tended to do that to him—make him just a little bit crazy and even break out into a cold sweat sometimes.
He could go outside at any time, he told himself. No one had locked him inside.
Finally, he unfolded the linens and the blanket stacked neatly on the end of the cot, clicked off the lights, took off his shoes and socks, and lay down.
He'd figure this out and go. He didn't have to say anything to anybody about why he'd come. Rye slept fitfully, dreaming of things best forgotten, came awake with a start, gasping for breath as an old, familiar nightmare took hold.
It took him a minute to figure out where he was.
The cot was small, the space nearly as tiny, and there didn't seem to be enough air. It was pitch-black, save for a stream of light shining through a tiny window far above him.
But he was okay.
He stood up and looked out the window, finding everything just as he'd last seen it—quiet, still, undisturbed.
Good.
Everything was fine.
Except him.
He was coming apart.
He kept thinking about the date on the baby's grave, the date when he'd last seen Sam. Through sheer force of will alone, he'd managed not to let himself think about it so far. But now, his will was gone. He really didn't believe in coincidence. He believed in lousy luck, lousy decisions, black holes people dropped into and seemed to never quite crawl out of.
Those two things had happened within the same days of each other. What did that mean?
And what did he think he was ever going to find, even if he did stumble upon the right Sam McRae one day?
Rye got up, took a quick shower, shaved, dressed quickly, then stalked off across the yard in a lousy mood. Emma was up herself, although it was still early. She unlocked the back door and welcomed him inside, asking how he'd slept.
"About as well as you, it looks like," he said, because there were still dark circles under her brown eyes. Then he winced at how unkind that was.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said, wishing so badly that he could just go. It was a refrain pounding through his brain, Go, go, go. Before anybody catches you and anything really bad happens.
"You're just always this happy in the mornings?" she asked, wearing another pair of snug jeans and a little blue sweater, smelling like she'd come straight from a vat of vanilla.
Her mouth looked eminently kissable. There was a sparkle in her eyes that made him nervous, a hint of either mischief or sheer delight—he couldn't say which one—in her entire manner.
"Put me to work," he demanded.
If he could wear himself out, give himself something to occupy his hands and his mind, he might last another day. And then he'd go. It made no damned sense for her to be here by herself, and he wasn't going to listen to any excuses or rationalizations about why she should be.
"Okay," she said. "More lights?"
"Every damned light you can find," he said.
She seemed to know this wasn't the time to talk to him. It wasn't the time to try to soothe him or to put her hands on him. God only knew what he might do if she did. Grab her and just never let go, probably.
He was crazy today. Just crazy. Too damned close to the past, too close to answers. He wanted too much and he just wanted to run.
* * *
He worked tirelessly that day. She watched him, wondering what kind of demons were eating away at him. All she'd figured out was that he wanted to be busy, so she kept him busy.
Once they'd strung lights around bushes and trees, they went to work inside. He hauled more boxes of decorations upstairs, and they moved furniture, making room for the tree that would come later, draped garlands of greenery everywhere, put up red ribbons, wall hangings, and strings of lights made to look like stars. He didn't complain once, just set himself grimly to the task with complete concentration. He didn't smile, didn't laugh, hardly spoke.
She thought he'd gone through some of the papers on the old roll-top desk in the living room while she'd been upstairs, but she hadn't said anything.
Whatever he needed to see was fine with her.
More than once she thought about going to the phone, calling Sam
, and telling him everything, telling him he had to come home now. But if that's what Rye wanted, why hadn't he said anything? Why was he so uneasy? Something was dreadfully wrong.
They worked straight through lunch. It was mid-afternoon before they stopped.
"I have to go to the inn and check out of my room," he said, when the last of the boxes was empty, the house transformed. "They said I could only have it through last night, and..."
"No need to keep it. Not if you're going to be here," she said.
Except she was afraid he wasn't.
She rode with him into town, sat in his truck while he checked out of the room, and then directed him to the town's sole Chinese restaurant where she'd ordered take-out by phone. He went inside and picked it up, because she was still hiding her bruised face.
When they got back to the house, it was crisp and cold. There was a fine layer of snow on the ground. Soon it would be Christmas, a time that was both joyous and bittersweet for her. She and her brother and sister had come here for the first time at Christmas, but lost their mother soon after. It was a time when she was grateful for all she had, yet conscious of all she'd lost. She wondered what the man sitting beside her had lost and how he coped. By running away, it seemed.
"You're leaving, aren't you?" she asked as they pulled into the driveway and he cut the engine.
"You asked for another day, and I gave it to you."
"I know. Can you just tell me why you think you have to go?"
"It was a mistake to come in the first place," he said, looking out the window toward the house.
"Why?"
"Long story," he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
"I've got time."
"Well, I don't know if I could get through it," he said. "You need to find a place to stay. Pack whatever you need. I'll take you wherever you want to go."
"Rye, you can't go."
"I am," he said, climbing out of the truck.
She scrambled after him, practically chasing him across the lawn. "Wait."
"There's nothing left to talk about."
"There is." There must be. "Rye—"
"It's between me and Sam," he said, not slowing down at all. He charged toward the house. "I'll take it up with him."
"Will you?"
"Yes."
He'd gotten to the porch, to the front door, but he couldn't go anywhere else. She had the key. "At least tell me what's wrong. Tell me why you came here in the first place."
"I came to find someone," he admitted as he stood at the door.
"Sam," she said, following more slowly.
He turned around. "No. I thought maybe... But it's a mistake, that's all."
"I don't think so," she said, finally reaching his side.
"I'm looking for a man named Sam McRae, but not your Sam."
"How do you know he's not the one?"
"I know," he said, tension radiating from him.
"Tell me. Tell me about the man you're looking for."
He took a breath and said, "He was born in Chicago."
"Sam was born in Chicago."
"Him and millions of other people, I'm sure."
"Millions of other men named Sam McRae? Rye, listen to me, please—"
"Emma! Emma, is that you?"
She froze, the voice coming from behind her.
Shocked, she turned to Rye and whispered, "It's him."
Chapter 6
She'd almost forgotten about him.
Rye shoved her behind him. Like a coward, nearly paralyzed with fear, she hid there, his body between hers and Mark's.
Waves of fear rolled through her. Time slowed to a crawl. She saw the porch, wide and shadowed, saw the pretty wicker furnishings and the cushions with the wild, bright floral print Grace had picked out.
She saw the hooks that in the summer held baskets of wide, bushy ferns and now the Christmas lights she and Rye had strung up yesterday.
It was her house.
How could he come to her house and scare her this way?
And she was so damned scared. It was the worst feeling, to find that nothing but a man's voice could reduce her to this. Could make her think about crouching in the corner and trying to make herself invisible, because if he couldn't see her, he couldn't hurt her. She'd tried long, long ago, to make herself invisible.
"Emma?" Mark began.
She peered over Rye's shoulder to see him standing there looking confused and very angry. His dark hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled, the white shirt nearly untucked on one side. He was normally so careful about his appearance, about everything. Calm, mature, insistent, but not unreasonable. Now he looked wild. She glanced down at his hands, clenched into fists, and shuddered.
"She doesn't want to talk to you," Rye said firmly.
"You know that, do you?" Mark yelled.
"Emma, tell him one more time that you don't want to talk to him," Rye said, his voice perfectly steady. He wasn't afraid. Thank goodness he wasn't.
"I don't want to talk to you, Mark," she said in a mousy, breathless voice she despised.
"She doesn't want to have to tell you that again. Neither do I."
"Emma, this is crazy," Mark said. "A big misunderstanding that's gotten all blown out of proportion. If we could just talk."
"She is talking," Rye said. "The problem is that you aren't listening."
"What are you doing here, Mark?" she asked, holding on to Rye's shoulders and peeking from behind them now and then, like she might at a bloody scene from a horror flick. "What do you want?"
"You wouldn't talk to me on the phone. I had to come."
"Again, she is talking. What part of this do you not understand?" Rye asked, towering between her and Mark. "She doesn't want to talk to you. That's her right. She doesn't want to see you. Also, her right. And if you ever lay your hands on her again, I will make you sorry for it."
"Emma?"
"He's right, Mark. I don't want you calling me. I don't want you here."
"Emma, we can fix this. You love me. You know you do."
"No. I don't." There'd been a time when she thought they might be headed in that direction, but obviously she was wrong. So horribly wrong. "I don't ever want to see you again."
"Want me to repeat that part?" Rye asked.
"Who the hell are you, anyway?" Mark yelled, coming closer.
"Emma, go inside." Rye gave her a little push in that direction.
"I..." She wanted to. She wanted to run, but she wasn't sure she could even move. Surely she could still move.
"Go," Rye said.
"She doesn't want to go," Mark said.
He'd gotten close enough to try to reach around Rye to her.
The next thing she knew, Rye grabbed him, swung him around, and slammed him up against the side of the house. She heard his head crack against the wood.
Rye got right up in his face. "Don't you dare touch her again."
His forearm was pressed against Mark's throat. Mark gagged a bit and pulled at Rye's arm.
"Not a lot of fun to be on the receiving end of something like this, is it?" Rye asked. "Having someone who's bigger than you and stronger than you shoving you around."
"Come on," Mark choked out, still pulling at Rye's arm.
Rye merely pressed harder with the arm. "If you touch her again, you will answer to me. Do you understand?"
Mark nodded. Rye let him go. Mark slid down the side of the house until he collapsed in a heap on the porch. He was coughing and clutching his throat.
"Emma go inside, now."
"But—"
"Don't worry. I'm not going to kill him. Not this time."
Mark's head came up at that. She thought she saw both fear and fury in his eyes. "I'll get you for this."
Rye loomed over him. "Please, try it."
Mark got to his feet and turned back to Emma. "And you..."
"Come on," Rye said. "Give me an excuse."
They glared at each other for a long moment.
Mark finally headed down the porch steps. He was halfway across the yard before he turned around once again.
"This is what you've been doing here behind my back?" he screamed. "Fooling around with him? This is how you treat me?"
Emma slid back behind Rye, closing her eyes and wishing she could block out the words as well as the sight of him. It was so humiliating. She'd welcomed this man into her life, trusted him.
"It's not over, Emma. I'm not done with you, you little slut."
Rye practically growled, the sound coming from deep within him. She thought for a minute he was going to go after Mark. It seemed every muscle in his body was hard as a rock right then.
"Let him go," she said. "Please. I just want him to go."
Rye turned halfway around. She slipped in under his arm and anchored herself to him. He felt like a mountain right then, strong and every bit as unyielding. She tucked her face against his chest. Mark kept yelling foul things, and Rye put his hand over her head, her ears, trying to muffle the sound.
Finally, the commotion ceased. She heard a car door open and close. Heard the engine start, the car screech away.
She stayed where she was, shaking so badly.
It had been so awful.
He was here in her town, and she was so afraid he was going to hurt her again.
* * *
"I'm sorry," she said again and again.
Rye brought her inside. He tucked an afghan around her once again, as he had that first day, and built up the fire, but she just couldn't get warm.
He brought hot tea, which he made her sip. She held it with hands that trembled so badly, the cup rattled against the saucer. It was a miracle she didn't spill it all over herself.
"I was so scared," she said finally, after she'd drunk half the cup. "And I hate being scared."
"Well, I don't know anybody who enjoys it," Rye said easily.
He settled himself on the floor in front of the fire, his back against the sofa. His arm was stretched along the cushions, his hand closing around her ankle. Just that made things a little better. As long as he was touching her.
She wanted to slip into that spot at his side. Maybe then she would feel safe again. Maybe she'd stop shaking. She was nearly there—to the point where she could have stopped shaking—when the phone rang.
