Emma was blind.
He’d suspected as much. He’d baited his trap. And he’d received his answer as he’d watched her sweep her hand across the table to locate his empty glass.
Emma was blind, and her condition prompted many questions.
How long ago had it happened? She moved with easy grace around the home she shared with Daniel, as if she’d had lots of time to get used to the home. She’d been the one to provide Seb with broth, and he suspected, the porridge. Which meant she was comfortable enough in the kitchen to cook. Which supported his theory that she’d had a lot of time to practice.
Was it difficult for her to manage in her condition?
The thought fueled the fire of his temper. Emma didn’t deserve compassion from him. She’d walked away without looking back. Torn his heart to shreds when she’d done so.
Emma didn’t care about him.
And he didn’t want to care about her.
She’s taking care of you now, whispered an insidious voice in his head.
Because she had no other choice. He still didn’t know how he’d ended up here, in Daniel’s house. But he knew Emma had a bleeding heart, and she wouldn’t put him out as long as he was injured.
That didn’t mean she held any tender feelings for him.
He had a long time to be caught in the vortex of his swirling thoughts before she returned.
He’d set aside the half-empty bowl of porridge and reclined on the sofa, this time with his uninjured arm thrown across his eyes.
Maybe he’d dozed off, or maybe she’d tiptoed into the room, but the soft clink of the spoon against the bowl made him twitch. He moved his arm to his side, the movement too quick and jerky, and he couldn’t help the grunt of pain, though he attempted to bite it off.
“Sorry to disturb you,” she said in a cool, no-nonsense tone. “I didn’t know if you were awake.”
It’s your home. The words he should speak caught in his throat. And I am at your mercy. But his confusing feelings kept the words behind his clenched teeth.
She settled his bowl and glass in the center of the tray, her movements as graceful as ever.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He hadn’t meant the words to emerge at all, never mind how petulant his voice sounded.
When she straightened, the way she clutched the tray between them made him think of a knight’s shield from a story. “You were unconscious until late yesterday.”
That wasn’t what he meant and she knew it.
“Does Fran know?”
This question was met with a tight nod.
Fran knew, which meant Seb’s brother Edgar knew as well. The couple kept no secrets from each other.
But they’d kept this from Seb. And probably from the rest of the family. His large, crazy family was close, which made it almost impossible to keep secrets.
And suddenly, Seb experienced a visceral memory of his brother Maxwell—a doctor—avoiding him at the last family supper Seb had been to. Suspicion rose, choking him. Had Maxwell known?
“When did it happen?” he demanded, as if he had a right to know.
Twin spots of color rose in her fair cheeks. “It doesn’t matter.”
Of course, it mattered.
He pushed himself up on his elbow, the action making his breath ragged. He hated being flat on his back, hated being weak.
“Tell me.”
She could’ve left the room, but she didn’t. Her gaze was fixed somewhere above his head. He saw the shift of her feet, knew he was making her uncomfortable.
And maybe it was callous of him, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
He deserved to know.
“I lost my sight from that fever I took. Just before I left h—Wyoming.” Her hands were shaking, rattling the dishes on the tray.
He’d thought he wanted to know, but the confirmation that his suspicions were right was like a blow to his abused ribs.
“And if you hadn’t nearly gotten yourself killed, you would never have known.” The words seemed ripped from her lips.
She turned and started for the door.
He fell back on the sofa, his strength gone.
She hadn’t wanted him to know.
Because he hadn’t been good enough for her.
She’d somehow seen what he’d spent years trying to overcome.
And she’d cut ties.
He was torn from his thoughts by a firm knock on the front door. Emma had retreated to the kitchen.
His anger and hurt were immediately forgotten, stuffed away to be dealt with later.
Someone was at the door. It might be one of Tolliver’s thugs.
He almost called out to her to tell her not to answer the door. But his voice would alert whoever was at the door to his presence.
He might deserve the beating he’d received, but the last thing he wanted was Emma caught up with the dangerous criminals who were looking for him.
He couldn’t let her get hurt because of him.
* * *
Emma pressed her clammy hands to her cheeks, trying to slow the storm of her breathing.
Since the moment five days ago when her brother had revealed it was Seb fighting for his life in their parlor, she’d known this confrontation was inevitable.
She’d hoped to avoid it. Tried to put her thoughts in some semblance of order so she could explain things adequately to him.
But she hadn’t been ready.
Someone was knocking at the door.
That was Phillip. And she was so flustered and upset by Seb’s sharp words that she was very near tears.
Phillip knocked again, and she took a deep breath, striving to pull herself together. She moved down the front hall to the door. Her hands were still trembling as she reached for the latch.
"Good morning, Emma." Phillip was unfailingly polite, as usual.
"Good morning." Could he see the emotion on her face?
From the parlor, she heard a thump. She had no desire for Phillip to know about Seb’s presence. It didn’t matter that Daniel had asked her to keep Seb a secret. Right now, she couldn’t answer a single question about the man she’d once loved. She wasn't even sure whether she'd be able to force her mind to focus on the manuscript she and Phillip were working on.
Another thump, this one quite close to the parlor door. What was that man doing?
She ushered Phillip quickly through the hall, hoping he hadn't noticed anything amiss. "Why don't you go ahead and set up at the kitchen table? I'll be right there to pour you a cup of coffee. I forgot … something … in the other room."
She could only hope that Phillip complied as she rushed back to the parlor. She opened the door and quickly closed it behind her. She was turning when her senses registered the tall presence too close. She could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the sharp scent of medicine still on his breath.
She stepped back. "What are you doing?" she hissed.
"Who was at the door?" His voice was a faint rasp, and each breath came fast and shallow.
There was no way she was telling him anything about Phillip. She needed to get him back on the sofa. What on earth had possessed him to get up? Had he injured himself further?
"You shouldn't be up." She reached out her hand without thinking it through. Her palm connected with the soft flannel undershirt Daniel had put him in. Beneath the shirt’s softness, the muscles in his side tensed, and for one moment she thought she'd inadvertently pressed against his injury. But he stayed tense, muscles coiled. She felt him gasping for breath.
"I shouldn't be up."
"That's what I said—”
He slumped, his shoulder settling against the wall. He was upright, but maybe not for long.
She slid her arm around his side, nudging her shoulder up into his armpit. He was so big. She remembered him being taller than she was, but this bulk… He had filled out in the two years since she'd been away. And from what she could feel, it was all muscle.
"Who’s at the d
oor?" he slurred. "Gotta… make sure…" He mumbled something else, his voice is too low for her to understand. She thought it sounded like in danger.
Why would there be danger? She hadn't realized she’d spoken in the words aloud until he mumbled, "… gotta be sure you’re safe." His words were hot against the top of her head.
He thought she was in danger, and that's why he'd gotten out of bed?
"Foolish man," she murmured. "It was just a friend."
She was afraid that he was going to topple right over, and if he did, she wouldn't be able to drag him back to the sofa herself. Daniel didn't want Phillip to know Seb was here. Which meant she needed to maneuver Seb back onto the sofa before he collapsed.
“Can you walk?”
Seb only grunted as she urged him the first few steps back across the room. He leaned heavily on her shoulder, his steps dragging.
“Foolish man,” she said under her breath.
"I don't… remember you… talking to me like that before."
She barely resisted the urge to punch him in the side. "I don't remember you ever giving me a reason to," she countered.
Her thigh brushed the arm of the sofa, just like she’d expected, and she stepped out from under his arm, placing his hand on the armrest.
"Can you manage?" she asked.
A grunt was all she got in response, but she heard the sound of him settling into the cushions, not a thump on the floor.
Phillip was waiting, so she forced herself to walk away. "I'll be back in a while to check on you."
It wasn't until she was out in the hall, closing the door, that she realized he hadn't tried to direct her across the room. He’d trusted her to get him back to the sofa even without her sight. Had it only been because he was in so much pain that he’d forgotten about her condition?
She went into the kitchen and turned toward the stove, where the coffeepot waited. She sensed Phillip in the corner where he usually sat across from her at the little table.
"I already poured," he said. "Yours is here at the table."
She felt her irritation rise but worked to squash it. She and Phillip had worked together for months. He probably hadn't given any thought to pouring the coffee. They were friends. Maybe he felt at home to serve himself, even if she hadn’t given him leave to do it.
When she settled at the second chair at the table and smoothed her skirt over her legs, she still felt flustered.
"Is everything all right?” he asked.
She tried to find a smile, tried to forget that Seb was in the next room, that he thought there was danger.
Phillip was here to work.
"Yes, sorry. Just a little distracted today." She could only pray that he wouldn't ask more. "Would you mind reading a few lines from where we stopped last week?"
It was part of their routine, hearing what she imagined and he'd typed from the last session would engage her memory and hopefully help her focus.
She took a sip of coffee and returned the mug to the table. She clasped her hands loosely on top of the table.
Without warning, one of Phillip’s warm hands closed over hers.
She jumped, and he let go.
"Sorry." He exhaled noisily. "There's something I want to talk about before we get started for the day."
Still reeling from the unexpected touch, she sat silently. What could he possibly have to talk to her about?
"I submitted your first manuscript to a publisher."
His words were so unexpected that it took a moment for her to process them. When she did, it was with a sharp gasp. "What? Why would you do that?"
"Why would you write the book if you didn't want it to be published someday?" He sounded genuinely perplexed, but that didn't stop her from snapping at him.
"Someday. That book wasn't ready for someone else to look at it."
She sensed movement, but there was no sound. Maybe he'd shaken his head?
"Your ability to tell a story is incredible. You don't give yourself enough credit."
His words made her blush, but they still didn't change things.
"You still shouldn't have done it. It was my book—”
“I didn't steal it, if that's what you're thinking. I sent everything with your name attached to it.”
That wasn't the point.
"I'm sorry you're upset, but it's done now. If they reject it, you can have the manuscript back and lock it in a drawer or whatever you want. But if they decide to publish it…"
She shook her head. She's written a book because she’d wanted to. She had a wild hope that maybe someday—in the far future—she would have the courage to submit it to a publisher. But it wasn't ready yet. They wouldn't want her book.
“Look, I’m sorry.”
Though he didn’t sound it, and it wasn't much of an apology. Part of her was furious that Phillip had taken the liberty to do such a thing. Part of her was excited in a nervous way.
There was no changing what he’d done. No way to get the manuscript back until the publisher returned it. And after that, she would make sure that Phillip didn't have a chance to help her again.
4
It was midafternoon before Seb saw Emma again. She backed into the room and then turned, revealing that she held a tray again. He hated that she was forced to take care of him like this.
He stifled a groan as he pushed himself into a seated position.
“Did you rip your stitches during your foolish heroic act earlier?”
Some greeting. He grimaced as her words conjured the memory of being so weak he could barely stand. He’d embarrassed himself for sure.
“I’m fine.” Earlier, he’d lifted the borrowed nightshirt to check his bandages. No blood seeped through the one on his side. He didn’t think he’d done additional damage.
She moved toward him, each step graceful and sure.
"Please tell me there's a plate full of roast and potatoes for me. I can't take any more porridge or broth." He’d been smelling the savory scents all afternoon, and his stomach was rumbling. It was pure torture.
She didn’t smile. "You'll have what I serve you and that's that."
But when she placed the tray on the low table, he was gratified to see heaping portions of roast and potatoes and carrots. “You're a good friend."
As he watched, some emotion crossed her face before she hid it behind a placid expression. "Am I now?"
He probably owed her an apology for how he’d acted that morning. It wasn't until he’d heard her friend knock that he’d realized just how precarious a position his presence had put Emma in. If Tolliver got a whiff of the fact that Seb was there, that he was alive, he'd send someone to finish Seb off. And he wouldn't let anyone stand in the way.
It no longer mattered that Emma had left him. Or that she hadn't trusted him with the truth about her condition. He’d stuffed his anger down deep inside where it couldn't see the light of day.
The only thing that remained was his fierce need to protect her. He might have walked away from his family, gotten wrapped up in some ugly dealings with Tolliver, done things he wasn’t proud of. But he refused to let Emma get hurt.
He was going to get back on his feet as fast as he could. And get out of there.
She turned her head slightly as if thinking of heading for the door.
"Would you sit with me for a bit?" He picked up the plate and fork. Maybe the potatoes weren't as perfectly cubed as they might've been if a sighted person had made the meal, but otherwise there was no way to tell that it had been made by someone who couldn't see. This close, the aroma had his mouth watering. "I don't know how much longer I can take the boredom of being alone in here."
He did win a smile at that, although a small one. And when she perched on the edge of a tall-backed chair nearby, he felt like he had won.
He shoveled a forkful of roast into his mouth and groaned.
She straightened, one hand pressing against the arm of the chair, ready to jump to his aid. "What's wrong? Are you in pain
?"
“Iff’s delicious." His ma would tan his hide if she'd heard him speak with his mouth full like that. He didn’t care. He was in heaven. He hadn't eaten a home-cooked meal like this in ages.
Emma relaxed into the chair.
He swallowed and inhaled another bite before he said, “In the spirit of friendship, I’ve got to ask. Does your brother know about your beau?”
She shook her head, her expression puzzled.
"The man you just spent three hours with."
He might've stuffed the confusing tangle of his feelings about Emma way down deep, but for a moment, he was glad that she couldn't see his expression, just in case he hadn't been able to wipe away all of the jealousy her visitor had inspired. He had no right to it. He knew it was wrong. But that hadn't stopped the ugly feeling from ripping his insides to shreds all morning.
"That wasn’t … anyone special." The fact that she stumbled over her words told him more than she probably wanted him to know. "Phillip and I work together."
Phillip. He had a name, but Seb hadn't gotten a glimpse of her man.
"What kind of work?" Maybe his skepticism had been audible in his voice, because she shot him a look that his sister Brianna would’ve been proud of. One that told him that whatever had happened in the kitchen today wasn't any of his business.
"Never mind,” he said. “What you and your sweetheart do is none of my business."
She opened her mouth as if readying herself to tell him off, then closed it again.
He shoveled in a few more bites, clearing his plate in a way that would've made his brothers back home proud. He was one of six boys who’d found their way to Jonas White as the man had moved west from Philadelphia with his infant daughter, Breanna. Seb had been young—four, maybe—when Jonas had found him on the street in a small western town that Seb wasn’t even sure had a name. He’d been starving and alone, and with no one to claim him, Jonas had taken him in. Each of Seb’s older brothers had found a home with Jonas in a different way. Matty’s family had died of a fever. Edgar had come west on an orphan train. Maxwell had been abused. Penny, Jonas’s wife, had come into their lives later. She was a saint to have taken on a ready-made family made up of seven orphan boys and a precocious little girl. Or maybe she’d just loved Pa that much.
The Cowboy's Honor Page 3
