Edge of Heaven (The McRae's, Book 2 - Emma) (The McRae's Series)

by Teresa Hill

  Edge of Heaven

  The McRae's Series

  Book 2

  by

  Teresa Hill

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-202-4

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 2001, 2012 by Teresa Hill. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  For my editor, Cecilia Oh, because she makes time lines so I can keep the dates straight in my own stories. And because she wasn't afraid of Emma and Rye.

  Chapter 1

  He got into town just before dawn, having driven all night. Once he'd decided to go, he'd gotten into his truck and left, not wanting time to think about giving into this impulse one more time.

  There was a note on the seat of the pickup with directions to the town and an address, but Rye didn't need to look at them. He'd memorized them long before he'd found the courage to come.

  He wasn't sure what he was going to say once he got there. He usually played it by ear, and so far, it hadn't been too difficult to find out what he wanted to know. The hard part had been making himself keep searching.

  It started snowing on I-75 in the mountains in Tennessee and kept it up the whole way to the tiny town of Baxter, Ohio, on the banks of the Ohio River just west of Cincinnati.

  There were 8,436 people living here, according to the sign on the edge of town, which also bragged about being the home of an artist named Richard Landon, who made, of all things, snow globes.

  Rye shook his head over that. A town would have to be pretty hard up for things to brag about to mention a man who made kids' toys.

  But it was pretty here, like something out of a wintry postcard. The streets of downtown were wide, the sidewalks broad, many of the old brick storefronts preserved intact, everything neat and polished. There was an honest-to-goodness town square, an old courthouse behind it, a block of streets surrounding it with a parklike setting in the middle.

  He turned into a neighborhood of Victorians, late 1800s, three stories, high-pitched roofs, stained-glass windows, wide porches. As someone who worked in construction, he couldn't help but admire the workmanship that had gone into restoring them.

  He drove slower and slower, the closer he got. If he wasn't careful someone would call the law on him, and that was the last thing he needed.

  Finally, he saw it. No. 12. Maybe the prettiest house on the street. A soft gray with touches of blue on the trim and in the exquisitely beautiful stained glass in the windows and the panels of the front door.

  There was money here. He frowned even more.

  There was a pretty sign in stained glass hanging from the mailbox that said, McRae Construction, Props. Sam and Rachel McRae.

  Yeah, this was it.

  He parked on the opposite side of the street, cut the engine and the lights, and sat there, snow falling softly all around him, the neighborhood just starting to stir.

  What now?

  Knock on the door?

  It was too early for that.

  But soon lights started coming on inside the house, one by one, upstairs first and then down. A car came by, driving slowly, and the morning paper was hurled onto the front lawn. The front door of the house opened. A dark-haired man in worn jeans and a faded gray sweatshirt came outside and retrieved the paper. What was he? Early forties? Late thirties? That would be about right.

  Not five minutes later, a taxi stopped in front of the house. Doors to the taxi and the house were thrown open. The man came back out. He must have been watching and waiting himself.

  A woman climbed out of the taxi and ran to him, throwing her arms around him. He picked her up and spun her around in a circle before lowering her to her feet and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. They were both laughing.

  It looked like she'd been gone a while.

  The man picked up her bag to go inside, but she stood there for a minute staring up at the house like she'd been absolutely aching to see it.

  Someone was home.

  Rye wondered if he ever would be again.

  * * *

  Emma sat hunched down in the backseat of the taxi, her cheek pressed against the cold of the window, careful the whole way not to make eye contact with the driver.

  She'd done a hasty makeup job on the train ride home from Chicago, hoping to keep the worst of the last twenty-four hours from showing on her face—because she didn't want to talk about it. Not yet. It was still too raw. She was still shaking too much. Later, once she'd calmed down and had a chance to think it through, she'd tell.

  She came down the snow-covered street to find the house waiting for her like the sanctuary it had proven to be. The people inside of it had opened up their arms to her and her brother and sister and given them what they'd desperately needed—a home, a place to belong.

  She'd never been afraid here. Never. She was counting on that now.

  The taxi parked by the curb. Emma grabbed her hastily packed bag, paid the driver, and climbed out. The front door of the house opened and Sam stood there. She ran across the snow to him. He caught her in his arms and lifted her off the ground, swinging her around like he used to do when she was younger.

  It hurt. She tried not to let that show, then feared she'd start to cry. She pressed a hand to her mouth, somehow turning a near sob into laughter, which made the tears all right. Sam understood. She could see it in his face as he brushed a kiss across her cheek.

  "God, Em, I didn't think you'd ever get home."

  "I'm sorry. I should have come home for Thanksgiving. I missed you all so much."

  "It's all right," Sam said.

  They'd tried so hard to let her be on her own now that she was in college. The freedom had been heady at first, but on the back of that came the realization of how terribly hard it was to be so far away from all of them.

  "I wish I'd come sooner," she said, fighting the urge to pour out the whole sad story to him. "It's felt like forever since I've been home."

  "For us, too, Em."

  She eased away from him, the side of her face throbbing. She was afraid she hadn't managed to hide the bruise, but Sam didn't say anything. Good. She'd bought herself some time.

  Emma looked up at the house and forced herself to smile like nothing was wrong. "Where is everybody? Still asleep?"

  "No. Not today. Let's get you and your bags inside, and I'll tell you what
's going on."

  * * *

  Rye drove around town, had breakfast, killed some time thinking about his options.

  This Sam McRae was in construction, probably a small contractor if his business was based out of the house. Rye could ask about a job. He had the experience. It would probably get him in the door, give him a chance to talk to the man. That's all it had taken before. A little conversation, a few subtle questions, and he'd known he was in the wrong place.

  But as he drove back to the house, he saw the man come outside again, another suitcase in his hand. The man hugged the woman for a long time, then got into a big SUV and left.

  Should he follow him? Or stay right here?

  One thing about getting the urge to do this at Christmas—people tended to go away. This was the third time he'd gone looking for a man named Sam McRae, and he was surprised he hadn't found people leaving before this.

  He sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking about Christmas at some motel in this little town waiting for the man to come back. It wasn't a very pretty picture, but then Christmas hadn't been for years.

  Why couldn't everyone just work through the holiday? He always found himself at loose ends, with time off and nothing to do. Then he'd pull out his list, think about trying to cross one more name off it.

  What the hell? 'Tis the season.

  It had become one of searching for him.

  A phone call to every man on the list would probably have done the job. But what if the Sam McRae he was looking for didn't particularly want to be found? He didn't think he'd trust a voice on the other end of the phone who simply said, No, he wasn't that Sam McRae.

  And hell, once Rye knew what the man was like, he might not want to have anything to do with him. So he came in person. It was safer this way, gave him some sense of control. He wanted to know a little about the man first. To know what he was getting into, whether it would be worth the trouble. Honestly, he didn't see how it could be, but still at Christmastime he kept climbing into his truck and taking off with his list.

  Looking toward the house once again, he saw that the woman was still standing on the porch, her arms wrapped around herself to ward off the chill, and she was staring at him.

  Well, hell, he thought. She'd seen him, and there was really no reason to put this off any longer. First steps were always the hardest. He'd take one right now. Obviously the woman and Sam McRae were very close. He'd see what he could find out from her.

  He climbed out of the truck and slowly made his way up the walk. As he got closer, he realized she was younger than he thought. Early twenties, he'd guess, pretty in a quiet, clean-cut, good-girl kind of way, with dark green eyes and soft brown hair. It hung to the top of her shoulders, curling a bit at the ends. He liked the smoothness of her skin, the clean lines of her face. She seemed too young to be the man's wife, too old to be his daughter.

  "Hi," she said as he stopped at the bottom of the three steps leading up to the porch. "Can I help you?"

  "I hope so. That was Sam McRae, wasn't it?"

  "Yes. You just missed him."

  "Is he going to be back anytime soon?"

  "Not for a week or so, I'm afraid. Something came up unexpectedly. My Aunt Ann... Do you know Ann?"

  "No. Don't think I do." But this one was a talker. It seemed she was going to make it easy for him.

  "She lives near Cleveland, has for years."

  "Oh." As if that explained it. He supposed in a town this small, most people who knew Sam probably knew Aunt Ann, too.

  "She's having a baby. Hopefully not for another three months, but the baby's trying to come early. Rachel and the kids took the train up last night to help out with her other children. Sam left this morning to join them."

  "Oh," he said. "And you must be..."

  "Emma," she said helpfully.

  He frowned. Emma? Was that supposed to mean something to him? Because it didn't. Truth was, he knew next to nothing about Sam McRae of Baxter, Ohio.

  "Sam's my father," she said finally.

  "Oh." It was impolite to ask, to even imply.... But curiosity was getting the better of him. He wondered how he might word the question....

  She rescued him by adding, "Let's say, my father in every way that counts."

  He grinned. "Used to that reaction, huh?"

  She nodded. "When it's just the two of us around people who don't know us, the women look disapproving. The men grin and wink."

  "Yeah, I can see 'em doing that," he said, putting one foot on the bottom step and resting a hand on a column of the porch. "Sorry if I... Well... It's none of my business. I shouldn't have said anything."

  "It's not a problem, really. Sam and Rachel look young to be my biological parents. They are young, and I'm adopted. It's not something we've ever tried to hide."

  And then he couldn't quite help himself one more time. "You don't mind? Being adopted, I mean?"

  "No."

  She gave him an open, honest look that said it would never occur to her to mind in the least. Good for her. Good for Sam McRae for making her feel that way.

  "So, was Sam expecting you? He left me a list of appointments to cancel, but I haven't worked my way through them all yet. They were scrambling to get out of here, and he was afraid he'd forgotten some things."

  "Not an appointment. Not really." He took a chance on lots of things having gotten lost in the shuffle and said, "We'd talked about me doing some work for him, and I thought I'd take a chance and stop by."

  "You're not from here?"

  "No."

  "Well, we don't have to talk about this outside in the cold." She sized him up and must have decided he looked trustworthy. "Why don't you come inside and we'll have some coffee."

  He was torn between taking advantage of the situation and giving her a lecture about how to keep herself safe. But he really wanted inside this house.

  She turned toward the front door. His hand shot out, intending to open it for her, obviously startling her because she jumped and then whirled around.

  They both stopped right there, a little too close for comfort. He was sure he'd blown the whole thing.

  "Sorry, I was just going to get the door for you."

  Once upon a time, in another life, he'd had a mother who'd taken great pains to instill some manners into him. He'd found they worked wonders with women, whether he was trying to impress them or just get them to talk to him. He still used them to this day, something he was sure would come as a surprise to the woman who'd taught him so much. He hadn't laid eyes on her in years.

  "No, I'm the one who's sorry," Emma said. "You just startled me."

  "Look, I can come back another time," he offered. "When Sam's here."

  "Don't be silly. I'll make some coffee and take your name and number, and when Sam calls, I'll tell him you came by."

  Great. He could just imagine how that would go. Guess what, Sam? Guess who's here? He wondered if the name even meant anything to the right Sam McRae anymore.

  "I'll come back," he said. "It's almost Christmas, and—"

  "No, really. Come in." She practically dragged him inside. "Sam said it's been crazy around here. He's got three projects going at once, and nothing coming together the way it should. He wouldn't have left, but Ann's husband wanted to be at the hospital with her and someone needed to take care of their kids. And if something did happen to the baby..." She stopped. "Sorry. More than you need to hear, I'm sure. But you know how much Sam hates letting a customer down."

  "Sure," he said, as if he did know.

  "I'd hate to let you get away when Sam needs help," Emma said, standing next to a little table in the hall that held a phone and a neat stack of papers. She had a list and she seemed to be working her way down it, much in the same way he was. She'd crossed six things off already. "He already warned me about Mrs. Wright, about the party she's having in January, when half her kitchen is still in pieces and her custom cabinets went somewhere out West instead of here, the way they wer
e supposed to. I don't suppose you know anything about cabinets, do you?"

  He shrugged as easily as he could. "I can do anything that needs to be done with marble or granite. Could probably hang cabinets, if I had to. I'm better with brick, and I'm great with rock."

  "Rock?" Emma asked.

  "You know, fireplaces, patios, sidewalks, walls, siding for houses, any kind of decorative stone."

  "Oh. I don't know if Mrs. Wright has any of those or not. We'll ask Sam when he calls."

  "Okay." He figured he'd just have to talk her out of that somehow, but that was for later. For now, he just wanted her to talk.

  He shrugged out of his coat, which she offered to take and hang up. He used the time when her back was turned to study what he could see of the house—gleaming woodwork, polished wood floors, soft yellow walls, and lots of windows draped in lace-panel curtains and floral-print swags.

  It was neat and clean, and it smelled of something he could never have identified by name but just seemed to say "home." There was a big curving staircase to the right, rows of pictures in a pleasing, if haphazard, arrangement up the stairway wall. He was hungry to study each and every one, but she turned around and caught him staring.

  "Great house," he said.

  "Isn't it?" She paused there in the hall in front of the staircase and underneath a small, octagonal window of stained and beveled glass. Morning sun was streaming inside. Dancing across the walls, it caught in her hair and her eyes as she stepped to the right, into the light. It was like she was standing in fairy dust, he thought. Like he'd caught a fairy creature come down to earth.

  As if any creature like that would have anything to do with him.

  He shook his head to dislodge the image, but it stubbornly remained, the dazzling young woman smiling up at him, too accepting and trusting for her own good.

  "The house is more than a hundred years old," she said. "It belonged to Rachel's grandfather, although it was in bad shape when Sam and Rachel came here. You should see some of the pictures. They practically rebuilt it."