by Teresa Hill
"No," he said right away.
"We are. They never took us off—"
"I don't give a damn about any list."
"She needs us," Rachel argued. "These kids need us."
"We agreed."
"No, we didn't," she realized. "You decided. You just told me that we wouldn't do this anymore."
"We can't," he said. "It nearly tore us apart the first time. You know that. You know how hard it was."
"My whole adult life has been hard," she said. "Every bit of it, and when I think about it, I honestly can't see it getting much worse than it is right now."
After all, Will was gone, back to his pathetic excuse for a mother. Rachel's husband of a dozen years was leaving her, and she spent her days in a rocking chair in a dark corner of her house not seeing anyone or doing anything.
Sam stiffened, looked harder and sadder than ever. "You'll get yourself hurt again, Rachel."
"Maybe," she said. "Maybe I'm just doomed to live my life with one hurt after another. I don't know. But these kids don't have anybody right now, and I'm going to help them."
"What?"
"I am. I'm doing it," she insisted, standing up to him as she seldom had in their entire marriage.
He was a good man, good down to the core, both protective and considerate of her. Normally, she would have talked this over with him, and they would have decided together, but not anymore. He was leaving her. She'd have to think for herself, and she might as well start now.
"It's just for a little while, Sam. For Christmas. Miriam says all her foster homes are full. She doesn't have any other place to put these kids," Rachel said. "They need someone, and I can help them. I'm not doing this for me. I'm doing it for the kids."
"I won't do it," he insisted.
"Fine. Don't. It's not like you're at the house that often anyway, anymore. Show up for breakfast and supper, if you want, and I'll feed you. Dump your clothes in the laundry room and I'll make sure they get cleaned. But that's it. I doubt you'll even have to see the children."
"Rachel!"
"I mean it," she said, a little breathless at standing up to him. "I'm going to see that they have a safe place to stay and a nice Christmas."
"No matter what I say?"
"I know what you have to say about this." And he was leaving anyway.
Rachel didn't want him to go yet. For once, she wanted her house full of children, wanted to know how that felt. Maybe she'd pretend that these were her children, that this unreal time was her life, the way she'd always believed it would be. Maybe she would find she couldn't do without that. That no matter what the risks involved, she had to reach out and take that chance, one more time, to find the life she'd always imagined for herself.
These children she would borrow for a time, weave her fantasies around them, her life with children at Christmas, the way she always thought it would be. For that, she supposed she needed Sam's support.
"I haven't asked you for anything in the longest time," she said softly. "And I promise, I will never ask you for anything ever again. But these children need us, and I need to help them. Give me this, Sam. This one thing."
"It's a mistake," he insisted.
"Well, it's not like we've never made a mistake before," she said, then broke off at the look on his face. The hard, harsh, painful look.
What did he think she meant? That it was all a mistake? Surely he didn't think that. She'd never wanted anyone but him, but she'd always worried that given a choice, he never would have married her. Like a coward, she'd never found the courage to ask. She didn't have it even now after twelve years.
"It's not like we've never been hurt before," she said, not even looking at him now.
"That's no reason to get hurt again, Rachel."
He waited there a long time, looking at her and then looking away. She saw him work for every breath he took, saw him shake his head back and forth, as if he were about to refuse.
"Just until after Christmas," she said.
"All right," he said finally. "If that's what you want."
And it wasn't until later, when she was alone and headed back to the house, that she realized what she'd done, what she'd promised him. If she couldn't ask him for anything else, that meant when the Tuesday after Christmas came and he was ready to go, she couldn't ask him to stay.
* * *
Sam stood just outside the back door and stared at the back of the house.
There were children inside. It literally took his breath away, the thought of children inside his house.
And they were staying. His wife had decided. She'd feed Sam and do his laundry, and other than that he could just stay out of her way.
Sam was still smarting from that, still in shock, honestly. She had never made such a monumental decision on her own, never suggested that she'd be just fine without him. He'd spent weeks worrying about that—about whether Rachel would be okay without him.
But he wasn't gone yet, and it was still up to him to protect her as best he could. Determined to do just that, Sam stalked into the house. The back door opened into the laundry room, a catchall area for winter coats and boots and shoes. He kicked his off, hung up his coat, and stepped into the kitchen, warily looking around for the children or his wife or her busybody aunt, Miriam.
He found a little boy shoveling pumpkin bread into his mouth and gulping down a glass of milk that looked two times too big for the boy's hands. The boy was four or five, and he had dark hair that hung down into his eyes. He needed a haircut in the worst way, had on jeans that were frayed nearly all the way through at the knees, and worn sneakers that had to leave his feet wet and freezing in the snow. The boy had big, dark eyes and a mischievous grin. His mouth was sticky with cream and cake crumbs, and he was going at it as if he hadn't eaten in days.
Sam had taken a two-by-four to the chest one time when somebody swung a board around unexpectedly and caught him unaware, and the sight of the hungry, ill-cared-for boy felt much like that. A two-by-four to the chest.
The boy reached for another swig of milk and discovered Sam at the same time. Startled, he set the milk down, missing the counter. It hit the floor, milk and bits of glass going everywhere. The boy gave a startled cry, then looked at Sam as if he were some kind of monster that might attack at any second.
"I'm sorry," he gulped.
Sam frowned at the boy and then back at the mess. The boy went to scramble down off the stool, and Sam barely caught him in time and put him back up there. Sam let go of him as quickly as possible, refusing to think about what it felt like to have a little boy in his arms.
"Sit there," he said. "There's glass, and you don't need to be down there in it."
"I'm sorry," the boy said again, almost crying now.
Rachel, Miriam, and a girl with a baby in her arms rushed into the kitchen. "What happened?" Rachel asked.
"I broke it!" the boy wailed. "An' I made a mess."
"It's all right, sweetheart." Miriam stroked the boy's hair.
The girl gave the baby to Rachel. Sam looked away, not wanting to see Rachel with a baby in her arms. It had been hard enough to watch her with her nieces and nephews this weekend. Then the girl grabbed some paper towels and reached for the mess.
"I'll get it," she said.
"No," Sam said, maybe more sharply than he should have. "There's glass. I'll get it."
"I can take care of him," the girl said, a little breathless and maybe scared herself.
"You're just a child," he pointed out.
"I'm almost twelve."
"Which most people consider a child," he said, too harshly yet again. She looked as if she was about to cry, too.
Rachel stepped in and said, "You know, this is my fault. I should have given him a plastic cup. Then we wouldn't have anything but milk to clean up."
"I'm sorry," the boy said again.
"It's okay," Rachel insisted. "Zach, this is my husband, Sam, and he's not mad at you. He's just worried you were going to get hurt. Y
ou, too, Emma."
"Hi," Zach said tentatively, all big dark eyes and too much hair.
"Hi," Sam said, doing his best to wipe the scowl off his face.
"Emma, say hello to Sam," Rachel instructed.
"Hi," she said, obviously hurt by the fact that he'd called her a child.
"And this"—Rachel turned so the baby curled up against her shoulder was more or less facing him—"is Grace. Isn't she just an angel?"
Sam turned away. He and Rachel had a baby girl once. She hadn't lived a day. They were cursed when it came to children. He'd accepted the fact that they weren't ever going to have any, and he didn't want to see this angel of a baby girl in his wife's arms.
"Why don't you all clear out. I'll clean up the mess," Sam said, then turned to the boy. "Come here, Zach."
He lifted the boy off the stool, carried him to the edge of the kitchen, and set him on his feet.
"I'm really, really sorry," Zach said solemnly.
"No big deal. We have more glasses than we need in this house. More milk, too."
The boy turned and left. Rachel and the baby and Miriam left. The girl, Emma, lingered behind.
"You don't want us here, do you?" she asked.
Sam scowled at her. He couldn't quite help it.
"You don't like kids?" she suggested.
"I wouldn't know. I've never had kids."
"Why not?"
"It's a long story," he said. "One I'd appreciate you wouldn't discuss with my wife. She tends to get a little upset when she talks about it, and she's been upset enough already."
"I won't upset her," the girl claimed.
"Oh, yes, you will." He was certain of it.
Looking scared, the girl asked, "Are you gonna send us away?"
"Rachel said you're staying, so that's it. You're staying," he said, then decided as reassurances went, it sounded fairly weak. "And I'll be in a better mood tomorrow."
"Okay," she said tentatively.
"It's not that I dislike kids," he explained. "And I'm not usually like this. I'm not usually so loud or so..."
"Grumpy?" she suggested.
Sam winced. "Yes," he said grumpily. "It's just... It's been a bad day."
It was the day he had finally said it out loud. He was leaving his wife.
That made it real, didn't it? He hated it, and saying it out loud made it real. It seemed he could hear the clock ticking in his head, counting down his last days with Rachel. He'd set into motion a horrible thing, and he worried that he could never take it back, now that he'd started it.
Sam looked up and saw the girl regarding him warily. Damn. "Don't worry," he said. "Rachel's... well, she's the best. She'll take good care of you."
"I can watch Zach and the baby. I'm good at it. If you'll just let us stay, I can keep them out of your way. We won't be much trouble." Seeing Sam throwing paper towels over pieces of glass and puddles of milk at the moment, Emma reconsidered. "Well, not much trouble."
"I meant it, Emma. You can stay," he said, not looking at her, concentrating on the mess. Working with wood was messy. Messes didn't bother him. Rachel getting hurt would. "Until after Christmas, anyway. That's what Rachel's aunt said. She'll find someone else to take you by then."
"Okay."
"And you don't have to take care of anybody," he felt compelled to add. She was just a girl. "Rachel's always wanted kids. She'll enjoy having you here."
"She seems nice. Just... sad."
Sam dumped the worst of the mess in the garbage can in the corner and frowned. "She is sad. Maybe you and Zach and the baby can cheer her up."
Sam wanted that. He wanted all the old hurts to go away, and he didn't see how that was going to happen if they were still together. So he was letting her go, hoping she'd find someone else who could make her happy. He sure as hell hadn't, not for a long time.
And maybe somewhere along the way, he'd learn to be happy, too.
Happy without Rachel? He shook his head. He'd never imagined that, and he thought it was the ultimate in irony, now when he'd given up and decided to go, that someone had brought three children into their lives, however temporary that might be. He'd always thought she could have been happy with him if they'd had children.
"We could help," Emma said quite seriously, but hopefully. "Zack is kind of silly, and everybody likes Grace. Everybody smiles at her."
The look on her little face was so earnest Sam could hardly look at her. He felt like the big bad wolf, snarling and showing his teeth, terrifying already traumatized children. God, he hated himself today. He leaned against the doorjamb, suddenly so tired he could hardly stand up, feeling so old, so worn down. Hell, he was only thirty-two years old. How could he be this tired?
"We'll have a better day tomorrow," he said. Surely he could do better tomorrow.
Emma bid him a wary good-bye. Sam finished cleaning up the mess, then went to find Miriam. She owed him some answers. They faced off on the front porch, so the kids and Rachel wouldn't hear.
"What do you think you're doing, Miriam?"
"Trying to help those children."
"Bull."
"It is not. And watch your mouth. I'm a lady."
"Miriam—"
"Sam, don't hate me anymore for what happened with Will, okay? I love you and Rachel, and I tried my best to help you and that boy. Taking him away from here was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do."
"I don't want to talk about Will," he said. "I want to talk about these kids. What do you know about these kids?"
"Not much. They're all siblings, we think. We think they gave us their real first names, but they won't tell us their last name or where they're from or what their mother's or father's name is. A clerk at the Drifter said they checked in four days ago with a woman he assumed was their mother. She paid cash for two nights, gave him a false address in Pennsylvania and a fake name, and he never saw her again. He opened the room on the third day, when she hadn't checked out or paid for another night, and found the kids inside, waiting for their mother to come back."
"Shit!" Sam said. "She just left them? Left a baby that age and a boy and a girl who's all of eleven and didn't come back?"
"Near as we can tell."
"And that woman could show up tomorrow, and you'd give those kids back to her, wouldn't you? If she came up with the right story, and you believed her and the judge believed her, you'd give her her kids back?"
"I don't know, Sam. I don't make the rules. I just have to follow them."
"Well let me tell you something, the rules suck!"
"Sometimes, they do."
"Oh, hell, Miriam." He got all choked up, worried he would embarrass himself, like he had when she'd come to take Will away. "Rachel can't have these kids here and not fall for them, and I don't know if she can take getting hurt again. I don't think she can take losing one more person she loves."
Sam winced at his own choice of words. Maybe he was thinking selfishly here. Maybe he was hoping she could take losing one more thing. Him. But that was it. Nothing else.
When he'd come out of the office and she'd looked so uneasy, Sam had thought for a moment that she'd heard him on the phone, that she knew. He had no idea what she'd say to him. Maybe she'd ask him to stay. Maybe she'd say she still needed him or that she just didn't want to be without him. But he wasn't holding out much hope of that, either.
"I don't want her hurt, Miriam." That was his bottom line.
"Neither do I, but I don't think she can hide inside this house much longer and never come out, either. I know sitting in that rocking chair of my grandmother's isn't doing her any good."
"What are you talking about?"
"Rachel," she said. "God, are you in as bad a shape as she is?"
"What's wrong with Rachel?" he growled.
"She doesn't do anything anymore. She hardly ever comes out of this house. She just sits here. Sam, where have you been?"
"Right here," he argued. But hell, he hadn't. He'd been working and sleep
ing in his office or in the front bedroom upstairs.
He'd been avoiding her and their problems, thinking they might get better on their own somehow, but it wasn't going to happen. Then Rick had mentioned that his friend Stu was moving out of the spare room above Rick's shop and did Sam know anybody who might want it. The more Sam had thought about it, the more he had known it was time. There was no point in going on any longer the way things were between them.
Rick's place was cheap and it was close to Sam's shop and office. He wouldn't move his office right away. He couldn't take being so far away from Rachel, at least not at first. He'd still keep an eye on her and help with the house. As much as they'd done to the old place, it always needed more.
He'd decided. All he had to do now was hold out until after Christmas, tell Rachel and go.
Then all he had to do was learn to live without her.
Now it seemed he'd been so caught up in his own problems that he hadn't been paying enough attention to her.
"What's going on between the two of you?" Miriam asked.
"Nothing," he lied. The family gossip system was more highly developed than any communications satellite in the world. He wasn't interested in being fodder for the family roundtable. This was between him and Rachel.
"Sam—"
"We haven't gotten over Will, okay?" That shut Miriam up. She still felt guilty, and Sam was mad enough to use that against her right now. "So, Rachel doesn't go anywhere?"
"Not for weeks," Miriam said.
How could that be? She'd always been busy, taking care of her sick grandfather, helping Sam get the business off the ground, and later with her stained glass. She did amazing things with the glass, first on jobs Sam had taken on and then on jobs of her own. She helped her sisters with their kids, helped take care of her father now that her mother was gone. She volunteered at the church and for Meals on Wheels and all sorts of organizations around town. He'd always been proud of all she did, all she gave to everyone around her.
"I know she cleared her schedule a lot while she was working on the Parker mansion the past year, but..." She'd finished that weeks ago, hadn't she?
Sam had trouble remembering what day it was lately. Until he'd given himself a deadline to move out, he simply hadn't cared.
