Unintentionally Mine

by Stephanie Rowe

  "Yes!" Chloe laughed as Emma hugged her. "Don't get so excited. It's a long process and you're still the underdog. There's a lot of paperwork to file, and a home visit and all sorts of hoops to jump through. If you got approved, it would be a foster situation first and if that went okay, and her situation with her relatives didn't improve, only then would adoption be an option." She sighed. "I'll be honest, Emma, I don't like it. I really don't believe the judge will end up placing her with you, and if you foster her, it's going to create bonds that will crush her if they're broken. I don't think you should pursue foster. Just try for adoption and don't tell Mattie until and unless you are approved."

  "And leave her in that house for months? The one where she was so unhappy that she crawled out the third floor window and almost got herself killed? You want me to back off and leave her there?" Emma couldn't keep the shock out of her voice. "You're kidding, right?"

  Chloe grimaced. "I see your point, but I've also seen too many children get broken when enough people they trust abandon them."

  Emma's mouth dropped open. "Abandon her? I would never—"

  "Not on purpose, no, of course not. But to a child, it doesn't matter if it's intentional or not. In her heart, her mother abandoned her by dying. Her dad abandoned her by disappearing when she was born. Her aunt and uncle are abandoning her by being declared unfit. And if she falls in love with you and then gets sent to South Carolina to live, that will be the fourth abandonment for her. I think you should step aside and just pursue adoption."

  Emma hesitated, her heart aching as she thought of Mattie sitting all alone in that huge house. How many hours every day had she done the same thing as a child? Just wanting someone to hug her once, just one time. One hug was all she'd wanted, and she'd never gotten it. "Sometimes," she said quietly, "it's better to have a friend for a little bit, even if you can't have them forever. If you are abandoned, at least that means someone loved you once, and that can carry you through a lot."

  Chloe sighed. "I don't know that you're right, Em. Sometimes having the person you put your trust into walk away is worse than never having had them in the first place." She met her gaze. "I don't think you should do it."

  Emma thought of Mattie sitting alone on the edge of that roof, and she knew that she would never forgive herself if she didn't try. Someone had to hold Mattie's hand during this tough time, and there was no one else doing it. "I'm going to petition to foster her."

  Despite Chloe's grimace, there was no doubt in Emma's mind that she was doing the right thing. But as she grabbed her pen to take notes on the next steps, a little niggle of doubt nudged at the back of her mind.

  Failed trust was brutal.

  She knew that.

  Which was worse, never having had anyone, or having them betray you?

  They both sucked.

  Dammit.

  She didn't have the answers.

  * * *

  By the time Emma got home that night, she was exhausted, but feeling a little better than she had in days. With Chloe's help, she'd managed to talk to Mattie on the phone and reassure herself that the little girl was okay. Mattie's excitement about hearing from Emma had reinforced her decision to do all she could to get Mattie out of that foster home as soon as possible. She'd stayed at work filling out forms, not leaving her desk until she'd done everything she could.

  So relieved to be home in her little cabin, she plugged her phone in and dropped onto her bed. Wearily, she studied her room, trying to evaluate it from the point of view of a social worker on a home visit. There were only three main rooms: her bedroom, the living-dining area, and a small room that she used as a studio for her painting. She'd have to change that to Mattie's room. Mattie's room. Mattie's room.

  Emma kicked off her shoes and rolled onto her back, staring at the roughened boards of her wood ceiling. Was it really possible that she could give Mattie a home, and a family? That the next time Mattie cried, Emma would be there to hug her? She wasn't religious, but a little prayer slipped from her lips. "Please, God, let Mattie come home."

  She could still remember the shock and then excitement in Mattie's voice when she'd heard Emma on the phone today. It was good. So good.

  Her phone finally regained enough charge to catch service and beeped that she had a message. Probably Chloe. Her mind full of ideas about how to redo the house to make it a real home for Mattie, Emma rolled onto her side and picked up her phone. Five new messages?

  She touched the voicemail screen and saw three from Chloe, one from Clare, and one from an unlisted number. Her heart jumped, and she stared at the blocked number for a moment. Harlan? Her hand trembling, she hit play. A woman's voice sent shards of disappointment through her. "Hello. This message is for Emma Larson. Please call me back immediately, no matter what the time. It's urgent." She then carefully recited a phone number.

  A cold chill settled on Emma and she sat up abruptly, the phone slipping out of her hand. It couldn't be the call Harlan had warned her about, could it? Impossible. He'd been gone only a week. Her breath became tight in her chest and she swung her feet over the edge of the bed.

  For a long moment, she stared at the phone, afraid to pick it up, afraid to touch it. The man will be coming back for you, Clare had assured her.

  But what if he was dead?

  She didn't want a husband who had the power to destroy her, but the thought of Harlan being dead was asphyxiating. Suddenly, she needed air.

  Grabbing the phone with wooden fingers, Emma walked numbly out the door and onto her dock. The wood was hard and cool beneath her bare feet, and the water had the early evening stillness that made it feel like it was afraid to move, holding its breath in terrified anticipation.

  Too restless to sit, she paced along the dock, a thousand possibilities running through her mind, all of them more terrible than the other. A boat sped by, startling her, and she spun around as it whipped past, spraying water just as Harlan's boat had done that night.

  She knew she had to make the call. She'd promised him.

  With trembling fingers, she dialed the number and held her phone to her ear. A woman answered before the first ring had even finished. "Emma Larson?"

  She swallowed. "Yes, I'm Emma Larson."

  The woman was business-like and direct. "Harlan Shea has you listed as his wife and next of kin."

  Emma sank down onto the rough wood, suddenly unable to stand as she gripped the phone. "What happened?" she whispered.

  "I am sorry to inform you that Harlan Shea is currently listed as missing-in-action."

  "What?" She gripped the phone tighter, her breath coming in rough gasps. "What does that mean?"

  The woman's voice softened ever so slightly. "I can't give you details, Ms. Larson. I'm sorry that there is no closure, but until we find his body, we can't officially declare him dead."

  "His body?" Her own voice sounded distant and foreign, as if it wasn't even her speaking. "What? Dead? He can't be dead."

  "I will contact you when we have more information. If you don't hear from me, nothing has changed. I'm very sorry." Then the woman disconnected.

  The phone was cold in her hand. Her chest was tight. She couldn't breathe. Missing? What did that mean? Was he half-dead somewhere, waiting to die? Lying in the woods like his father had, unable to do anything but watch the ominous approach of death? That was what he'd feared, more than death itself. "Dammit!" She lurched to her feet, anger racing through her. How could that man, that vibrant, passionate man be out there somewhere, lost and dying?

  He wasn't going to die alone. He wasn't! She grabbed her phone and dialed Astrid's number.

  Her friend didn't answer.

  "Astrid. It's Emma. I need Harlan's email address. Whatever you have. Now." She hung up, and called Clare. No answer there either. "Dammit!"

  Why hadn't she gotten Harlan's email or phone number before? Why? Because she hadn't wanted to stay connected to him. But now, the thought of him trapped and dying out there, somewhere, alone...i
t was agonizing.

  She knew what it was like to be alone, so alone that the very air itself was oppressive, crushing down until it became impossible to breathe. Almost frantic now, she scrolled through her phone, hoping against hope that maybe she had his contact information in there from the past. From before she knew him. But there was nothing listed for Harlan Shea.

  Dammit!

  She pressed the phone to her forehead, trying to think. Had he called her? She didn't think he had, but she scrolled through her recent calls, just to see. No missed calls from a number she didn't recognize…then she saw an outgoing call to a number she didn't know. A call that was made at six thirty-three on the morning Harlan had left, after spending the night with her. At six thirty-three, she'd still been asleep, and her phone had been by her bed. He'd used her phone!

  Elation rushing through her, she hit "send" on the phone, but all she got was a weird buzzing and then a dial tone.

  Dammit! She quickly checked her email. Incoming emails. Nothing. Sent emails—

  The first sent email was one she hadn't sent. No subject line. No content. The email address was one she didn't recognize, a random assortment of letters and numbers that meant nothing.

  But it had been sent at six thirty-four on that same morning, one minute after that phone call. For a long moment, she stared at it, hope rushing through her. Had Harlan sent it to himself so that he had her email address? Or had he emailed someone else?

  She stared at the phone for a minute, then typed a couple letters into an email and sent it to that address. She waited, but received no error message in return. The email address was valid. Who was it? Was it his email address? Someone else's?

  It didn't matter.

  If there was any chance that it was Harlan's, she was going to use it.

  She sat down cross-legged in the middle of the dock and started to type.

  * * *

  Harlan. I just got the call that you're missing. Wherever you are, whatever is happening to you, I'm thinking of you. You aren't alone. I promise you're not. Emma.

  * * *

  She didn't know what else to write, so she just hit send and then set the phone down. Her hands were shaking. But she'd done it. He would have his phone with him. He would check his email. He would know—

  Her phone buzzed that she had an email. Her heart leaping, she grabbed for it...and saw that both emails to that address had been returned as undeliverable.

  Chapter 8

  Harlan couldn't breathe.

  The pain was too great. Cracked rib. Was his lung punctured? Not good.

  He couldn't see. His eyes were burning.

  He tried to crawl, but his body wouldn't work.

  Rocks dug into his palms. Tore at his fingers. He dug into the wet dirt and tried to shove his hand into a crevice in the rock. Tried to pull himself a little farther. Just a little farther—

  He lost his grip and fell, skidding farther down the rocky cliff. He hit the rocks below and couldn't move. His body was numb. His hip was screaming in agony. The rain was cold and relentless, like a thousand needles piercing his flesh. Mud washed beneath him, streaming down the side of the mountain.

  He lay there, in the mud, in the pounding rain, unable to save his own damn ass.

  Just like his father.

  "Emma," he managed to whisper, his voice raw. He moved his left hand, trying to touch the tattoo on his wrist, but he couldn't reach it. Exhausted, he let his arms fall back into the mud. His thoughts went back to Emma, to the only thing he wanted to think about. He could see her blond hair spread over the pillow as he'd left her that morning. He could remember it so vividly that it still felt like it had been merely hours since he'd been with her. The curve of her bare shoulder. The scent of their lovemaking, combined with that barely-there fragrance of her hair. Some sort of flower that reminded him of spring. The innocence and sweetness of her face as she slept.

  Walking away from her had been the hardest fucking thing he'd ever done. All he'd wanted to do was bury himself in her and cement himself into her soul until she lived and breathed for him. But he'd left, because that was their deal, and because he belonged out here, not in some life he couldn't deliver on.

  But now, as he lay here rotting away, he realized it wasn't enough, what he'd gotten from her. The taste had been intoxicating and addictive, making him want to be the man he wasn't, the man he could never be, not for her, and not for anyone.

  He'd walked away from her, knowing that he'd just gotten as close to heaven as he was ever going to get...and now...he was going to die out here in this fucking isolated stretch of hell.

  Did she know? Did she care? What would she do when Renée called her?

  But even as he thought about the fact that he had someone out there who would get the call, who would notice when he was gone, who would take care of his body after he died, there was no relief.

  Emma was his wife, but in name only. She would honor his death, but not feel it in her heart.

  Son of a bitch.

  It wasn't enough.

  He was going to die, and it wasn't fucking enough. He wanted to matter. Not to just anyone. He wanted to matter to her. And that made him the most selfish son of a bitch ever. He wanted to matter to her, so she would cry for him? He was a true bastard.

  He was still the same as his father, and what he'd done with Emma wasn't going to change that fact, no matter how many damn times he replayed their lovemaking in his mind or called her his wife. He'd been a fool to think he could change who he was, to become a man other than the one he was destined to be.

  His breath started to gurgle, and he knew he was out of time.

  He was going to die alone, and he grimly realized that was the way it was supposed to be. "Emma," he said, his voice raw with the effort of speaking. "I release you from your promise."

  It was done. This story was over.

  * * *

  Three weeks had passed since the call.

  Three excruciating weeks.

  There had been no word about Harlan.

  Astrid had been horrified when Emma had told her about the call from Harlan's business, and she'd sent repeated emails to Harlan, but received no answer. She'd even relented and given his email address to Emma, and she'd sent emails, too.

  No replies.

  In the last year, he'd never once replied to an email sent to that address, and Emma had a feeling he never checked it. The fact he hadn't responded didn't mean he was dead. He could be alive. Or not. The uncertainty haunted her night and day. Was he alive, dead, or suffering terribly somewhere? She couldn't shake the pulsating sense of fear that stalked her at every moment.

  It was unnerving, how she was reacting to his disappearance. She didn't know him and had married him with the intention of never seeing him again. The situation was playing out exactly as he had predicted, so she should be fine, or even relieved. But instead, there was a dark cloud of uncertainty, fear, and raw grief following her around. She couldn't stop thinking of him dying somewhere. Alone.

  She knew what alone was. Alone had haunted her for the first twenty-five years of her life, until marriage to Preston had finally showed her that going through life alone, which she'd always thought was hell, could actually be the greatest solace that existed. Alone meant no Preston, no one to rule her, no one to control her. She'd learned it too late, because her fear of being alone had been what had driven her into the arms of the man who had done his best to destroy her.

  Alone was her safety now, but that didn't change the fact that there were days when it was no longer a relief, and instead plunged her into a darkness so penetrating that it seemed to suck the life from her soul, make her heart bleed, and strip her of the courage to take even one more step. Before she'd connected with Harlan, she'd been surviving in her shell, but now that she'd had her night with him, now that her name was etched beside his on a marriage certificate, now that she'd known what it was like to truly connect with someone, alone seemed to have retreated back
to what it used to be. Too dark. Too haunting. Too agonizing. Was that the kind of alone that Harlan had faced before he died? Or that he was facing in that exact moment?

  No one deserved that. Not Harlan. Not Mattie. No one.

  Except maybe Preston, she thought with a small smile.

  Not that she had time to dwell, she reminded herself as she gripped her steering wheel, heading toward her cabin. The summer Shakespeare festival was only two days away, and the town was running on all cylinders trying to get everything in shape for the tourists who would descend for the week. The field at the rec center had been cleared of soccer nets to make room for the carnival. The town green was already decorated with dozens of tents for the local businesses. Emma, Clare, and Astrid usually shared a tent to sell Emma's art, Astrid's jewelry, and Clare's cupcakes, but this year, now that Clare's cupcake store was going strong, she had the tent next door to herself, and was paying Katie and Brooke, the teen queens, to help her run it.

  Birch Crossing was alive with energy and fire, tearing Emma from her unsettling emotions about Harlan. Chloe had arranged for Emma to bring Mattie to the carnival on the last day, and Emma was excited about that. It wasn't a foster test or anything, just a field trip with a favorite teacher, but she knew it would make Mattie happy, and that was a start.

  But Emma did have a home study scheduled in less than twenty-four hours, where a social worker would stop by and interview Emma and inspect her home. She had to pass the home study in order to get approved to adopt or even foster, and she was becoming increasingly nervous about it...especially the fact that she had a husband who had never lived there.

  Just as the oppression seemed to settle in, however, she saw a stream of trucks driving toward her on the winding road. Her mood lifted immediately as she watched the caravan with the carnival rides pass by the town green, heading in the opposite direction than she was driving. Suddenly, she was flooded with years of memories about the carnival, all the wonderful times she and Clare had shared sneaking onto rides, begging for free cotton candy, and spying on all the actors while they were practicing their lines. The last truck had the painted horses of the carousel, and she grinned at the sight of it. She and Clare had ridden that merry-go-round a hundred times every summer until they were eighteen, the summer Clare had gotten married.