by Lori Wilde
She attempted to fake him out. Feigning that she was moving in one direction but stepping to the opposite side. She didn’t fool him for a second. He followed her movements, wrenching back control like a determined man waltzing with a hardheaded woman who kept trying to lead.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only ten minutes or less, the dog picked up his pace, slinking closer.
The knot of fear, which tasted and felt like a slab of bacon in her throat, expanded. This was it. He was going to tear her to shreds.
He circled around to her left side, forcing her up onto the lawn in front of a white frame house with a wide, welcoming veranda.
She backed up the slope of the slight incline leading to the porch steps. The dog’s nose twitched, his gaze glued on her feet as he continued to move toward her.
There was nowhere for her to go but up the steps. The dog was between her and the street.
Her heel hit the first step. Up she went.
The dog moved in.
She took another step and then another.
The dog was on the bottom step now and Emma was on the porch. If she whirled around, perhaps she could bang on the door and cry for help before the dog could do too much damage.
She didn’t get the chance. The dog suddenly bounded up the steps, sending Emma quivering into the corner of the porch. She was trapped. No way out.
The dog stopped at her feet, looked her in the eyes, and barked.
Emma braced herself for the pain that never came.
From the open window, she heard a woman’s voice call out, “Doc, better get out on the porch, your dog’s herded home another one!”
“In the house, Patches,” Sam commanded the Border collie, holding the screen door open with his left hand.
The dog lifted his ears and cocked his head at the cowering woman cornered on his front porch as if to say, See what I brought home for you? Great. Even his dog was trying to play matchmaker.
“House.” He snapped his fingers.
Reluctantly, Patches trotted inside.
Sam let the screen door ease closed and turned his attention to the woman, meaning to apologize. But one look into her face and he felt as if he’d been smacked in the gut with a bowling ball. He blinked, certain his imagination was playing tricks on him.
It couldn’t actually be she, could it? Back here in Twilight after all these years?
Her hair was the same shade of fiery copper, like the luxurious coat of an Irish setter. It looked as if she hadn’t grown an inch in sixteen years. Still five-foot-nothing with the lean, tomboyish build he remembered. And she still had a dusting of freckles over her pert little nose. His mother used to tell her that the angels had sprinkled cinnamon on her, adding spice to the sweet. It never failed to produce a grin, which was why his mother said it. Lois Cheek had a penchant for children, and it tore at her heart when she saw one neglected.
Sam’s gaze snagged hers. A rush of emotions he couldn’t quite identify tangled around his heart. “Trixie Lynn?” he asked, his voice coming out strangely husky. “Is that you?”
Her gaze tracked his face, flicked up to his forehead.
Self-consciously, Sam’s hand went up, pulling his hair forward to cover the scar. He hadn’t possessed it when she’d known him before. Did it revolt her? His stomach pitched. Mostly, the people in Twilight let him forget about it. He didn’t see wary distaste or morbid curiosity on their faces, but strangers seemed to fixate on it, as if Sam was nothing more than his wound. Suddenly, he was terrified Trixie Lynn would judge him harshly.
That’s when he noticed she was trembling.
“Trixie Lynn,” he said her name again.
The color drained from her face and her legs gave out at the same moment he reached her. He hated that she’d seen him looking scarred. It must have ruined the fantasy of him that she held in her mind. To him, she looked absolutely the same, but he knew the reverse could not be true.
Seeing you made her dizzy, you should step back, give her some space.
But he didn’t back up. He snaked an arm around her waist, holding her steady against him. The second he touched her, his senses sharpened. She smelled of watermelon shampoo and Ivory soap, a familiar scent that tugged at his memories. A slant of sunshine, angling through the cottonwood tree beside the porch, dappled her hair in a fiery light. He had the fiercest urge to press his lips against her freckles to see if they really did taste like cinnamon.
Sam was transfixed. They stared into each other and time stuttered to a stop. They were ensnared, frozen in the moment. Her wide-eyed. Him winded, as if he’d just sprinted a hundred-yard dash like he used to do in high school.
It was as if nothing had changed and they were jettisoned back to their freshman year in high school, so full of yearning and teenage hormones. In that suspended second everything fell away and they were stripped bare of all defenses, all artifice. It was as if they’d never been apart. High school sweethearts. True loves. Soul mates.
Forever and always.
Bull crap.
He’d been living too long in Twilight, listening to silly legends about long-lost lovers reuniting. What in the hell was wrong with him? He was a respected veterinarian, a father now. He had no idea who Trixie Lynn was anymore.
He didn’t want to feel what he was feeling. It was too complicated. Too messy. Too scary. Sam liked things simple and neat and predictable. Trixie Lynn had never been simple, neat, or predictable.
And yet his heart beat faster and his stomach churned with excitement and he wanted to ask her a million questions, which wasn’t like him at all. Instead he asked her only one. “Are you all right?”
She nodded mutely. He was used to that. He didn’t talk much, Charlie not at all. Even his housekeeper, Maddie, was quiet.
“I…” She swallowed. “I’m deathly afraid of dogs.”
“Oh,” he said, surprised by the relief pulsing through him. “That’s why you’re shaking.” Not because his scar horrified her.
“Of course,” she said, “what did you think?”
He felt sheepish. “You’re back.”
“I am.” She smiled.
He realized that he was still holding her even though she was no longer trembling. Sam was not a particularly tall man, but even so, the top of Trixie Lynn’s head barely reached his chin. He looked down at the lush pink lips he’d tasted only once and longed to taste again. What would she do if he followed his impulse and just kissed her right here, right now on his front porch, as if sixteen years had not come and gone?
You can’t do that. For all you know, she’s married.
He darted a quick glance to the ring finger of her left hand. It was bare.
Don’t get excited. That doesn’t mean anything.
She stepped back, breaking free of his embrace. The next moment was heavy, awkward. Had she somehow read his thoughts? Had she guessed he’d been thinking about kissing her?
Sam ducked his head, splayed a palm to the back of his neck. “It’s good to see you again, Trixie Lynn.”
“It’s not Trixie Lynn anymore. It’s Emma. Emma Parks.”
“You’ve got a pseudonym.”
“I had it legally changed.”
“Emma,” he tried out the word. “I like it. It suits you.”
She looked pleased.
“What’s brought you back to Twilight?”
“You haven’t heard?” She blinked at him like an inquisitive little bird.
“Heard what?”
“I thought the grapevine would be buzzing about it.”
He waved a hand. “I never listen to gossip.”
“Still too engrossed in animals to have much time for people?”
“Yeah,” he admitted with a grin. “I’m a vet now.”
“Really?” The smile breaking across her face was genuine. “That’s great. I’m so happy you made your dreams come true.”
“I’m guessing you got what you wanted as well, since you changed your n
ame and everything.”
“Yeah, well.” She took a deep breath, and he saw sadness flash in her eyes. “Not everyone’s dreams get to come true.”
“Doc?” Maddie asked from behind the screen door. “Is your guest staying for lunch? I made pot roast. We’ve got plenty.”
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” he asked. “And meet my son?”
She looked at him oddly, and he realized he’d restlessly raked his hand through his hair and given her a better glimpse of his scar. An emotion passed over her face, half pity, half sadness. His anxiety mounted, and he immediately wanted to retract the invitation.
But it was too late.
“I’d love to,” she said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Quilts are love made visible.
—Dotty Mae Densmore, oldest member of the True Love Quilting Club
Sam stood on the porch looking just as Emma imagined he would look at thirty. Deeply handsome, with a shaggy sheaf of thick black hair and intelligent brown eyes that didn’t miss a trick. Animals surrounded him, just as they always had. Hummingbirds darted at feeders full of red sugar water, suspended from the porch on hooks; a terrarium filled with turtles sat on a table behind the wicker patio couch where a plump calico cat lay curled in a ball on one of the cushions. An end-of-the-season butterfly flitted around his head, and then landed on his shoulder. And his dog, Patches, sat looking through the screen door, his gaze trained on Sam as if he were St. Francis of Assisi.
A day’s growth of beard stubble sprouted on Sam’s chin, and he was dressed in a short-sleeved, button-down cowboy shirt; faded blue jeans; and scuffed brown work boots.
His face was shadowed by the revolving blades of the ceiling fan circling slowly overhead. He had changed, but he was still the same as she remembered. Introspective, solemn, calm. Her polar opposite.
He has a son.
That meant the son had a mother.
Sam was married.
Disappointment tasted as sharp as expensive aged cheddar. It made her want to drink wine. Sam had a wife and a kid.
She’d expected it. Why not? He was good-looking, sexy, a veterinarian. Not to mention calm, reliable, and steady. Of course he was married. He was thirty. Most people were by their age. Fully adults.
But not her. She’d been holding on to her Peter Pan dreams for so long she’d forgotten to grow up.
Depressing, that thought.
He ran a hand across his forehead, shoving back a hank of hair from his eyes. The shifting of the sun through the cottonwood cast his face in a harsh light. That’s when she saw it.
Emma had to dig her fingernails into her palms to keep from gasping, and she drew on her acting skills to stop shock from showing in her eyes. Something terrible had happened to him.
Four deep, long gouges dug into his flesh from the middle of his forehead to the side of his left temple, and the top of his ear was gone. The scars were silver-white with age. Empathy tightened her throat, twisted her heart.
Her own forehead throbbed, and it was all she could do not to reach up and run her fingers over his brow. She saw his body tense, his shoulders draw forward. He tossed his head, sending the long swatch of hair falling back over his forehead again. Now she knew why he wore it long. He hid behind it. Sorrow arrowed through her. He’d been badly hurt. Damaged.
His mouth set in a firm line, and she knew then she’d slipped for a second and let her pity show. He didn’t say anything, but she could see the snap of anger in his narrowed eyes and the blotchy flush of embarrassment that rose to his cheeks. She started to regret agreeing to stay for lunch, but she didn’t know how to get out of it without it seeming as if she was running away because of his scar. She wanted to run, yes, but because of the intensity of her feelings, not his wound. She hadn’t expected to feel such sympathy, to ache to pull him into her arms and kiss those scars and tell him how sorry she was he’d suffered so.
Yeah, I’m sure his wife would appreciate that.
Another reason she wanted to run. Why had she accepted his invitation?
Because you’re stranded and lonely and you found a friendly face.
Sam stepped to open the door. “Come on in.”
Emma stayed on the porch, warily watching the dog.
“It’s okay. Patches doesn’t bite. He might snap at your heels to get you to go in the direction he wants you to go in, but that’s all.”
Emma went up on tiptoes as if it would protect her heels. “Why does he do that?”
“He’s a Border collie. They’re a herding breed. It’s in his nature.”
The dog sat looking at her, head cocked. Emma remained welded to the porch. “So to him I’m just a big sheep?”
A smile tipped Sam’s lips. “That’s it. But he’s well trained. He’ll leave you be since you’re with me.”
Emma didn’t want to take a chance on it. She kept remembering the vicious little terrier that had repeatedly bitten the crap out of her.
“You really are scared of dogs.”
She nodded.
“Patches,” Sam said, “upstairs.”
The dog turned and disappeared deeper into the house. Emma could hear his feet padding up a staircase she couldn’t see from her vantage point on the porch.
He held out a hand to her.
Emma took it.
His fingers were calloused; his grip strong, yet gentle. Something twisted inside Emma’s chest. An emotion that eluded definition, but she felt it all the same, curling up tight inside her. She held her breath, acutely aware of him. Her palm tingled beneath his. Oh, this was so stupid. She had no business feeling anything for him other than normal cordiality. So they’d kissed once when they were fourteen. Big deal. He was married now. With a kid.
She wondered if his wife was home. Would he call her outside? Would she come down the stairs and wrap her arms around him for a kiss and rest her head on his shoulder and call him by some cute pet name?
A brackish taste filled her mouth. She didn’t want to see that.
They stepped over the threshold into the foyer and immediately were enveloped by the delicious smells of roasted meat, stewed vegetables, and robust herbs—onions, garlic, black pepper, bay leaf. Once upon a time, Emma had loved to cook, but she’d let all that go when she’d moved to Manhattan. No space to indulge her culinary skills in that tiny little apartment she’d shared with Cara and Lauren.
She didn’t see the boy at first. Rather, Sam dropped her hand and moved away from her. No, not away from her, toward the child.
He was a skinny little thing. Pale freckled skin, black-framed Harry Potter glasses with thick lenses, hair as red as Emma’s own. His eyes were green too, just like hers. He wore blue denim short pants and a white T-shirt with a blue biplane logo on the front. His knees were scraped, and a cowlick stuck straight up at the back of his head. He reminded her of bespectacled Opie from the old Andy Griffith Show. She guessed his age at five or six. He must look like his mother, because she didn’t see a drop of Sam in him.
It struck her then that Sam had married a redhead, and a new set of emotions had a whack at her—curiosity, nostalgia, wistfulness. The boy could be hers if she’d stayed in Twilight. Married Sam. If she’d never dreamed of being a star. That was a lot of what-ifs and she’d never regretted pursuing her acting career, but now here she was seeing another possible path she could have gone down. A path she’d never before imagined.
“Trix—er, Emma,” Sam said, “this is Charlie. Charlie, this is an old friend of mine. Her name is Emma. She’s going to have lunch with us.”
She’d never been particularly comfortable around children, perhaps because she’d been an only child. She never knew what to say to them, so she said nothing, just smiled and squatted down to his eye level.
The boy stood staring at her. He didn’t say anything either.
Emma grinned wider, using her smile to battle back the uncertainty churning her stomach. Did the kid hate her at first sight? She felt the heat of Sam�
��s gaze on her skin, and doubt assailed her. She didn’t know what to do next. Should she stand up? Say something?
A second passed.
Charlie stepped toward her.
Emma didn’t move.
He came closer, reached out a hand, and gently stroked her hair. His eyes softened and his bottom lip trembled.
“Charlie’s mother had red hair,” Sam murmured so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
Had.
Past tense. As in Charlie’s mother was no longer around. Was she dead? Had she walked out on them? Her stomach lurched. Emma knew exactly what it felt like to be abandoned by your mother.
Charlie stared into her eyes and she could see his pain. Emma’s heart clutched. Who was she kidding? She could feel it.
“Hi Charlie,” she whispered.
Charlie said nothing.
“He’s chosen not to speak,” Sam said.
“Oh.”
The boy kept stroking her hair like she was his long-lost mother returned. Emma battled the tears pushing against the backs of her eyelids. Her emotional nature might help her in acting, but in a situation like this, crying would be counterproductive. She blinked, widened her smile.
Charlie threw his arms around her neck and squeezed tight.
All the air rushed from Emma’s lungs, and she fell instantly, madly in love.
“Lunch is ready.” A middle-aged woman, with an apron tied around her waist, appeared in the foyer. “Charlie, go wash up, please.”
The boy let go of Emma’s neck and scampered off down the hall.
“Hi,” the woman said, and held out her hand. “I’m Maddie Gunnison, Sam’s housekeeper.”
Maddie carried a cautious aura about her, as if she didn’t take well to strangers. She possessed sharp cheekbones, intense blue eyes, and a nose that was too long for her narrow face. Her brown hair, threaded through with gray, was worn in a single braid down her back. She spoke with the lazy drawl and marsh-mallowy lilt of the East Texas piney woods.
