by Unknown
The weather was getting colder every day and she had to keep warm, but how was she going to light that monstrosity?
Emma peered behind the stove and found a wood box stacked with split wood. In one end were stuffed papers, magazines, and some kindling. Okay. Might as well try it, she decided. It’s either that or freeze.
Wadding up old newspaper, she pulled open the protesting door at the front of the stove. A cloud of cold ashes puffed out into her face, nearly choking her. She coughed, glaring at the stove, and then knelt and shoved a wad of paper inside. Adding several pieces of kindling, she studied the mound with satisfaction, and then grimaced when she noticed the smear of greasy black soot down her forearm. Wiping at it, she managed to smear the soot on both hands as well and stopped herself from wiping her palms down the sides of her slacks.
“Okay, matches,” she murmured, peering around the stove. She found a box balanced on the edge of the wood box. “Not a good place,” she said, deciding the bookshelf to the right of the stove was probably better.
She closed the matchbox and drew a deep breath. Now the test. Squatting on her heels, she struck a match and held it to the far corner of a piece of newspaper, hoping it would flame enough for the wood to catch fire.
Hadn’t Lully realized the virtues of a furnace and automatic thermostat? Hot: rotate down. Cold: twist up. So simple. Surely putting a unit and ductwork at least on the main floor wouldn’t have been too difficult. There was certainly plenty of room in the basement.
The corner of the newspaper turned black and the flame fizzled out.
“Okay, not successful. Try again.”
Gismo padded into the parlor to investigate; after seeing what Emma was doing, he immediately retreated.
“No faith, mutt,” Emma muttered.
She struck a second match. Again the paper sizzled, and then fizzled out.
She looked up, wondering about the next step.
“Ah-ha!” She spied a can of charcoal lighter fluid behind the wood box. Apparently Lully had encountered the same stubborn lighting problem.
Emma grabbed the can and flipped the lid open, wincing at the strong odor that wafted out. Squirting a couple of hefty squeezes over the kindling, she hesitated a moment as she read the label. This stuff was highly flammable. That was good—to a point. At least something would catch fire.
She struck another match and flung it into the belly of the beast. Nothing. She leaned closer. What’s wrong with this stupid thing? Finally one end of the newspaper turned brown, like the outside coating of a marshmallow exposed to extreme heat. Then it turned black. Suddenly, the fire exploded in a burst of red-hot flame.
Emma rocked back on her heels, and then sprawled on the floor, the stench of singed hair burning her nose. Frantically, she patted her scorched eyebrows and hair around her face.
Coming to her senses, she quickly slammed the stove door and ran to the bedroom, where she peered anxiously into the wavy mirror over the vanity. Even in the murky glass she could easily see her blackened face framed by singed hair.
Emma closed her eyes in defeat. Lully, I can’t do this! What on earth were you thinking? This is no treasure! It’s purgatory!
“How does it feel to be part owner of the old Mansi Mansion?”
Sam Gold turned a page of the report he was reading before answering his brother. “You plan to get a lot of mileage out of this, don’t you?”
Ken Gold leaned against the door frame of Sam’s office with a mischievous grin on his face. Tall and muscular, Ken was a physical match for his older brother and rumored to have broken about as many hearts over the years.
“You a little surprised by Lully’s will?”
“Surprised isn’t quite the word,” Sam admitted, leaning back in his chair. “Lully and I’d kind of come to a truce over the years and I kept an eye on the place, chased off that pack of young hoodlums who kept harassing her—”
“And half the town.”
“Yeah. But I never expected her to do something like this.” Lully had always been eccentric and unpredictable. She’d always had her own reasons for doing things.
“I was surprised it was so easy to find Emma,” Ken mused.
“She went straight to Seattle from here,” Sam said. “Sent Lully that card after she turned eighteen to let her know she was okay. She never moved again.”
“Humph. A nester.”
A nester. Sam’s insides turned over when he thought of Emma.
“Guess so.” He leaned back and knit his fingers behind his head. “You never knew what Lully was going to do, but you could always predict Emma’s reactions.”
“Except for the time she ran away.”
“Except for that,” Sam amended.
“I didn’t think Lully ever heard from Emma.”
“She didn’t often. But Lully told me she kept sending Emma notes and Emma wrote every few years.”
“If you knew where she was—” Ken began.
“Leaving was her choice.”
“But you’re glad she’s back.”
“Mind your own business, baby brother.” Sam reached for his hat. “I’m going out for some decent coffee.”
He left the office and strode across the street and into the café. Coffee was on his mind, but he needed fresh air and a change of subject more. And, if he’d admit it, time to sort through feelings he thought he’d dealt with years ago. Right now they were a tangle of contradictions, so logically, he should let her go. But logic had nothing to do with his feelings for her—and those were back in full force.
At seventeen he’d surrendered his intense feelings for her in what he thought was a selfless act. Broke, underage, without a future at that point, he had been forced to bend to the decisions of others.
Now he knew that Lully had been right to oppose the marriage. He had a lot of growing up to do, and so had Emma. Lully had known that Emma needed security—security he couldn’t provide then. Now he could, but it didn’t matter. Emma had built a new life and it had nothing to do with him.
Fifteen years ago the only thing he could have offered her was the starry-eyed hormonal blitz of a seventeen-year-old boy. That wasn’t good enough for Emma. Now he knew that. Even then he’d wanted more for her than he could provide. But he’d wanted her so much he ached. When Lully and his mother stopped their plans to marry, he’d been furious. Though his job prospects were few, and not another person thought they would make it, he knew they would have. They would have grown up together, had kids. It would have been hard. There would have been rough times, but the passing years had only served to convince Sam that there was only one woman, one other soul so perfect, so in tune with his soul that she couldn’t be replaced.
For Sam, that woman was Emma Mansi.
When Emma had turned seventeen and disappeared, it hurt him. For years he hadn’t been able to find her. Lully wouldn’t help; she contended she didn’t know Emma’s whereabouts, but deep down he had known differently. Lully was protecting Emma, and at the time he couldn’t say that he blamed her. His head knew it was for the best, but his heart twisted at every thought of her. Eventually he’d joined the Marines and left Serenity.
The years had given him a better perspective on life, on everything but what he’d done to Emma. Some part of him still hoped Emma would one day return, so he’d come back after his father died and after a while settled into the job of sheriff. He pushed Emma out of his thoughts; at least he tried. He’d hoped to marry, start a family but that never happened. Every time he thought he’d found the right woman, something got in the way. Now he knew it was Emma. None of the women he’d been serious about had been Emma.
When Lully died and Emma was forced back to Serenity, faith stirred. Maybe, just maybe, God was finally answering his prayers. He’d hoped the years had softened the edge of the abandonment he knew Emma felt, hoped she would feel different toward him. But that was clearly not the case. The cold condemnation in her eyes when she looked at him confirmed his conviction.
She still resented him, and pigs would fly before she forgave him.
Ken was hanging up the phone when Sam walked back into the office thirty minutes later. “Kids have been vandalizing the cemetery again.”
“Who called it in?” Sam tossed his hat toward the hat rack and grinned when it hit dead-on and hung there.
“Edna Pierson had been to visit her husband’s grave early and found the headstone overturned.”
Small towns seemed to have a problem with teenage boys raring to make some kind of commotion. Not always real trouble, though often it bordered on serious, but enough to keep the townspeople stirred up. Things like overturned tombstones.
Ken shook his head. “What is the attraction in turning over tombstones?”
Sam smiled. “Didn’t we ever do something that weird?”
“Privy tipping isn’t in the same category,” Ken argued and followed Sam into his office. “It’s a shame we can’t catch the culprits. We both know who’s responsible.”
“Yeah but we’ve got to catch them at it or we don’t have a case.” They both knew the Coleman boys were responsible, and a couple of others were suspect. But Don and Brice Coleman could be held responsible for more than cemetery vandalism. They’d been suspected of putting sugar in gas tanks, stealing porch furniture, breaking gazing balls and windows at the school, and stealing hubcaps. For years these teenage nuisances had driven people to the end of their ropes, but nothing could be proven. Once they’d learned to drive, they’d collected a surprising number of speeding tickets.
Their father, Jack Coleman, had walked out a few years back, and the mother couldn’t control her three boys. She quit trying when Sam and Ken hauled them home at least once a week. It wasn’t right, and Sam was about to lose patience with the situation.
“I’ll call someone to reset the stone.”
Ken nodded. “I told Edna we’d take care of it.” He sat down in the chair by Sam’s desk, leaned back, propped one foot against the corner of the desk, and winced at the protesting squeak. “What are you going to do with the house?”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t know. This could be a godsend, Ken. With my part of the money we could take care of Mom.” Sam didn’t want the house. It was about to fall down and the town did need a new parking lot. “I think Emma’s going to fight me on this—she’s mentioned a tearoom.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, she thinks the town needs some class.”
“I’d settle for a decent parking spot.” Ken grinned. “What are you going to do? The mayor is chomping at the bit to get his hands on that property. You could make a sizable chunk if you wanted to hold out long enough.”
“It’s not a bad idea. Keep the mayor chomping and give Emma time to cool on this tearoom business.”
Ken glanced at the files on Sam’s desk. “Can you hold the mayor off that long?”
“Can you keep a tiger from fresh meat?” Sam shrugged. “I’ll do my best, but I won’t push Emma into something she doesn’t want, money or no money. If she gets her head set on a tearoom, then—”
“Then what?”
“I’ll walk that road when I come to it. Meanwhile I’ll try to talk some sense into her. The town will be better off if the cemetery is relocated to a new plot. It would take the house and lot to make a decent-size parking area.”
If Emma stayed in Serenity with this bitterness between them, it would bode trouble for him. He couldn’t see her every day and know that one day she’d find someone, marry, and have a family. He’d have to leave—
“A haunted parking lot.” Ken grinned. “Old Ezra Mott spooking our cars?”
Sam scowled at him. “Those stories are ridiculous. Besides, Ezra would be moved with the rest of the gravestones to the new lot.” When Sam had been elected sheriff five years ago, he crossed paths with Lully on a professional basis more than he wanted. There was always some kind of nuisance call to the “spook house.” Lully would call the office four or five times in any given week and report trouble. There had been rocks thrown through the front window, odd noises coming from the basement, black cats bound in tow sacks put on the porch. The complaints were varied and endless; with these kinds of nuisances happening on a regular basis, it was understandable that she would be a recluse.
“Lully’s remains are there.”
“I’ve thought of that and I’m going to talk to Emma tonight.”
“Now that should be interesting.”
Sam stared into his coffee cup. “Not looking forward to it.”
Emma could be headstrong, and he had a feeling she was going to dig in her heels about selling. She could dig in all she wanted, but the only smart thing to do was sell the house.
Ken chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Still got it bad for her, haven’t you?”
“Let’s not start that again.”
“You’ve been staring into that cup for fifteen minutes. Never thought cold coffee was that interesting.”
Ignoring his brother, Sam set the cup on top of the file cabinet and sat down at his desk. Sometimes Ken knew him too well.
“Admit it. Those same ole feelings for Emma are creeping back.”
Sam gave him a dark look and got up again. Sometimes working with family wasn’t as great as it seemed to be. The two had been hired as deputies together under the old administration. As soon as Sheriff Willard retired and Sam was elected, he’d named Ken his chief deputy. He could trust Kenny like no one else, and he wanted him by his side in the tough situations. They might disagree upon occasion, but they’d always been close. They’d played football together and gotten into a few scrapes with the local authorities, nothing serious. Ken had sat silently with him when their mother, who ruled her household and the town with an iron hand, threatened to send him to military school if he saw Emma Mansi again. And it was Ken who listened to him rail at how unfair it was when Emma ran away from Serenity before he could tell her about the threat. Settling his Stetson on his head, Sam said quietly, “Someone’s been stealing cattle from the Harrison place. I’ll be up there this afternoon if you need me.”
Ken grinned. “Coward.”
Giving him another dark look, Sam left the office, knowing Ken was right.
He was running.
Chapter Six
The foyer clock chimed seven as Emma made one last check of her hair and lipstick in the mirror before answering Sam’s knock. She’d managed to trim her singed hair with a pair of dull scissors she’d found, but the stench of scorched locks was still in her nose. Nervous stomach butterflies made her feel nauseated, but she kept reminding herself she wasn’t fifteen anymore.
A rush of frigid air swept her when she opened the door. Sam hunched inside an all-weather coat, the sheepskin collar turned up around his ears. Miniature snowflakes danced around him in the cold air.
She motioned him inside.
For a moment, Sam almost wished he hadn’t come. Seeing her in this house brought back a rush of memories. She didn’t look like the shy fifteen year old who had taught him what loving someone meant. The wide-eyed innocent gaze had been replaced with a cold direct stare of mistrust. The silent accusation hurt. To think that she didn’t trust him anymore, couldn’t trust him, made him—what? Angry? A little, but he was responsible for the reaction. Should he confront her or ignore the look? What if he reached out and drew her to him, held her for a moment … ?
Sam entered the foyer, removing the Stetson and shaking the snow from it. He met Emma’s distant look. “Looks like winter’s come especially early this year, but it’s warm enough in here,” he said.
Heat radiating from the woodstove in the parlor was more than doing its job of warming the downstairs. In fact, the parlor was hot as blue blazes in spite of everything Emma had tried to regulate the heat. If she opened the vents wide, heat poured out in waves, engulfing the downstairs rooms in desert like heat, but if she closed the openings, the stove sat there almost quivering with the nee
d to expel the heat, which scared her. A north wind howled and freezing air wafted across the floor from the cracks under the door and around the windows. So she elected to have the stove vents ajar and opened every window an inch. It was a strange way to regulate the heat, but it worked.
“Can I take your coat?”
Sam shrugged out of the heavy parka, and Emma hung it in the small closet in the hall. She led him into the parlor. He frowned, his gaze going immediately to the open window, where the cold wind flapped the heavy drapes.
Emma smiled lamely. “I haven’t quite gotten the hang of operating the stove.” She cleared her throat and motioned toward the worn sofa. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Thanks. No.”
He sat down, rigid as a poker. She hoped they could settle the issue of the house quickly; the tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Bickering like two-year-olds wouldn’t get them anywhere.
Taking a wooden straight-backed chair opposite him, she tried to appear at ease but failed. When the conversation lagged, she cleared her throat. “Have you given the tearoom any thought?”
“I have.”
This was good. Excitement welled about an idea that had at first
seemed illogical, but he now seemed willing to consider.
Nodding, she admitted. “So have I. We’ll need to paint, hang new draperies, maybe something in a pretty shell pink and mint spring green. I’m sure I can find matching tablecloths and china—”
“No tearoom, Emma.”
She thought she hadn’t heard him correctly, and then her eyes narrowed. How dare he make that kind of statement without discussing it? “Why not?”
“Because a pink-and-green tearoom—in this town, would be about as smart as building a glass house at the end of the Purgatory ski run.” His gaze met hers directly. “We sell the house and split the profits.”