She drew a deep breath. “Do you know what I see when I look at this river?”
“Water?” His attempt at humor fell flat.
“I see browns and greens, eddies and currents, the sparkle of a fish beneath the surface.” She scooted away and angled herself to face him. “I see motion and calm, slowness and speed.”
“I get it. You see depth when you look at Tracy. So do I.”
“But you see her with conditions. You don’t see the total beauty of her. You don’t hear the emotion when she talks. It comes out in spurts, but it’s there. She’s there, multilayered and beautiful.” Emma stood up. “Exactly as she’s always been.”
She was right. Will couldn’t see beyond the challenges Tracy faced and the limited tools she had to meet them. It was like the first day they’d raced up Parish Hill when he’d realized Emma was a dreamer and he was a realist. The distance between their outlooks was vast and unbridgeable.
“The world sees her the same way you do, as if she can’t get as far in life as anyone else.” Emma looked out on the river, her face drawn in sadness. “I’m the reason the world sees her that way. And she knows it.” Her gaze dropped to his as she stepped back. “And now I know why you can never forgive me.”
Will sat on the bank, watching Emma leave him.
It hit home then, in a way it hadn’t before, not in all the times she’d told him or the way his dad had warned him. This wasn’t a situation where she’d eventually come around to his way of thinking or things would miraculously become easier between them without any change of heart on his part.
Forget her fear that she couldn’t have both close relationships and be an artist.
He and Emma had no future if he couldn’t find it in himself to forgive her and she couldn’t find a way to forgive herself.
* * *
THE FLOAT WAS close to completion. It was rudimentary, but it didn’t matter. Emma thought it was perfect. The float represented the past she loved and the future she hoped was in store for her hometown. And in two days they’d win the contest at the Spring Festival.
Emma had come back after dinner to admire the float alone. She sat cross-legged on the workbench so she could have a better view.
“It turned out pretty well, didn’t it?” Will walked into the barn holding a water bottle. The day had been warm, but was giving way to the chill of an incoming fog bank. He’d changed from cargo shorts to jeans and had thrown on a Stanford sweatshirt.
She’d been working next to him earlier and had almost laughed out loud when she’d caught him humming the chorus from Oklahoma! She was sure he’d been struggling not to jump in and tell Flynn and Slade what they should be doing.
“I like it.” Emma slid down, wiping sawdust from her shorts. “I’m going to miss working on it. I enjoyed getting to know Slade. I don’t believe his threats that he’d take the money and run anymore. And I’d forgotten how fun Flynn can be.” She went over and shifted a grapevine in a five-gallon container so the vines hung off the front of the trailer. “Flynn still hates the barber chair, though, doesn’t he?”
“You braided his hair.” There was something odd in Will’s tone, but Emma was paying more attention to the float than him. “Who braids a man’s hair?”
Emma laughed. That had been the highlight of her day. “His hair has grown past his shoulders. He’s got great bone structure, but who could see it beneath that baseball cap and hair?” She and Tracy had exchanged a rare grin while she’d worked on Flynn.
She stood on a step stool and fiddled with the ribbon on the sheep Slade had found online. It had arrived today. The sheep was life size, with a pink bow and dark eyes that begged for a hug. After the festival they’d decided to donate it to the nearest children’s hospital.
“I didn’t like you touching Flynn’s hair.” Will was behind her, his breath wafting gently across the shell of her ear.
Emma’s heart slowed to a limb-freezing halt. Other than the day that nosy reporter had showed up, she’d successfully avoided being alone with Will for more than a week. She’d tucked away crushes, infatuations and fascinations. She’d parted ways with what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. She was on the path of recovery, not discovery.
“Turn around, Emma.” Suddenly she recognized that tone of voice. It was the same deep rumble he’d used to tell her he was going to kiss her that day in her bedroom.
“I can’t.” To turn around meant she’d kiss him. And a kiss would only reignite feelings she’d been doing her best to ignore. A kiss could break her hold on the precipice of love, sending her tumbling down where she’d be vulnerable and lost.
“Emma.” His voice sounded weary. “I don’t like it when you braid Flynn’s hair.”
“You don’t?”
“No.” His hands settled on her shoulders, warm and heavy and full of want. “And I don’t like it when you tease Slade about his ties.” His hands circled her shoulders slowly, as if learning their shape.
“I almost nailed Slade’s tie to the gelato shop. You can’t not tease a man about that.
“Turn around, Emma.”
“I can’t.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, as featherlight as her hold on her control. Will might want her, but he could never forgive her. She knew because she hadn’t forgiven herself.
His hands glided down her arms until they came to rest over her hands. His fingers tangled with hers. He moved closer, the heat of his body begging her to turn around and close the distance between them, begging her to let him claim her.
“I can’t.” An answer to a question he hadn’t verbalized, her voice barely a whisper. She was so close to giving in, so close to crossing a line she wanted desperately to honor. Her integrity.
“Emma.” His lips pressed against the back of her neck just above the collar of her T-shirt, soft as dandelion fluff, but heavy with need.
Despite her best intentions, Emma tilted her head to one side, inviting his lips upward. He accepted the invitation, pressing his mouth beneath her ear, advancing to her jawline. She turned her head slightly, giving him better access. He accepted the invitation, the press of his lips against her flesh more urgent now, demanding she turn, demanding she accept, demanding she submit.
And then he stopped. The absence of his kisses drew a moan from deep within her.
His stubbled cheek rested against her smooth one. He spoke with aching tenderness. “Emma.”
Her grip slipped. And she was lost.
* * *
WILL LEANED AGAINST the wall of the barn, cradling Emma in his arms as he watched the moon rise above the crown of her dark hair.
She turned and lifted her face. “One last kiss.”
Will couldn’t resist. One last kiss to end a perfect evening.
Emma arched against him; her lips claimed his, her hunger met his need.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Will pressed her closer, deepened the kiss. Together their bodies generated enough heat to cocoon them from the nip of the brisk night air.
“One last kiss,” Emma murmured against his mouth.
The way she said it, as if this was goodbye, had Will pulling back. “I’ll walk you home.”
She covered his lips with her fingers before he could say any more. “No. Here at the barn, it’s only the two of us, without pasts, without futures. I know you can’t forgive me and I don’t expect you to. But out there—” she sighed “—out there, we have baggage and responsibilities, to ourselves as well as to others. I knew when I turned around that you and I only had this one moment.”
Her words created a void in his chest where his heart used to be. “Don’t say that.”
She stared at him expectantly. “Does that mean...?”
He hadn’t forgiven her and he was sure she could see it in his face. He’d hoped they could for
get about it, put the issue in a corner and not discuss it. He was stupid and naive, but he’d been hopeful that the attraction between them would make her forget.
The evening chill nipped at him. “But Emma, we can—”
“No. We can’t.” Emma stiffened, then pushed her way free of his arms. Her eyes were filled with hurt. In his need to hold her, he hadn’t meant to hurt her. Her pain seeped into him, making him feel emptier than before. “I can’t. I have more respect for myself than that. You should never have promised to kiss me. You should never have asked me to turn around.”
He reached for her, but she backed away. What was he going to do? He knew the texture of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the urgency of her embrace. He knew when something would make her laugh. Keeping his distance, pretending he didn’t know those things about her would be agony.
“You can forgive Mildred a deliberate mistake that almost cost me my life and yours, but you can’t forgive me an accident.” It wasn’t a question.
“I can’t. I told you.” Despite what his father had said, despite how much he wanted to. Anger and frustration pierced him, prodding words he didn’t want to say. “And you don’t forgive yourself, either. It’s why you can’t paint.”
“True,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to her hands. And then she raised her chin, raised her liquid gaze to meet his. “Promise me...” Emma winced, swallowed. Started again. “Promise me you’ll never look at me like you want to hold me. Promise me you’ll never touch me like you have tonight. And promise me you’ll never kiss me again.”
The weight of her request clawed at him, threatening to bring him to his knees. How could that be? He liked Emma. He wanted Emma. But he didn’t understand the meaning of those powerful emotions.
“You owe me that much. I know you’ll honor a promise.” Her eyes were luminous in the moonlight.
The words she wanted to hear hung bitterly on his lips, reluctant to take form.
In the end, he could only nod his head.
* * *
ROSE WAS WAITING for Emma on the porch swing. She had a piece of paper in her hand that looked like a letter and a grim set to her mouth that didn’t bode well for a man who’d been making out with her granddaughter twenty minutes ago.
He’d insisted on walking Emma home. She’d kept a half step ahead of him the entire time. Their time, their moment, was over. Will felt broken and numb. He wanted to gather her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right. But he couldn’t promise her anything.
“There you are.” Rose stood, still gripping the paper. “I should have known you’d be with him after receiving this.”
“What is it?” Emma trotted up the stairs. Will admired her concern for her grandmother’s well-being. It matched his for Tracy.
“Someone—” Rose’s stare was icy “—requested an arborist’s report on the oak tree in the town square. I’m sure the big corporation that’s going to give Will his next few millions doesn’t like oak trees.”
“It wasn’t me.” Will climbed the stairs, holding up his hands.
“What does it say?” Emma reached for the report, but Rose yanked it away.
“It says my tree has a fungus.” Rose peered at the page. “Anthracnose. What does it matter what it’s called? It’s obviously Latin for death.” She clutched the page to her breast in a dramatic turn worthy of a stage production. Then Will came into her line of vision and she drew herself up like an avenging goddess. “You killed my tree. You killed it so you could put your hot spot there.”
“Granny Rose, you know that’s not true. People don’t infect trees with fungus. And besides, Will’s changed the plans so that the communications tower will go on Parish Hill.”
For a moment, Rose seemed to drift back into reality. She blinked, casting her gaze about the worn porch floorboards.
“May I see it?” Will reached for the paper. “There might be something on there that tells us who requested the test.”
Fury flared in Rose’s eyes. “Don’t you touch it. Don’t you touch it or my tree.”
“It’s okay, Granny,” Emma said softly. “Give me the report. Please.”
Rose handed over the page.
“Come inside.” Emma took her grandmother’s arm. “We’ll put on South Pacific. Bali Hai is calling.”
“Is the computer nerd coming inside?” Rose glanced up at Will as if he were an ogre.
“No. He’s going home to Ben and Tracy,” Emma said, pain lacing her words.
She’d done nothing to earn such pain. Emma was right. He had to stay away or risk hurting her even more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“GRANNY ROSE?” IT was an hour past sunrise when Emma trudged downstairs the next morning. Her footsteps echoed hollowly on the wood floor, as hollow as she felt inside.
Last night she’d fallen in love. She’d tiptoed around the feeling for years, always finding excuses not to fall, finding other men wanting. Then along came Will, reminding her of her hero-worshipping crush and brushing aside her common sense. Will had pushed her off the edge of reason with the same calculated zeal he approached everything else. She’d taken the plunge toward love, but she’d taken it alone.
It was her own fault for not being strong. But he’d been too much of a temptation. And then he couldn’t even lie to her!
She’d wanted to double over. She’d wanted to crawl off into the darkness. Instead, she’d demanded he promise to leave her alone. Will kept his promises. Always.
But just in case, she was calling in reinforcements. She needed her mother here to take care of Granny Rose so she could leave Harmony Valley and Will behind.
Before she’d gone to bed last night, Emma had made sure Granny went to her room, lending her a paperback romance she was reading. Then she’d dragged herself upstairs, forcing herself to attack a canvas with harsh, raw colors on a too-wide brush. Ping had watched her critically, as silent as the missing soundtrack in her head. She’d told him if she was going to be heartbroken, she was determined to conquer the shakes and the uncertainty. In the end, she’d conquered nothing and fallen asleep with Ping curled against her side.
It was the wrong solution for the wrong problem. The story of Emma’s life lately. Will was right. Just because she knew she had to forgive herself for the accident didn’t mean she could do it.
This morning, there was no coffee brewing. No bustle of activity. No to-do list on the kitchen table.
“Granny Rose?”
Silence.
“Granny?” Emma headed toward the first floor bedroom. She knocked. When she received no answer, she pushed the door open slowly, trying to respect her grandmother’s privacy. “Granny?”
The room was empty. Her grandmother’s bed was made. The romance novel was on the quilt where Emma had left it. Granny’s work boots weren’t paired neatly in front of the closet. Emma called louder, moved faster. A check of the bathroom revealed her towels were dry. Granny Rose hadn’t showered this morning. Emma ran to the front door. Her grandmother’s coat was missing from its hook.
Emma breathed in guilt-laden, panicked gasps. She’d tried painting again. And again, disaster. But she had to think, not feel sorry for herself. Her grandmother needed her.
Maybe Granny Rose had gone out. She was a notorious early bird and kept up an active schedule. She could have slept in or decided not to shower this morning.
Granny Rose left without her coffee? Not likely.
What if she’d left the house after Emma had said good-night?
With trembling fingers, Emma called Agnes and confirmed that her grandmother hadn’t come by or spent the night.
By now, Emma’s entire body was shaking. She ran toward the town square, rounded the corner of El Rosal and stopped. The town was empty. Her grandmother wasn’t handcuffed under the oak tree. E
mma hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on that possibility.
She ran over to the ancient tree and looked into its branches. After all, her grandmother had been a trapeze artist. It was possible. But the tree was empty.
A noise from the north end of the square had Emma turning.
Will jogged along East Street on nearly silent feet.
Emotions and powerful physical sensations washed over Emma. The strength of his arms around her. The heat of his lips on hers. And the agonizing disappointment.
Emma couldn’t deal with him now. She had to think of Granny Rose. Or like Granny Rose. Her grandmother was convinced Will wanted to sell out the town and she knew all Will’s hopes rode on their float.
Understanding dawned. Spinning away, Emma jogged quickly across the square in the opposite direction from Will and Parish Hill.
“Emma?”
She sprinted down Main Street. Past Snarky Sam’s. She ran despite the stitch in her side and the choking sob in her throat. Cutting over on Jefferson she continued until she was at the turn into the gravel driveway to the Henderson property. From there, she could see the barn doors were open.
Emma ran faster.
The closer she got to the barn, the more of the float she could see. The cardboard buildings were crushed. The gallon containers with corn and grapevines had been tipped over, dirt spilling onto the ground. And at the far end of the float, the red barn that represented the winery was demolished. A pair of spindly human legs hung over the edge, unmoving.
“Granny Rose!” Emma faltered. Her breath hitched.
Will sprinted past.
Her grandmother hadn’t come home last night. Was she dead?
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