Bed of Lies (The McRae's, Book 3 - Zach) (The McRae's Series)

by Teresa Hill

  Grim faced, he asked, "What else did he do?"

  "Nothing."

  "Emma?" He said harshly.

  "Please." She winced at his tone of voice. What was happening to her when nothing but an angry male voice could do this to her?

  He leaned back, giving her some room, and when he spoke again, his voice was deliberately low and measured. "Did you tell Sam?"

  "No," she admitted.

  "Why not?"

  "I will tell him. Just not now. I... It just happened yesterday. I'm still having trouble believing it actually did happen. It's all a big jumble in my head, and I need to sort it out, okay? Can you understand that?"

  "As long as you don't start making excuses for him. Or listening to the pathetic little excuses he'll likely offer."

  "No. I won't. I was on the train a few hours after it happened, and I'm not—" She started to say she wasn't like her mother. Not Rachel, but the woman who'd given birth to her. The one who'd made such disastrous choices in her life. A woman she'd mourned for so long.

  She would have said she had nothing at all in common with her mother, but then her boyfriend had practically thrown her across the room. She shivered, hearing his voice once again, seeing his face. It was like all of a sudden, he'd turned into someone she didn't even know.

  Rye took her cold hands between his warm ones. "Tell me?"

  "I wouldn't even know where to start. It's a long, sad story, one I haven't talked about in years."

  She didn't want him to know, either. She didn't want to see the pity in his eyes. Emma didn't think anyone had pitied her in years. Why would they? She had a terrific life. Two incredibly kind, loving parents. A brother and a sister she loved dearly. Relatives, friends, good grades. She was Miss Responsibility. Strong, capable, smart. She'd been so sure she was all of those things.

  Until this.

  "I just want to sleep," she said, if she could do that without dreaming.

  "Did this jerk hit your head?" Rye asked. "Did you fall down or into something and hit your head?"

  "I hit the floor," she admitted.

  He put his hands on her head, coming close once again. It was okay, she told herself. She wasn't afraid. Not if she closed her eyes and thought of something else.

  She ended up concentrating on the differences between Rye and Mark. Rye had a working man's body, a working man's hands. She's seen it in the subtle flex of muscles in his arms beneath the sleeves of his shirt and felt the slight roughness of his hands. He was warm, and he smelled very, very good. Something plain and strong and masculine, not fussy at all, just good. He moved like a man at ease with himself and his body, and he watched everything around him so carefully, seeming to miss nothing. Either that or he was looking for something. But what could he be looking for from Sam?

  He found the bruise on her head. She winced as he traced the edges of it. "Did you lose consciousness?"

  "No." She frowned. "Not really."

  He tried again. "Everything went black for a moment?"

  "Maybe. I don't know. My head hurts, and I'm tired. But even if I had a concussion, it's been more than twenty-four hours. If I was really hurt, something would have happened by now, right?"

  "Probably, but you said it still hurts," he said, easing away.

  "I sat up all night, shaking, on the train. Didn't sleep a wink. Which is probably why I have such a headache now."

  "Okay. So, the guy's not here in town, right?"

  "No, he's in Chicago."

  "You think he'd come here?"

  "I don't know." She didn't even want to think about that. "I would have sworn he never would have hit me, but he did."

  "Sorry. I just... I don't like the idea of you being here all alone."

  "And you're going to offer to stay with me? You're the one who told me I shouldn't have even let you in the door," she reminded him. "I'm supposed to trust you now?"

  He looked over at the phone. "We could call Sam."

  "You didn't want to call him, remember?"

  "I remember, but... You're going to need someone."

  "Rye, I know practically everyone in town. If I need help, I can find it."

  "I'll help you," he said, which was just about the kindest thing anyone had said to her in a long time. He meant it. She was sure of it.

  "Thank you."

  "Look, what was the name of that inn you mentioned?" He asked, getting to his feet. "The Baxter Inn? Let me call them and see if they've got a room. That way, at least you'll know I'm still in town and where I am in case you need me."

  She told him where to find the phone book, in the desk tucked under the stairs, and when he went to get it, she wondered who he was. For a moment, he reminded her of Sam. Something about the way he was so determined to take care of her, maybe. Sam was like that.

  She'd always known she could count on him and was afraid she'd disappoint him when she told him what had happened—as if it were her fault. She knew that was silly, but dammit, that's how it felt. Like something she'd allowed to happen to her, when she should have been able to prevent it.

  Rye came back and called the inn.

  "Two nights. That's it. Then they're booked." He hung up the phone, then started writing on the notepad. "I'm leaving my cell phone number and the number at the inn just in case. Sure you won't change your mind and call someone?"

  "I'm not going to let him run me out of my own house," she said.

  "Okay. I want to check the locks on the doors and the windows, just in case." He started in the living room, pushing aside the pretty lace panel curtains and jiggling the locks on the windows. "I still don't like leaving you here alone."

  "I'll be fine. It scared me, because I didn't see it coming at all. But it really wasn't that bad."

  "It looks like it must have been bad, Emma," he said, heading for the dining room.

  It held a wide mahogany table that seated twelve, an antique passed down from Rachel's great-great grandmother, an old-fashioned sideboard to match, a dainty lace tablecloth more for show than anything else, and silver candlestick holders. Emma thought about the familiar room. Home. She was home. So why was she still shaking? Why didn't she feel safe? Rye could see that, and she felt like she owed him some explanation.

  "What you're seeing?" she began. "Me falling apart? It's not all about what happened yesterday. It's..." It was about what happened before. She was sure the extreme nature of her reaction was mostly about what happened before.

  He didn't say anything, but came to stand in the wide opening between the living room and the dining room, watching her and waiting.

  "Please don't ask me anymore."

  "Okay," he said. "But even if it wasn't that bad, you're still scared to death, and I still don't like leaving you."

  "The inn's not ten minutes away. The sheriff's department's even closer. If anything happens, I'll call." That should have made her feel better, shouldn't it? She wasn't sure if she was trying to convince herself or him.

  It wasn't working on her, probably not on him, either, because he checked the kitchen. She heard him in the family room, in the sunroom.

  He came back and pronounced the first level sound and locked up tight.

  "You can check the upstairs if you like, but it's just the same way. Sam wouldn't have it any other way."

  "Okay. If you're sure. How about some aspirin for your head before I go?"

  "That would be great." She directed him to the cabinet above the refrigerator, where the medicine was stored, and he came back with two aspirin and a glass of water. "Thanks."

  "Anything happens, you'll call? Promise me?" he said, standing over her and looking grim.

  "I promise."

  * * *

  Well hell, he thought as he finally made himself walk out the door. Even if he'd wanted to leave now, he couldn't. Not after seeing the look on her face when her ex-boyfriend called.

  He'd been up close and personal with men who made a pastime of beating up on women. It was like they thought they ha
d a right; the woman was theirs, after all. What if Emma's ex was like that? If he didn't stay in Chicago? If he came here and hurt her again?

  He really didn't need this.

  Sam McRae couldn't possibly be worth it, even if he was the right Sam.

  If Rye had any sense at all, he'd get in his truck and keep driving.

  But as he stood there across from the house, thinking about Emma inside and all alone, he decided he could give it another day. See if her phone rang again, and if she had a better idea of when her family would be back.

  A woman like her...

  He thought again of the slight puffiness of her cheek, the bump on her head, thought of all the things that man might have done to her that she refused to admit. He thought of her being scared every time the phone rang or someone came to the door.

  He could wait another day.

  * * *

  Emma lay on the sofa, wrapped up in her blanket, staring at the fire and afraid to go to sleep. But at some point, she must have drifted off because she jerked awake much later, when the room was dark and cold. The sun had gone down, the fire died down, too, and the phone was ringing.

  For a minute, she wasn't sure she could pick it up, and then she decided she was being silly and melodramatic and snatched it up. "Hello."

  "Hi, Em."

  It was Rachel. She was so glad to hear her voice. Rachel who was kindness incarnate, so supportive, so loving. Sometimes like an older sister to Emma and often the mother she needed so much.

  "You okay?" Rachel asked. "You don't sound like yourself."

  "I was napping. I couldn't sleep last night on the train, and I just crashed this afternoon," she said. "How's Ann and the baby?"

  "Ann's scared, but hanging in there. They've got her on some medicine to try to stop the contractions, but they're just not sure if they'll be able to."

  "And if they can't?"

  "Then she'll have a very premature baby," Rachel said.

  "But the baby will be okay?"

  "Well... Honestly, they're not sure."

  "Oh."

  Neither one of them said anything for a moment. They didn't have to. Emma knew how hard this would be. She took her strength from them, had always thought they could get through anything together.

  "Do you want me to come up there?" she asked, thinking maybe they'd take the decision out of her hands. It sounded so easy, just to go up there.

  "No, sweetie. Not yet. Let's give it a day or two and see what happens. Besides, Sam said you looked all wiped out. Finals and all, huh?"

  "Yes." She hated lying about it, but she was still thinking there might be a way to hide from it, maybe to pretend it never happened. How silly was that?

  "What happened to Mark and his parents? You sounded so excited about meeting them," Rachel asked.

  "Well..." And then she got all choked up. Darn. She had to say something. "We broke up."

  There. That was easy. And true. It would have to be enough for now.

  "Oh, sweetie. I'm sorry. Sam didn't tell me that."

  "I didn't tell him," Emma confessed. "If I had, he would have felt like he had to stay, and I know he was worried about getting up there. I just told him things had been crazy and that I was looking forward to a little peace and quiet, which is true."

  "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

  "I will when you get home. I'll tell you everything."

  "Okay, but... You sound a little shaky, Em. And I thought if you were going to meet his parents, things must be getting serious between you two."

  "It wasn't like that. Really." At least, not on her part. "His parents were coming to Chicago on business at the end of the semester, and I haven't had nearly as much time as I'd like to see the city. We were going to catch a show, do some Christmas shopping, some tourist things. That's all."

  "All right, but if you need us—"

  "I'll call," she promised.

  "Okay. We should have a better idea of what will happen with Ann and the baby tomorrow. I was going to ask you to make another round of calls—"

  "I'll do it." She'd rather make the calls than have them call here looking for news. It would save her from worrying every time the phone rang. Rachel gave her the hospital phone number. Emma dutifully wrote it down. "Sam's at Ann and Greg's with all the kids. If you change your mind and want to come—"

  "I'll just get on the train," Emma said.

  It was a comforting thought. She could just leave and go be with her family, if that's what she needed. Maybe once the bruise on her face was gone. It would be bad enough to tell them, in time, in her own way. But to have them able to see it on her face the moment she arrived, and to have everyone see... Not just Sam and Rachel, but Zach and Grace. Her aunt and uncle. Her cousins. It sounded so humiliating, and right now she just wanted to hide.

  Rachel said good-bye, and then Emma started calling relatives to fill them in on Ann's condition. By the time she was done, she had three invitations to dinner and two offers of places to sleep, in case she didn't want to be alone. But she put them all off with her same story—that she was wiped out after finals. Maybe she could buy a few days alone. Maybe she could just hide.

  Women did this, she'd read. They wanted to hide, to pretend it never happened, that it never would again.

  She would never have believed she could be one of those women. But inside her head, she heard all the familiar excuses. It wasn't like him to do this, not the man she knew. He must have been under a great deal of stress, because it wasn't something he'd normally do.

  But he had. He'd done it to her.

  Emma sat there trying to make all the images go away. She was thinking of building the fire back up, trying to go back to sleep when the phone rang one more time. She picked it up without even thinking, sure that it was one of her cousins or maybe a friend from high school.

  "Emma." Mark sighed heavily. "I was hoping you'd be on your way back by now. Don't you think this has gone on long enough?"

  * * *

  Rye checked into the inn and had five different people ask if he was here for the Christmas festival. Obviously it was a big deal around here. That afternoon, restless and with nothing to do, he started walking the streets of downtown.

  He found two discreet signs, one on a house under construction and another being renovated, announcing that the work was being done by McRae Construction. The second time he saw one, there was a man out front checking his mailbox. Rye struck up a conversation with him, telling him he'd been thinking of having Sam do some work for him.

  "You can't go wrong with Sam. He lives six blocks over, in that house that was Rachel's grandfather's. Been a part of this town for twenty years now."

  "He's been here that long?" Rye asked.

  "Longer, now that I think about it. He was a freshman in high school when he came here. I graduated a year or two before he did. I remember because his grandfather had a house over on Sycamore Street, not far from one of my uncles'."

  "His grandfather lived here, too?"

  "Yeah, and Sam did, once his parents died."

  "That would have been rough. Losing both his parents like that."

  "Oh, yeah. Life's just harder on some people."

  What did that mean? That it had been for Sam? Too bad.

  The man he was looking for lost his parents at a much younger age, then got passed from relative to relative, foster home to foster home. He had no idea where the man ended up. There was a birth certificate supposedly showing the man to be thirty-nine now, but none of the Sam McRaes he'd found had a birthday that matched the one on the birth certificate. He had a feeling the Sam McRae he was looking for was older than that, anyway. Absolutely nothing fit.

  "Guess Sam was lucky he had a grandfather to take him in," Rye said, remembering where he was, what he was supposed to be doing.

  "I don't know if I'd go that far." The man shook his head. "Hate to speak ill of the dead, but Old Man McRae... I don't think anyone has fond memories of him. But somehow Sam
turned out just fine. You don't have to worry. He'd do a good job for you."

  Rye thanked the man and went on his way. The wind was picking up, and the sun was sinking fast. It was getting cold, and he was tired. Tired of looking for a man he sometimes thought he'd never find. What did he even think he had to gain by finding him? What could he ever say to Sam McRae?

  Still, he kept going, finding himself in front of the diner Emma had mentioned. The food was indeed plain home cooking and very good. He sat at the counter, striking up a conversation with the waitress and two men who eventually came to sit on either side of him.

  The story was always the same. Sam McRae came here as a teenager after his parents died. Which meant this couldn't be the Sam McRae he was looking for. He could cross one more name off his list.

  It also meant there was no reason to stay here, except for Emma.

  He sat in his room fighting the urge to call her. He had the number. He'd had it for months and never used it.

  Finally, he convinced himself he was being ridiculous. If the woman needed help, she had plenty of people to call. If she needed him, she knew where he was. But she hadn't called him, so she must not need him.

  He finally went to bed but slept badly. He got up the next morning and planned to leave, but decided to talk to her one more time. He needed to hear her say she was okay.

  He called and called and called and never got an answer. No way he could leave like that. So he drove back to the house, managed to knock in a quite civilized way at first, and then, when she didn't answer, gave in to the urge to pound on the door and call out her name.

  * * *

  The phone finally stopped ringing shortly before ten the next morning.

  She'd turned off her cell phone and hadn't answered the house phone, no matter how many times it rang. Not after the second time he'd called. At some point that morning, she'd been too rattled to even look at the Caller ID display and see his number once again.

  And then sometime after the phone stopped ringing, someone started pounding on the front door.

  She started shaking something fierce. Honestly, it was the most horrible thing. She felt absolutely powerless, in a way she hadn't felt in so very long. Almost enough to make her sick to her stomach.