Husband Found

by Martha Shields

  She pressed her lips together and searched his eyes. Though they were dark, the soul behind them wasn’t. He’d kept his word about not touching her while they worked, though she sometimes caught a look of longing on his face. He’d also kept his word about not telling Gabe he was his father.

  “I’m a lousy coach,” she said. “And I can’t pitch. The kids need you.”

  He didn’t move. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  Damn the man. Why did he always have to push?

  “Do you want the job or not?” she asked.

  “Not unless you trust me not to do whatever it was you were afraid I was going to do.”

  She wanted to cross her arms over her stomach, but knew the body language would belie the words she had to utter. Could she actually say the word trust? It hadn’t been in her vocabulary for such a long, long time. “I do.”

  “You do what?”

  “Trust you.” She squeezed the ball in her hand so hard she thought it might bust a seam. Then she added, “To coach the T-ball team.”

  He lifted a brow. “I guess that’s a start.”

  She held out the ball.

  His eyes didn’t leave hers. “I want you to know that I didn’t come today to take over. I came because my son wanted me to watch.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m not Borg, Emma.”

  She frowned. “I suppose Momma told you about that.”

  He shrugged. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” She took a step closer and handed him the ball. “You’re not taking control. I’m giving it to you.”

  His smile made her knees threaten to buckle. “I’ll take the job on one condition.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What?”

  “You coach with me.”

  She frowned and tossed a hand to where kids ran around the infield like zoo animals that had just been released from their cages. “You’ve seen how good I am at this.”

  He shrugged. “I need you, Emma. I may have the know-how, but I don’t have the legs. I can tell them how to chase down a ball, but I can’t show them how to do it. You can. Together we can do it.”

  She held his gaze for a long moment, both hoping and fearing to find the meaning she heard in his words. Finally she said softly, “Okay.”

  His smile deepened the lines around his eyes. He tossed the ball in the air and caught it with a snap of his wrist, then limped around the fence and called, “Let’s play ball!”

  Emma didn’t glance up from the computer when Rafe pushed the apartment door open. After he spent several minutes whistling as he stood in various points around the room, however, her curiosity got the best of her.

  She swiveled around to see him with a hammer in one hand and a frame in the other. He was holding the frame against the wall, as if judging how it would look.

  “What are you hanging?” she asked.

  He cocked his head. “A picture. How does it look here?”

  She finally stood. “How can I say, when I don’t even—”

  She stopped abruptly as she saw what he’d framed. It was the angel picture she’d drawn years ago. The lined yellow paper, worn and dirty, was made even dingier by the gold-painted wood of the new frame.

  She folded her arms across her stomach. “Why did you waste your money on that old thing?”

  “This ‘old thing’ means a lot to me.” He handed it to her, then drew a nail from his shirt pocket. “It’s about time I protected it, instead of carrying it around in my wallet.”

  As he pounded in the nail, Emma stared down at the lines she’d drawn so long ago while daydreaming about her lover. Though cartoonish, she’d captured the contrast of Rafe’s rakish expression on an angel’s body.

  The picture meaning so much to him that he’d go to the trouble and expense of getting it framed shouldn’t mean so much to her. It shouldn’t make her feel breathless or cause her heart to ache. But it did.

  Rafe reached for the frame, and Emma laid it in his hand without meeting his eyes, then returned to the computer.

  “‘...I will myself tell the name of the knight whose lance occasioned my falling: it was the Knight of Ivanhoe; nor was there—’”

  “He’s asleep.”

  Emma’s quiet comment brought Rafe out of twelfth-century England to find her green eyes on him. He glanced down at Gabe, who’d nodded off, curled against his side.

  Moved beyond words at the innocent, trusting warmth of his son, Rafe smoothed back a lock of Gabe’s dark hair. Believing for so long he’d never have moments like this made each one infinitely precious.

  “I’m boring him,” he said without taking his eyes off his son. “I’ve been paraphrasing most of the description, but I guess he’s just too young for this now.”

  “He loved every minute of it,” Emma assured him. “But it’s an hour past his bedtime.”

  Rafe smiled at her ruefully. She’d swiveled around from the computer, and he wondered how long she’d been watching him. “Sorry. I tend to get caught up in the story.”

  Her mouth quirked. “Really?”

  He glanced down at the dog-eared, well-worn copy. “My mother said it was my favorite book when I was a boy. I’ve read it several times while I was...incapacitated. Thanks for letting me share it with Gabe.”

  “I’m not a monster, Rafe.”

  He met her gaze steadily. “I know.”

  “Do you? One could think you’re reading that particular story as an object lesson.”

  “An object lesson? What does that mean?”

  “Ivanhoe is a story about a man who comes back from the dead and has to prove himself so his family will accept him. You don’t see the parallels between Ivanhoe and yourself?”

  He hadn’t. The fact that she’d seen them caused several emotions to hit Rafe in rapid succession. First came delighted surprise at the quick workings of her mind. He’d discovered her intelligence in the weeks they’d been together, and it turned him on.

  Hope rapidly built on the surprise. Her insight proved she thought about him, which turned him on even more.

  Frustration won the round, however, because he realized they were back to the point where she was reading something into everything he did.

  Damn it. What the hell had he done now? For the past week, they’d been getting along better than he’d expected to by this time. He’d believed he was making progress, that she was beginning to trust him. She’d let him coach the T-Ball Tigers, and tonight she’d let him read Gabe his bedtime story.

  Now he felt like he’d barely taken one step forward before she shoved him two steps back.

  “Ivanhoe had to prove he didn’t betray the king,” he said softly. “What do I have to prove?”

  She crossed her arms over her stomach—a sure sign she didn’t want to answer—and stood. “I need to put Gabe to bed.”

  When she stepped over to pick Gabe up, Rafe rose and stretched Gabe out on the couch.

  “What are you doing?” Emma whispered roughly. “I said I’m taking him to bed.”

  “Not yet, you’re not.” He covered the boy with an afghan Sylvia had provided. “You brought this subject up, and we’re going to finish it. But not where we can disturb Gabe.”

  He straightened and gestured toward the door. “After you.”

  She lifted her chin and pressed her lips together. Just when he was about to drag her outside she moved—with obvious reluctance—out the door.

  On the small landing, she wheeled to face him. “Now what?”

  He pulled the door to. “I asked you a question. I expect—and deserve—an answer. What is it I have to prove to you? That I didn’t betray you?”

  She dropped her gaze and stared so hard at a spot on his chest he thought she wasn’t going to answer. Finally she spun around to lean against the flat board railing. “I don’t know.”

  “Then how. will you know when I’ve done it? How will I know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He stepped up
beside her. “That’s a cap-out.”

  She pounded her fists on the railing. “What do you want from me?”

  “You know exactly what I want. I want my son. I want a family. I want...” He reached for her arm, but stopped short of touching her. “I want you to trust me. I want a chance.”

  Emma winced and turned to stare at the branch of the pin oak tree she could touch if she just reached out. But she didn’t reach for it, just like she didn’t reach for Rafe. She hadn’t touched him in over a week—since the day he promised to keep his hands off her—even though there’d been a hundred times when she’d wanted to. She wanted to now. But the branch seemed so far away, and she was afraid of falling.

  “You want me to prove I won’t ever betray you, don’t you?” he asked.

  She pressed her lips together so hard they hurt. That’s exactly what she wanted—to know that if she reached out, she wouldn’t fall.

  “That’s an impossible task, querida. Even Ivanhoe only had to prove he didn’t do something in the past, not that he wouldn’t do it in the future. I can promise I won’t hurt you, but I can’t prove it. Only time can do that.”

  Querida. It seemed like another lifetime when she’d heard him call her that. Her insides used to melt every time he used the endearment which could mean anything from “dear one” to “beloved.” Now they went up in flames.

  “I know,” she told him, her voice cracking. “I just...”

  “Just what?’

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to trust me not to hurt you.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  He sighed heavily. “You can try, can’t you?”

  “How?”

  “Stop thinking of me as the enemy. I’m not here to take Gabe away from you. I’m not here to take over your life. I just want to share it.”

  Hesitantly she turned and searched his eyes in the porch light. How was it possible to feel someone else’s pain so clearly, so deeply? Or was his hurt just an echo of her own?

  She wanted to give him everything he asked for—and more, She wanted to give him the world. But she’d reached out so many times in the past, and every time a piece of herself had gone missing. She was afraid that if she reached out one more time, there wouldn’t be anything of Emma Grey left.

  “Take a chance, querida,” he whispered, stepping so close she could feel his heat, smell his musky warmth. But he didn’t touch her. “Take a chance on me. I won’t hurt you. I swear it. How can I, when you’ve given me so much?”

  She wanted to believe him more than she wanted her heart to take its next beat. But the very strength of her desire frightened her. Trusting him meant risking her heart, meant caring for someone she had no control over.

  On the other hand...

  It also meant living again. It brought hope back into the picture. Hope for the joy she’d once known with him. Hope for love.

  All she had to do was reach out her hand. Such a small step, really. One she could pull back from anytime. Surely she could handle that much.

  Slowly she lifted one trembling hand and placed it on his chest. The muscle jumped beneath her palm.

  He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes as memories assailed him.

  Emma barely noticed, because she was assailed by memories of her own. But her memories weren’t of the confident, cocky, whole young man he’d been. She remembered Rafe from the past few weeks, how patiently he’d waited for her to touch him, to help him regain the parts of himself that he’d lost. She’d turned away from every pleading glance.

  She’d done it to protect herself, but now she knew her selfishness hadn’t worked. He was getting to her. She could tell by how happy it made her to make him so happy.

  Alarmed, she began to withdraw her hand, but he caught it against his chest, pressing it next to his heart. His eyes opened and burned her like smoldering coals. With infinite care he brought her fingers to his lips.

  “Thank you, querida. You won’t be sorry.”

  She hoped to heaven he was right.

  Rafe gently closed the door to his sleeping son’s room. Over the past few nights, they’d gotten into the habit of tucking Gabe into bed together. After Gabe spent an hour or so with them in Rafe’s apartment, Rafe carried him across the drive to the main house and into the room Gabe and Emma still shared. Rafe relished these hours the three of them spent together as a family. There were times when he forgot they weren’t one.

  He glanced down at Emma. “You want to go back to work?”

  She nodded, but yawned as she did. “I need to finish laying out the article on pie safes.”

  “You look tired. Why don’t you—”

  She shook her head and started down the hall. “You’re going to Atlanta next week to talk Coca-Cola into advertising, and you need to show them as much of the magazine as you can. Besides, it’s only nine o’clock.”

  “You two going back over to Rafe’s place?”

  They turned to see Sylvia poking her head out of the living room door. While they worked at night, she caught up on the soaps she recorded during the day.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rafe said.

  “That’s fine: Rafe, Mrs. Martin called a few minutes ago. Said she lost your number. Little Jessica’s sick and won’t be playing tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Sylvia.”

  Sylvia nodded and returned to the living room.

  “That’s too bad,” Rafe said as he opened the back door for Emma. “Jessica catches the ball better than anyone on the team except for Gabe and Randy.”

  Emma threw him a rueful smile. “She talks better than anyone on the team, too.”

  He chuckled. “If we could just, with a clear conscience, teach her to talk trash to the other team, we’d have ourselves the perfect little shortstop.”

  They stepped out into the humid night air. Cicadas and crickets played their wing songs from the trees and grass, and the smell of wisteria climbing up the trellis on the wall perfumed the whole yard.

  Emma brought a bunch of the grapelike flowers to her nose and inhaled deeply. “Mmm. Wisteria smells best at night.”

  “It’s beautiful,” he said, never taking his eyes from her profile.

  “This vine has been growing here all of my life.” She turned to look at him. “Do you remember it?”

  He shook his head.

  She reached her hand out hesitantly, then drew it back.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

  Her hand clenched into a fist “I... is it okay to touch you?”

  His heart gunned like a car engine under a teenager’s heavy foot. “Querida, you can touch me anytime you like. Anywhere you like.”

  She sucked in a quick breath, then slowly extended her hand and laid it on his chest.

  “Are you crazy?” Emma whispered from her window above him.

  Rafe grinned as he reached up for another handhold on the trellis. “Crazy about you. ”

  “Shhh! My father will wake up and kill you—if you don’t fall and kill yourself.”

  A minute later he was at her window.

  She leaned out and caressed his cheek. “We can’t make love tonight. My father is just down the hall He’ll hear us.”

  “All I want is a kiss.”

  “Just one kiss?”

  “Just one. Then I’ll go.”

  “You are crazy,” she breathed, then touched her lips to his.

  Rafe focused on the green eyes that watched him with wonder. “We played Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I couldn’t believe you climbed up there just to give me a kiss,” she whispered.

  “You fussed at me for weeks after that”

  She smiled crookedly. Her voice was husky as she said, “I thought you were the craziest, handsomest, most heroic and romantic man I’d ever met.”

  “And now?”

  “Now?” She frowned and backed away. “Now I have work to do.”

  He watched as she spun and all but ran up the s
teps to his apartment.

  “Coward,” he whispered. But he didn’t know if he was talking to her or to himself.

  Chapter Eight

  “These peaches are heavenly.” They were the first peaches of the summer, and Emma refused to feel guilty as she scooped more of the sugared fruit into her bowl. “Did you get them at the farmers’ market?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “Rafe brought them in.”

  Emma glanced across the table. “I forgot. You were always crazy about peaches. Where’d you find them? Someone selling them on the side of the road?”

  Rafe shook his head. “Jay brought them to me. He and his family went canoeing in Arkansas this past weekend.”

  Emma hesitated with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Jay came to see you again?”

  “This afternoon.”

  She frowned. “That’s the third time in a week. I guess he wanted the same old thing?”

  “Yes.” Rafe smiled ruefully across the table. “This time he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  Suddenly her appetite for peaches vanished. Her spoon clattered as she dropped it into her bowl. “You’re going back to work for the paper?”

  “Not really.” He scraped the last bit of juice from his second helping. “Just freelance. I’m going to write an article on Memphis history twice a month for the Sunday issue.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “He thinks if he can squeeze your foot in the door, he can drag you all the way in.”

  Rafe shrugged. “He can think what he likes. I agreed because I thought it’d be a great way to get my name out there to promote Southern Yesteryears.”

  “I see,” Emma murmured. Though she’d averted her eyes, she could feel his gaze on her.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” She stood suddenly and picked up her dishes. “Time to clean up the kitchen.”

  Rafe pushed his chair back. “I’ll help.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Sylvia told him. “We can handle this.”

  “Yes.” Emma stopped at the swinging door, glad she’d dismissed her son from the table five minutes earlier. For some reason Rafe’s news had felt like a punch in her gut, and she needed time to figure out why. The mindless task of cleaning up the supper dishes was perfect for thinking, but only if she did it alone. She’d already discovered, much to her chagrin, that she didn’t do a lot of productive thinking when Rafe was close by. “Gabe’s probably already back with Randy. I’m sure they’re waiting for you to hit them some grounders like you promised.”