Husband Found

by Martha Shields

  “What do you mean? Do you think he faked his death?”

  Emma shook her head. “That’s what I thought at first. I was so shocked to see him. But I don’t see how it’s possible. I know he was hurt. He has an ugly scar on his face and his hand. Maybe he wasn’t found until after I married Jerry, and he took that as an excuse to be rid of me.”

  “What did he say when he saw you?”

  “He acted like he didn’t know who I was. He said he has amnesia.”

  “Maybe he does.” Sylvia started rocking again. “It happens all the time.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Only on those soap operas you watch.”

  “But, honey. It’s possible for him to—”

  “Mom, I called his mother several times during those weeks when he was missing. She knew I was concerned. Why wouldn’t she have called me when they found him, unless he told her not to?”

  Her mother’s lips pressed together, which meant something had occurred to her that she’d rather not discuss.

  “What is it, Mom?”

  Sylvia sighed. “It’s possible she did call. You would’ve moved to Nashville by then. If your father answered the phone...”

  “He never would’ve told me or you, either,” Emma said thoughtfully.

  She leaned her head back against the wicker chair. Her brain ached from all the thinking she’d done since she’d walked into that conference room. Speculation, all of it. Rafe was the only one who could answer her questions, and he refused to explain anything. That alone told her she’d come to the right conclusions.

  “Let’s just drop it, okay? He obviously doesn’t want anything to do with us, which is fine by me. I just thought you should know in case... Well, I was so upset, I left my portfolio there. He might try to return it, though I doubt it.”

  “Twenty-four!” Gabe cried.

  After a moment of watching the boy chase tiny flashing lights, Sylvia said, “He is your Rafe. If he’s not dead, you’re still married to him.”

  Emma’s jaw dropped, and she looked at her mother in horror. “What?”

  “You were legally married, and you didn’t get a divorce,” her mother pointed out. “You’re still married.”

  “But...I didn’t...Jerry...” She groaned. “You’re right. Damn. ”

  Appalled by this latest complication, she ignored her mother’s tongue clucking at the profanity. “It also means my marriage to Jerry wasn’t legal. It probably wasn’t, anyway, since Dad made me lie to the marriage license bureau when they asked if I’d been married before. What a mess.” Emma closed her eyes and let her head loll against the chair. “What the heck am I going to do?”

  “What can you do, honey?” her mother asked softly.

  “Nothing.” Emma straightened, her strength returning with her decision. “I can’t do anything about it, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Nobody’s cared for the past six years. If we just leave things alone, chances are real good it’ll never come up.”

  “What if you want to get married again? You’re still young and—”

  “No,” Emma said firmly. “I don’t need a man in my life, and I certainly don’t want one. I’ve told you that.”

  “But, Emma, honey—”

  “I mean it, Mom. Never again will I let a man have control over me or my son. Men take over your life, like the Borg on Star Trek.”

  Her mother gave her a blank look.

  “I know you don’t watch it, but trust me. It’s exactly the same. I should know. I’ve been there, done that. No way am I buying the T-shirt.”

  A car parked at the curb was odd enough on their street, but a shiny red truck with a Texas license plate made Emma’s heart skip a beat as she turned into the driveway.

  She pulled into the garage and shut off the engine, trying to convince herself it couldn’t be Rafe. He used to drive fast, fancy sports cars—although red was his favorite color. But Rafe wouldn’t hang around, even if he did show up. She’d seen the panicked look in his eyes.

  This was probably an old friend of her mother’s. Sylvia’s grandfather and father had made their money in cotton, so she knew people from all over the South. Lots of cotton grew in Texas.

  Emma tried to tell herself she was satisfied with the explanation, but when she entered the cool quiet of the house and heard the same deep, gravelly voice she’d been hearing in her dreams for the past two nights, she wasn’t really surprised. However, that didn’t keep her heart from pounding a jungle beat on her ribs.

  Though she’d told herself over and over that he wouldn’t come, she really knew all along that he would. The Rafe she’d known had been proactive. He met life head-on instead of just letting it happen. Whatever his excuse for not showing up the past six and a half years he wouldn’t stand by and wait to see what she’d do, now that she’d discovered his deceit.

  But whatever his excuse, she didn’t want to hear it. After all these years, she had absolutely no interest in him or anything he had to say—on any subject.

  Forcing herself to be calm, she closed the back door and laid her purse on the antique chest in the hall. Glancing at herself in the mirror above it, she caught herself running her fingers through her hair. She stopped as soon as she realized what she was doing, berating herself for wanting to look good.

  Taking a deep breath, she entered the old “smoking parlor” that now served as their living room, then spied her son in the dining room next to it. Rafe sidled into view an instant later, his back to her, obviously helping Gabe set the table. Her son’s face was animated as he asked Rafe a question about baseball.

  Panic rose like bile in her throat as a brand-new horror occurred to her. What if Rafe was here to take away her son?

  She rushed into the dining room. “What are you doing here?”

  His head shot up, and the smile that had lit his dark face vanished. He stood at one end of the table, his hands gripping the back of the chair.

  Oblivious to the tension between the adults in the room, Gabe ran around the table and threw his arms around her. “Hi, Mom. Guess what? Mr. Johnson’s staying for supper. Gams made pot roast and—”

  “What?” Emma straightened from hugging her son and turned to Rafe. “You can’t stay.”

  Rafe watched her warily. “I came to return your portfolio and Sylvia was kind enough to invite me to supper. How could I refuse?”

  “Simple. You open your mouth and say, ‘No, thanks.’”

  Gabe tugged on her skirt. “What’s wrong, Mom? Don’t you like him?”

  She glanced down at her son, then back at Rafe. He had the nerve to quirk an eyebrow at her. How dare he question her behavior? Leaving a young, pregnant wife alone wouldn’t exactly receive kudos from Miss Manners. “Why don’t you go into the kitchen and help Gams, Gabe? Mr. Johnson and I need to talk.”

  Gabe looked between them, clearly worried. “He promised to play catch with me after supper.”

  And he promised to love me until death do us part, she wanted to tell her son. See how much his promises are worth?

  “Go on now.” She gave him a gentle push toward the kitchen door. “I’ll call you when we’re through.”

  “Is Mr. Johnson staying?” Gabe persisted, dragging his feet.

  Emma said, “No,” at the same time Rafe said, “Yes.”

  They looked at each other. Emma’s gaze was intentionally sharp. Rafe’s was determined.

  Her eyes narrowed. She knew that implacable look. It meant he wasn’t backing down from anything.

  She hadn’t remembered details like this in years. She wished she didn’t remember them now.

  Rafe was the first to look away. “I wouldn’t be so rude as to back out on a dinner invitation once I’ve accepted it,” he told Gabe. “Please tell your grandmother I’m staying if the offer still stands.”

  “It does.”

  They turned as one to see Mrs. Grey holding open the swinging door to the kitchen.

  “Mother!” Emma took a step towards her. “Wha
t in the world possessed you to—”

  “I invited a nice young man to dinner,” Sylvia cut in sharply. “Can I not do that in my own house?”

  “But he—”

  “I taught you better manners than this, Emeline Katherine Grey Johnson.”

  Chapter Three

  Emma gasped. All color drained from her face.

  Rafe stared at Sylvia in shock. Surely he hadn’t heard...

  But he had. Sylvia called her daughter Emma Johnson. What the hell...?

  His stomach felt as if it were performing somersaults, and he had a sudden urge to run.

  Gabe tugged at his grandmother’s apron. “That’s not Mom’s name, Gams. Her last name’s Lockwood, like mine.”

  Sylvia placed her hands on Gabe’s shoulders and pushed him into the kitchen. “Come on, honey. Your mom and Rafe have some talking to do.”

  Rafe stared across the expanse of the mahogany table, clenching his hands, as if willpower alone could keep his stomach in place. “What did she mean?”

  “Nothing. She’s just getting a little senile.” Avoiding eye contact, Emma walked around the table and headed for the kitchen.

  Rafe cut off her escape, seizing her wrist to hold her. “At fifty-two—”

  They faced each other in the middle of a shabby living room, but Rafe didn’t care what it looked like. He had eyes only for Emma.

  She wore a red velvet gown that made her cheeks glow. Holly sprigs decorated the headband holding back her long, blond hair.

  The scent of a fresh-cut pine free perfumed the air, mingling with the light floral fragrance she wore. The slender hands he held in his were trembling and cold. Her smile was nervous.

  He wanted to drop a kiss on her lips to assure her everything was going to be all right. He would take care of her as long as he lived.

  “Do you, Rafe Johnson, take Emma Grey to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, as long as you both shall live?”

  “Yes, I most certainly do.”

  Rafe gasped and dropped her wrist like a line of hot type. His eyes focused on hers. “We were married.”

  Emma backed away, rubbing her wrist. “Now there’s a news flash. Not exactly hot off the press, but who’s quibbling?”

  Rafe felt as if he were falling down a chasm with no light and no bottom. Married? For six years? Without knowing? How was that possible?

  Panic rose in his throat. When he’d come to Memphis, he’d wanted to find his memories, but he’d never bargained for something like this.

  “About to bolt again, aren’t you? Fine. There’s the door.”

  Rafe wanted to jump in his truck and get the hell out of there, to hide from this newest revelation like an ostrich burying its head in the sand.

  But he couldn’t. He’d spent the past year hiding from life, safe within the protection of his family, rarely venturing outside his parents’ home for fear of what and who he might come across. During that time, he’d learned that, like the ostrich, hiding doesn’t make life go away.

  No, he couldn’t run away now. Not when he’d found what he’d been looking for—in spades.

  “I’m not the one who bolted the other night,” he reminded her quietly.

  She tore her gaze away with a huff.

  “Give me a minute, all right? Being married may not be news to you, but it is to me.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You have amnesia, don’t you?”

  He ignored both her question and the sarcasm with which it was delivered. Instead, he repeated the phrase he couldn’t quite comprehend. “We were married. How is that possible?”

  “We went to a justice of the peace in Mississippi and said ‘I do.’”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  She glanced at him sharply. “Of course it is. What do you—”

  “I said, ‘Yes, I most certainly do.’”

  Her eyes widened. “I’d forgot—” She crossed her arms over her stomach. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “You’d forgotten. Why is it so impossible I had, too, until just now?”

  “Forgetting tiny details is a long way from amnesia.”

  He threw his hands in the air. “What do you think? That I deserted you?”

  “What else can I think?”

  “That I just might be telling the truth about the amnesia?”

  She lifted her chin.

  He stared at the lovely woman standing a few feet away. Six years ago, he had married her. How could he have forgotten? Why didn’t his—

  At a sudden realization, he sucked in a breath. “We’re still married. That’s why your mother called you—”

  “Shhh!” Emma leaped at him, shoving her hand over his mouth.

  Rafe braced himself, but no memory surfaced. His only awareness was her cool hand on his face, her wide frightened eyes pleading with his. Had the magic ended? Or were the emotions coursing through both of them stronger than memory?

  Or was magic of another kind messing with his mind? The kind of magic that could only be satisfied by burying himself deep in—

  “We can’t talk about this here,” she whispered. “My son is right on the other side of that door.”

  He shook off his errant fantasies and her hand with them. “Then pick a place where we can speak freely. I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”

  For a minute she looked as if she wanted to refuse. He squared his shoulders, preparing to stand his ground, but suddenly she spun away.

  “Come on, then. Let’s get this over so you can leave.” She didn’t pause until she reached the entry hall. “Do you want to go upstairs or outside? It’s going to be hot either way. We don’t air-condition the second floor.”

  “I know. Sylvia and Gabe gave me a tour of the house this afternoon. Will Gabe be able to hear us if we go upstairs?”

  She raised a pale eyebrow. “Depends on how much yelling you intend to do.”

  “As much as it takes.” He waved for her to precede him. “At least there won’t be any mosquitoes up there.”

  Emma ran up the stairs. With a foot on the first step, Rafe glanced up—and forgot to breathe. The tight muscles in her bottom were outlined clearly against the knee-length straight skirt. First one side, then the other, working to lift her up the—

  With a soft curse, Rafe deliberately looked away. He’d never had these kinds of heated thoughts about a woman—at least not that he could remember.

  He took a deep breath, then climbed slowly, both to give himself time to get his libido under control and so his bum leg wouldn’t buckle.

  When he reached the top, his leg had held up, but his heart was still in overdrive.

  She waited for him in the upper hall. Glancing at his leg, she said with obvious reluctance, “It would’ve been easier for you if we’d gone on the front porch.”

  Could this be concern? For him? At least she blamed his heavy breathing on the climb.

  He shrugged. “The doctors tell me I need to climb stairs more. It’s supposed to stretch the tendons they had to shorten, one of the many times I was in the operating room.”

  She pressed her lips together, as if holding in something she didn’t want to say. He’d seen the same expression on Sylvia’s face several times this afternoon. Like mother, like daughter.

  “Which room?” he asked.

  She turned into the back one on the right. “In here. I have some things to give you.”

  Surprised and curious, he followed.

  She switched on the overhead light, which also activated a ceiling fan, then disappeared into a closet on the other side of a shallow brick fireplace.

  He knew this had been Emma’s room, from the tour that afternoon. The only furniture that hadn’t been moved downstairs was a desk, a chest and two nightstands, all of it pushed into the far corner and covered with heavy plastic. Three buckets sat on the floor, each on hardwood planks atop a
square of plastic.

  A moldy, musty smell permeated the room, even though the buckets were dry. Rafe ran his hand along the wooden mantel of the shallow coal fireplace. It was a cool contrast to the stifling air of the room and, amazingly, wasn’t dusty. The upstairs rooms might be abandoned, but they were kept clean.

  Rafe knew from Sylvia that the roof leaked. She’d also told him that was why Emma needed another job. Maybe she needed one bad enough to take the one he still planned to offer her.

  “Come here and help me, will you?” she called from the closet.

  He walked over to where Emma pulled at a large box sitting on the top shelf. Standing on tiptoe, she could barely reach the bottom. He entered and caught the corner of the box. As he did, his hand brushed hers.

  He sat on the edge of her pink, ruffled bedspread, pushing damp hair off her face. Emma lay under the covers, her pale face totally devoid of makeup and her nose bright red

  “I need to be going,” he told her. “Your parents will be home soon.”

  “Daddy will throw a holy fit if he finds you here.” She caressed his wrist. “But I’m glad you came.”

  “How glad?” he murmured, lowering his head

  With a stiff arm, she held him away. “I told you, no kissing! / don’t want to give you my cold.”

  Rafe dropped his arms and turned to her. She stood scant inches away, so close he could smell the light floral fragrance from his memories. “I’ve been in your room before.”

  She watched him dubiously. “So?”

  “When we touched just now, I remembered one night when I must’ve sneaked into your house. You had a cold. Your parents had gone out. You told me your father would throw a holy fit if he caught me here, then I tried to kiss you, but you wouldn’t let me. You didn’t want to give me your cold.”

  Her green eyes widened to their absolute limits. “I’d forgotten about that time. I just remembered those two times we—”

  “The times we what?” he demanded when she bit off her words.

  She shivered, then tore her eyes away and ducked around him. “Just get down the box.”

  He sighed, then took a moment to calm his racing heart. Reaching for the box, he carried it into the room. “What’s in it?”