Had they not veered into dangerous territory, Sam would have used the hour-and-a-half drive back to Serenity as he’d originally planned—to ask her what she thought about his mother’s condition. Under the circumstances, however, that would have to wait another day or two. And maybe by then his mother would have told him herself.
Any further conversation with Emma now could lead back to places he would rather not go. Especially when she was furious and he was on the defensive. A volatile combination, that. One he would have to try to avoid at all costs in the future. Even if it meant staying well out of her way.
Sam didn’t much care for that option. Not after the pleasure he’d had in her company earlier. But then, how real had that actually been when he’d had to guard almost every word he said?
After what seemed like an eternity, they finally reached the lot where they’d left his mother’s Volvo. With a weary sigh, he opened the car door for Emma. She slid onto the passenger’s seat without acknowledging him—verbally or otherwise. And she continued in that vein all the way to Serenity.
Which was exactly what Sam wanted, not to mention what he fully deserved. Still, her icy, angry silence hurt. Sharp-edged, it hung between them, cutting into his heart more deeply than he would ever admit to anyone, including himself.
Chapter 6
Emma couldn’t sleep. No matter how hard she tried. And she had tried. For almost three hours now, according to the ticking clock on the nightstand.
She had to get some rest or she would never make it through the day ahead. She was scheduled to work a full eight hours at the library, during which she had to catch up on a mountain of paperwork, as well as familiarize Marion Cole with her new duties. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to begin scaling back on her own hours as soon as she had planned.
Although that didn’t seem quite so urgent now that Sam was home…
With a groan of frustration punctuated by a string of muttered curses that would have appalled everyone who knew her, Emma tossed aside the light blanket covering her and slid from the bed. Wearing only her long, sleeveless, white cotton nightgown, she padded barefoot to one of the windows overlooking the front yard and leaned her forehead against the glass.
Regardless of where she had attempted to direct her thoughts since she’d first switched off the bedside lamp, he kept leaping out of the shadows of her mind. She didn’t like it. Not one little bit. But what could she do? He hadn’t been home a full forty-eight hours yet, and already he’d managed to get under her skin.
Sam…oh, Sam, you’re making me crazy and you don’t even know it. Or maybe you do, but you just don’t care.
What an emotional roller-coaster ride the afternoon had been for her. Though she had started out anxious and uncertain, she had actually found herself enjoying his company after a while. But then, her attempt at an apology rudely thrown back at her, she had ended the day angry, frustrated, hurt and confused.
Her anger had been paramount on the drive home. The kind of white-hot anger she’d had to clamp her teeth on. Otherwise, she would have spewed out invectives that she would have never been able to take back.
It was only as they’d entered the outskirts of Serenity that she had calmed down enough to realize she’d played right into Sam’s hands. By choosing to give him the silent treatment instead of forcing a confrontation when she’d had the chance, she had done exactly what he’d wanted her to do. She had allowed him to thwart her attempt to talk about the past with a few well-chosen words uttered in a brook-no-argument tone of voice guaranteed to haul almost anyone up short.
He must have known that aside from tossing her out of the car, there wasn’t much else he could do to stop her. He had been stuck with her in a way he would probably never be again if he could help it. And she had been too furious at his high-handed behavior to realize it until too late.
They had been turning onto Main Street, just a few blocks from home, when Sam had given the game away. He had asked, ever so casually, what she wanted to do with her rosebushes—drop them at her house or take them to his mother’s.
Nothing in his mild tone of voice or his calm, courteous manner would have led anyone to believe there had been an altercation between them only a couple of hours earlier. But why should it? He had gotten his way.
And that had outraged Emma all the more.
Through gritted teeth, she had told him she would just as soon go straight to his mother’s house. Though it would have been easier on the rosebushes to take them to her house, she didn’t want Sam anywhere near there. She didn’t want to have one single, solitary memory of him invading the most private of all her places, either inside or out.
He had nodded deferentially, saying nothing more. A few minutes later, when they had reached their destination, he had ignored her murmured protest, unloading the bushes and setting the containers in a safe yet easily accessible spot in his mother’s backyard.
Somehow, Emma had mustered a smidgen of gratitude—enough to offer him a curt “Thank-you” before she turned on her heel to go into the house. She hadn’t gotten far. In a matter of moments, he had caught her by the arm, halting her hurried steps.
“Emma, wait…” he had begun as she’d glared at him.
She had meant to pull free of his hold, as well, but something in his eyes made her hesitate. He had taken off his sunglasses again, and without them he couldn’t hide his emotions quite so easily. For just the space of a heartbeat, he had looked down at her, his expression anguished.
“Why, Sam?” she had asked, layers of meaning laced through what should have been a simple question. “Why?”
He had frowned, his uncertainty evident. Then he had gazed off into the distance, his jaw clenched, withdrawing from her yet again.
“I wish I could tell you,” he’d muttered cryptically, releasing her arm and brushing past her.
She had stormed after him, determined to get a straight answer. But as she had rounded the corner of the house, she’d seen Margaret standing on the front porch, smiling happily. Rather than spoil her pleasure in their safe return, Emma had opted to call a truce—at least for the time being. And Sam had gone along without a qualm.
During the light supper Margaret had prepared, they’d taken turns answering her questions about their afternoon together. Emma doubted that they had fooled her into believing they’d done more than tolerate each other’s company. But she had seemed satisfied with their responses. And after they’d finished their meal, she hadn’t argued when Emma, pleading weariness, excused herself and went up to her room.
In retrospect, Emma admitted that hadn’t been the wisest thing to do. A long walk around the neighborhood, even in the growing twilight, would have been a much better idea. At least then she might not have been so restless. And for a little while, she would have had other sights and sounds to occupy her mind.
Alone in her room, Emma hadn’t been able to do much more than pace while she tried, unsuccessfully, to ward off thoughts of Sam. Thoughts that had caused the worst of her anger to dissipate while heightening her initial, but temporarily forgotten, confusion.
What had Sam meant when he’d said she had been right to blame him for Teddy’s death? And more importantly, why had he insisted that he’d been responsible?
There was no way the accident that had taken his brother’s life could be his fault. Emma knew that, as did everybody in Serenity—just as she had told him.
The pickup truck that had slammed into the passenger’s side of the rental car Sam had been driving was traveling well above the posted speed limit when the driver ran the stoplight. Sam had had the right-of-way through the intersection just outside of town, and evidence at the scene had shown that he’d tried to swerve out of the way, not to save himself, but in a vain attempt to save Teddy.
Teddy, who apparently hadn’t been wearing his seat belt.
Emma still found that vaguely puzzling. Teddy had always been so safety conscious, telling everyone who rode in the car with him—fr
ont seat or back—to buckle up. For him to forget had been odd, even on his wedding day. But she had never considered Sam to be to blame. After all, Teddy had been an adult, responsible for his own actions.
Her thoughts whirling more tumultuously than ever, Emma pushed away from the window. In the moonlit darkness, the walls of her room suddenly seemed to close in around her, making her feel claustrophobic.
She had been locked up in there on her own much too long. If she didn’t get out for a little while, she knew she would never settle down enough to sleep. Of course, at two-thirty in the morning, she couldn’t leave the house. Even in a small town like Serenity, that wouldn’t be smart. But she could go down to the living room, stretch out on the sofa and try to read for half an hour or so.
Both Margaret and Sam were probably sound asleep, so neither of them would know she was still up and about. And she could think of nothing else that might work.
With a weary sigh, Emma put on her glasses, then slipped into the long white cotton robe that matched her gown, grabbed the book she’d left lying on the bedside table and crossed the room.
She had left the door slightly ajar so that she could hear if Margaret called out during the night. Now she peered out into the hallway through the narrow crack, checking to make sure Sam wasn’t still awake.
His door was only partially closed, but no light at all filtered out into the hallway. He, too, must have wanted to be sure he’d hear his mother if she needed anything. Emma appreciated his concern, but she also hoped he was a deep sleeper. She didn’t want him to hear her creeping down the stairs, and decide to investigate.
As quietly as she could, Emma slipped out of her room, relieved that the door hinges didn’t squeak. She glided down the stairs, making her way easily, guided by the tiny night-light in a wall socket in the entryway. She halted at the bottom of the stairs, straining to hear any sounds, but only the tick of the mantel clock in the living room disturbed the silence surrounding her.
Relieved, she walked into the living room, sat on the sofa and switched on one of the lamps. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she tucked her legs up under her and opened her book.
Ten minutes later, having reread the same paragraph half a dozen times, Emma tossed her book aside. Frustrated, she looked around the living room for something—anything—to occupy her mind.
As luck would have it—her luck, at any rate—her gaze lit upon the row of framed photographs lining the fireplace mantel. She had pored over them so often, both here and at home, where she, too, had copies, that she could conjure up the details of each one without a closer look. Yet she was drawn to one in particular. The one Margaret had taken of Sam and Teddy the week Sam had been home for the wedding. It had ended up being among the last photographs of the two brothers together.
Against her better judgment, Emma crossed to the fireplace, lifted the silver frame from the mantel and tilted it to catch the light from the table lamp.
Sam and Teddy had always been so different, not only in appearance, but in personality, as well. Yet tall, blond, wildly handsome Sam, with his yearning to fly jets all over the world and shorter, darker, more average looking Teddy, with his yearning to settle down in his hometown, teach English at the local high school, marry his sweetheart and raise a family had also been undeniably close. And that closeness, as well as the deep and abiding affection that had fostered it, had been evident in the way they had looked at each other as Margaret snapped the shutter.
The first time Teddy had introduced her to his older brother, home on leave from the Air Force Academy, Emma had been aware of the very special bond between the brothers. But she hadn’t resented it. Sure enough of her own special place in Teddy’s heart, she hadn’t had a need to establish priority by saying or doing anything to come between them. And years later, when she’d finally had the courage to admit to herself how she felt about Sam, she had been even more cautious of her words and actions.
One teasing comment or one laughing glance could have all too easily hurt the very people who had welcomed her so willingly into their hearts.
Emma had loved Teddy. Loved him like the brother she’d never had, as well as the best friend he had become. That they would marry eventually had been taken for granted by everyone they knew. Even Margaret had talked of the day when she would finally, officially, have the beloved daughter she had always wanted.
Yet Emma had insisted on waiting to set a date until after college, then after graduate school and then after they’d had time to get settled in their respective jobs. She hadn’t wanted to give up the promise of a safe, secure life—the life Teddy had been prepared to give her. But in her heart of hearts, she had known there was something lacking in their relationship. Something she had grown more and more aware of each time her gaze rested on Sam.
Sam, who made her heart pound and her senses sing. Sam, who rarely had more than six words to say to her, who hardly ever glanced her way, who, more often than not, left a room whenever she entered.
Except that once, just two days before her wedding—
With a low moan, Emma set the framed photograph on the mantel and turned toward the kitchen. She would drink a glass of milk. A tall, cold glass of milk. That should help to soothe her restive spirit. Then she would brew a steaming cup of chamomile tea for good measure.
Hoping to keep herself busy until the one memory she had to avoid at all cost finally faded, Emma filled the kettle with water, set it on the stove and put a tea bag in a mug. Then by the dim glow of the stove light, she took the milk carton from the refrigerator and poured a glass full.
She had swallowed only a sip or two when she heard a noise at the back door. Startled, she set her glass on the counter and backed toward the hallway.
Who in the world could be out there at three o’clock in the morning?
The sharp rasp of a key turning in the lock told her all she needed to know. Sam. He was the only one besides herself who had a key to his mother’s house.
Though what he had been doing outdoors at that hour she couldn’t imagine.
Unwilling to have him catch her there, Emma spun on her heel and headed out of the kitchen as the latch clicked open. Only when she had made it to the narrow hallway did she hesitate, a new and frightening thought crossing her mind.
What if it wasn’t really Sam? What if a stranger—bent on burglary—had jimmied the lock? They could all be in danger if she ran up to her room without being sure.
Halting just far enough up the hallway to see without being seen, Emma held her breath and waited as the outside door creaked open. Relief of a kind washed over her as she saw that it was Sam. But it was followed closely by the same dismay she’d experienced a few minutes earlier.
She didn’t want him to stumble upon her lurking in the hallway. Yet she couldn’t seem to move away. Instead, she hovered in the shadows, hardly daring to breathe as she stared at him.
He wore only a pair of gray knit shorts, a white T-shirt hanging from the waistband and a pair of well-worn running shoes. His blond hair clung damply to his forehead, and sweat glistened on the taut, lightly tanned skin of his broad, bare chest and flat belly. And though he wasn’t breathing hard, in the pale glow of the stove light he looked exhausted.
As if he had run until he simply couldn’t run any farther, Emma thought, pleating the fabric of her robe with nervous fingers. Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one unable to sleep.
To some extent, that fact surprised her. And while she had never been a believer in misery loving company, in an odd way it also gave her some small comfort. Seeing her again hadn’t seemed to affect him, but now she wondered if that was really true.
Of course, he could have something else on his mind, Emma reminded herself sternly. He could be worried about his mother’s illness. Or he could be pining for someone else. Someone he cared for deeply. For all she knew, he could—
With a start, Emma realized that Sam had pulled his T-shirt free and was using it to mop his face and c
hest as he moved away from the kitchen door. The longer she lingered in the hallway, the greater her risk of detection. And she really didn’t want him to catch her spying.
He would ask questions that she’d have to answer, and she just wasn’t in the mood to defend her actions. Still, she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from the enticing ripple of muscles in his chest and thighs as he prowled around the kitchen.
When he paused by one of the counters, his attention drawn to the half glass of milk she’d left there, Emma knew her time was up. Yet she held her ground a few moments longer, watching as he ran a finger down the side of the glass, then glanced toward the hallway where she hid.
She spun around as soundlessly as she could, hurried through the living room and on to the staircase in the entryway. She was in such a rush that she didn’t think to lift the hem of her robe as she started up, and as a result, she managed to climb only a few steps before her right foot tangled in the fabric, throwing her dangerously off balance.
Stumbling, Emma grabbed for the banister and upset her equilibrium even more. She swayed wildly for a second or two. Then, feeling herself falling backward, she uttered a low cry.
She fully expected to land in a heap on the entryway floor. Instead, she thudded against a hard, warm body. Sam’s hard, warm body, she realized as his arms went around her, first steadying her, then slowly, gently turning her to face him.
As if drawn by a magnet, Emma looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. Time seemed to stop, then to spin backward, whirling her inexorably toward that June afternoon just two days before her wedding….
Arms loaded with towels fresh from the dryer, she had been on her way upstairs when she’d tripped on a step and fallen straight into Sam’s arms. Their eyes had met—just as now. And in the lengthening silence, his hold on her had tightened, shifting her closer until her breasts brushed against his chest.
The Major and the Librarian Page 7