There was Emma to consider, too. Apparently, she had already assumed a great deal of responsibility where his mother was concerned. Responsibility he had no intention of letting her continue to shoulder alone despite her all too obvious unwillingness to count on him.
She isn’t expecting you…won’t be disappointed if you can’t make it…
Just as he had four years ago, Sam wanted to rise to his own defense. He wanted to call Emma and tell her—in no uncertain terms—how completely she had misjudged him. Granted he had made mistakes, and by God, he had paid for them dearly. But he had never meant Teddy any harm.
Why waste his breath, though? He doubted anything he had to say would change her mind. And what did her opinion of him matter in the general scheme of things?
Defending himself aside, Sam admitted he should still call Emma and let her know that help—such as he hoped he could be—was on the way if for no other reason than to ease her mind. Working a full-time job while caring for his mother on her own had to be a strain, not just physically but emotionally. Yet he pushed away from his desk without reaching for the telephone again.
Though he freely acknowledged he wasn’t being fair to Emma, Sam decided it might be wiser to catch her unawares. He had no idea how she would react when they finally came face-to-face again. But forewarned would give her time to be forearmed against the kind of man she had chosen to believe he was.
There was no denying the part he had played in destroying her dreams. Yet for his sake, as well as his mother’s, he hoped he and Emma could be allies rather than enemies. He had changed a lot over the years. He wanted a chance to prove it to her.
Of course, a truce could still prove to be impossible. But then, at least he would be the one braced for battle. It wouldn’t be much of an advantage, and certainly not one he intended to use against her unless absolutely necessary. But it would be better than nothing. And maybe, just maybe, it would save him from a whole new world of hurt.
Crossing his office, Sam grabbed his jacket, flicked off the light switch, then strode down the shadowed hallway, his footsteps echoing around him. With a mighty effort, he fought the urge to head for the officers’ club, turning instead toward the housing complex. It wasn’t company he was craving, but a good, stiff drink, and he knew—all too well—where that could lead. There were other, better ways to outdistance his demons.
Not quite twenty minutes later, changed into shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes, his warm-up complete, Sam set off at a steady pace, focusing his thoughts on nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other, eating up the first of what would be many miles as he blended into the twilight.
Chapter 2
“Emma, come in out of the sun and have a glass of tea,” Margaret Griffin urged.
Glancing up from the flower bed she had just finished weeding, Emma Dalton offered her old friend an appreciative smile.
“Sounds wonderful. I’ll be right there.”
She gathered her gardening tools together, then sat back on her heels, surveying her handiwork with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Early that Saturday morning, she had been determined to whip Margaret’s much too long neglected front yard into shape. Now, nearly eight hours later—with only a short break for lunch during the worst heat of the day—she could happily say she had succeeded.
The scent of freshly mowed grass still lingered in the late-afternoon air. Once scraggly shrubs marched in neatly clipped rows along the railing that edged the wraparound porch. And the flowers in the beds—impatiens in various shades of pink and purple, bright-orange-and-yellow marigolds, hearty red geraniums, even a delicate smattering of white Gerber daisies—could finally be seen and appreciated.
As exemplified by her own riotously colorful yet neatly kept yard, Emma loved gardening. Working out of doors, close to the soil, with the sun shining overhead and a gentle breeze blowing never failed to fill her with a feeling of peace. That she seemed to have a green thumb helped, as well.
She had been itching to have a go at Margaret’s yard for several weeks. But convincing her friend that she would be doing Emma a favor by allowing her to mow and clip and weed had taken some doing.
Margaret had insisted she’d imposed on Emma enough over the past few months. Emma, in turn, had argued that wasn’t true. Whenever she had needed a strong shoulder to lean on, Margaret had always been there for her—even when she herself had been grieving. Helping Margaret cope with her illness had given Emma the chance to reciprocate. Not out of a sense of duty or indebtedness, but out of love.
Emma had never considered Margaret to be a burden, and she never would. Unfortunately, she had yet to get her to stop feeling as if she had become—in Margaret’s words—little more than an old bother.
Sometimes I think it would be easier on everyone if I went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up again….
Recalling her friend’s offhand remark, Emma stared at the small shovel in her hand, not really seeing it. What would she do without Margaret? she wondered, overcome by a sudden sense of desolation. What would she do?
With a mighty effort, Emma shoved aside thoughts of worst-case scenarios as she grabbed the trash bag full of weeds and pulled the drawstrings tight.
Granted, Margaret’s most recent round of chemotherapy had left her frightfully weak, but she had rebounded with amazing fortitude. In fact, over the past three weeks she had regained much of her strength, and lately seemed to be almost her old self again.
She still tired more easily than before, but generally, her spirits were high. She kept herself busy—experimenting with new recipes, needlepointing a pillow cover and reading the cozy mysteries she enjoyed most. And she never, ever, uttered a word of complaint—
“Hurry, Emma, the ice is starting to melt,” Margaret called out.
“I’ll be just a minute more,” Emma promised as she stood. “I want to put the tools away and dump the trash bag in the can around back.”
Heading for the small, wood-frame garage at the end of the driveway, Emma wished she could have foreseen Margaret’s extraordinary recovery. How that would have been possible, she didn’t know. Even Margaret’s doctor had expressed serious concerns about her prognosis. But at least she wouldn’t have been in such a rush to write to Sam.
She shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have jumped the gun in such a ham-handed way. First and foremost, because Margaret would have forbidden it had Emma asked her permission.
Margaret had made sure that she understood her son was not to be worried unnecessarily. And for the past six months—despite her own reservations—Emma had bowed to her friend’s wishes.
Had she been Sam, she wouldn’t have wanted to be kept in the dark. She would have rather been apprised of the situation without delay. But her loyalty had been to Margaret. Until that day three weeks ago when her doctor said she might not live to see the summer’s end.
Margaret had been in a Houston medical center hospital undergoing treatment. Luckily, she had brought her address book with her, and Emma had found Sam’s current F.P.O. number listed in it. Sitting beside her friend’s bed as she slept, Emma had written to him as tears blurred her eyes, then posted the letter before she had time to change her mind.
Miraculously, Margaret’s condition had improved within seventy-two hours, and Emma had begun to regret her hasty decision. Yes, there was a possibility the doctor could still be right. Margaret’s recovery could be nothing more than a temporary respite. As often happened with a potentially life-threatening illness, she could suffer a relapse at any time. One that she might not survive.
But with Margaret almost her old self again, there no longer seemed to be any reason for Sam to come home. Not that he was going to. At least, not to her knowledge.
Three weeks had passed since Emma had sent her letter, and she had heard nothing in reply. He could have responded by mail, of course. That would take at least ten days. But considering the urgency with which she had written…
Emma had
been sure he would call, if only to affirm that his mother’s illness was as serious as she had implied. Beyond that, she hadn’t known what to expect. But she’d been fully prepared for him to have some reason—some very good reason—why he wouldn’t be able to make the trip to Serenity. And she would have understood.
There were too many painful memories for Sam in the small town where he’d grown up. Memories to which she had contributed in a ruinous way. She knew now that by blaming him for Teddy’s death, she had been trying to assuage her own sense of guilt. Guilt that had sprung from her relief that Sam had been the one to survive that terrible accident on the narrow, winding road just outside of town.
I hate you, Sam Griffin. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you….
Hardly a day had passed since then that Emma hadn’t wished she could recall those brutal words. But Sam hadn’t given her a chance. He had stayed for his brother’s funeral, but not in his mother’s house. And after the service, he’d vanished, never—as far as she knew—to return.
Emma couldn’t blame him. Not then, and certainly not now. Even with Margaret’s health in question, she could understand why—torn as he had to be—he might choose to stay away. All that he had to look forward to here was more grief.
Yet again, Emma cursed her impulsiveness. She could have waited, should have waited.
“But you didn’t,” she muttered as she hung the gardening tools on their hooks, then disposed of the trash bag.
Doing her best to shake off the melancholy mood that had settled over her, Emma hurried back to the front yard. She pasted a smile on her face as she joined Margaret on the porch and accepted a tall glass of tea. Then, with a murmur of thanks, she sank into the old wooden rocking chair that matched her friend’s. She took several swallows of the icy drink and sat back contentedly.
“Mmm, wonderful,” she said.
She tossed her straw hat aside, took off her gold wire-rimmed glasses and set them on the little white wicker table, then tried to finger-comb some life into her damp curls. She was in desperate need of a shower, but first she wanted to relax a while and enjoy the gentle breeze wafting across the shady porch.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Emma. The yard looks just lovely. I’m going to be the envy of all my neighbors,” Margaret stated proudly.
“Maybe not all. Mr. Bukowski looks like he’s trying to give us a run for our money.” Emma nodded toward the house across the tree-lined street where an elderly man puttered about, snipping and trimming his already well-tended rosebushes.
“That old coot would sleep with his precious American Beauties if his wife would let him,” Margaret retorted. “We won’t count him.”
“Well, then, I have to agree. Your yard definitely measures up now.”
“Thank you, Emma. I really do appreciate all your hard work.”
“Gardening never seems like work to me. Now scrubbing toilets and mopping floors—that’s my idea of work.” Emma shuddered delicately, then met her friend’s gaze with an impish grin. “I’m so glad we found Mrs. Beal to handle those nasty chores for us.”
“But you have a yard of your own to maintain,” Margaret said, a look of concern shadowing her eyes. “I feel like I’m already taking advantage of you enough as it is.”
“What nonsense.” Emma waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve been paying Mrs. Beal to clean my house, as well as yours, while I’ve been staying here with you. Aside from cooking dinner occasionally and doing a few loads of laundry, I haven’t really contributed that much until today. And, as I keep trying to convince you, I love gardening.”
“You also have the responsibility of a full-time job,” Margaret reminded her gently. “A job you love, too, but lately haven’t been able to give the attention it requires because of my needs.”
“Actually, I’ve found a solution to that,” Emma advised with studied nonchalance. “Marion Cole and I have agreed to try job sharing for the summer. She came in one day last week asking about part-time work, but I don’t have the funds to add anyone to the staff. So I’m going to let her have some of my hours. She’s an experienced librarian, she’s well liked by everyone in town and, with her husband out of work, she needs the money.”
“That’s awfully generous of you, Emma. But…” Margaret shrugged and looked away as she pulled a tissue from the pocket of her skirt.
“It’s only temporary. Marion’s fairly sure her husband will get a job offer from one of the companies he’s interviewed with in Dallas or Houston. And I like the idea of having more free time this summer. We’ll be able to drive down to Galveston for a few days before your next appointment with the doctor in Houston the way you wanted. I know how much you love the beach, and it’s been ages since I’ve been there.”
Trying to ignore the fact that Margaret was dabbing at her eyes, Emma took another long swallow of tea, then rolled the cold, wet glass over her cheek as she looked out across the lawn.
Margaret had never been the type to show her emotions, but lately even the smallest act of kindness seemed to make her weepy. Much as Emma wanted to comfort her, she said nothing. Calling attention to Margaret’s treacherous tears would only embarrass her friend unnecessarily.
Instead, she rocked quietly, allowing Margaret a few moments to gather herself. Without her glasses, everything beyond the porch railing blended pleasantly into a bright blur of colors, sometimes stable, sometimes shifting, depending on the slant of the breeze.
She didn’t realize that the dark blue blob she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye was an automobile moving slowly down the street until it pulled into Margaret’s driveway. Even then, Emma merely squinted at it lazily, sure that the driver, having made a wrong turn, intended only to back out and be on his way. The boxy sedan wasn’t one she recognized as belonging to anyone she knew. And Margaret hadn’t mentioned that she was expecting any visitors.
Unless—
“Well, who on earth could that be?” Margaret asked, her composure restored.
“I have no idea,” Emma murmured, an odd sensation unfurling in the pit of her stomach.
The car’s engine ceased its grumbling, but the driver seemed in no hurry to open the door and step out. Frowning, Emma reached for her glasses as Margaret stood, started toward the porch steps, then paused uncertainly.
“Oh, my…” she breathed, wonder in her voice. “It can’t be—”
Adjusting her glasses, Emma rose from her chair, too. She knew what Margaret only suspected. Knew with terrifying certainty who sat behind the wheel of the dark blue sedan. And she wished—oh, how she wished—she could simply slip away. Her friend wouldn’t understand, though. So she lingered in the shadows as the car door finally opened, and a breathless moment later, her heart slammed against her rib cage.
A tall, handsome man, neatly dressed in khaki pants and a white knit shirt, his short blond hair glistening in the sun, his eyes shielded by aviator sunglasses, stepped out of the car, closed the door quietly and started across the lawn.
“Sam…?” Margaret said, her voice barely above a whisper. Then she added joyfully as she moved down the porch steps and opened her arms to him, “Oh, Sam, you’re home. You’re home, son….”
Emma watched as he hesitated a moment, removing his sunglasses uncertainly. His surprise at how Margaret had aged in the months since he’d seen her last was evident, but only for an instant. Flashing the cocky grin Emma remembered all too well, he strode toward his mother, his long legs eating up the distance between them, and swept her into his embrace. As he hugged her close, however, his smile faded, revealing the true depth of his distress.
“Hey, don’t cry,” he chided softly. “I’ll think you’re not happy to see me.”
“I am happy to see you, Sam Griffin, and you know it,” she retorted. Smiling through her tears as she looked up at him, she put her hand against his cheek. “Happier than you’ll ever know.”
Still standing alone on the porch, Emma wished, once again, that she could slip away without being
noticed. She felt uncomfortable intruding on Margaret and Sam’s reunion. After being apart for almost a year, they deserved to have some private time together.
More disconcerting, however, was that Emma also felt afraid. Not only afraid of what Sam might say or do when he finally spied her lurking in the shadows, but also of what she might say or do. He wouldn’t be happy to see her there. That she knew for sure. But would he show his displeasure in Margaret’s presence?
She had just seen how easily he could hide his emotions when he wanted to. Yet she couldn’t trust that he’d spare her in the same way he had his mother. She hadn’t proved herself deserving of that care.
As for her… She had thought she’d buried her feelings for Sam Griffin so deeply they could never be resurrected. But she had been mistaken. Just seeing him again had set her heart pounding, her palms sweating and her tummy turning somersaults. A longing unlike any she’d ever experienced had welled up inside her, and she had wanted—more than anything—to see him turn to her with outstretched arms, as well.
Of course, after the unforgivable way she’d treated him four years ago, she was probably the last woman on earth he would ever choose to hold close. And that meant she couldn’t risk giving herself away—not by word or by deed. If he shunned her, she would be crushed.
And if he didn’t…?
Emma shivered as an altogether different kind of dread—a dread long nestled deep in her soul—reared its ugly head.
She would give herself to him without a second thought. And when boredom set in—as it surely would for a man like Sam Griffin—she would end up like her mother, grieving alone for a man who could only find happiness living dangerously close to the edge.
She couldn’t do that, wouldn’t do that. She needed safety and stability in her life, the kind of safety and stability she had found here in Serenity, first with Teddy, and then, on her own—
“Emma! Can you believe it? Sam’s here,” Margaret called out, interrupting her reverie.
The Major and the Librarian Page 2