by Teresa Hill
"Sorry." She'd finished with the table and hung the towel on a hook by the sink, facing him reluctantly. "I didn't mean to pry."
"I know."
He leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms, and let himself take another long, slow look at her. She was sweet, he realized. Kind. Generous. And likely very, very soft. Where had all the women like her gone? Probably they were all gathered in little towns like this one and the one he'd left behind as a boy. And somebody had to look out for them.
"Tell me you weren't going to invite me to stay in this house with you? Surely Sam taught you better than that. I'm a complete stranger to you."
"You said you know Sam."
"Anybody could walk up to your door and claim to know Sam. His name's on the sign on the mailbox."
"I know, but..."
"Emma, a woman's got to be careful these days."
"I know," she said, a little flush coming into her cheeks. "I wasn't going to invite you to stay in the house."
"Good."
"There's an old carriage house out back." She went to the back window and pulled the curtains aside. "See? Sam converted it into an office a long time ago. There's a cot and a bathroom, too. It's not much, but people have bunked there before, and I just thought... Just in case."
"Thank you," he said sincerely, grinning like he hadn't in years. "But I'll find a place on my own."
"Okay. The Baxter Inn on Main is nice and not too expensive. The diner next door has some of the best food in town, if you like home cooking. Nothing fancy, but filling."
"I like that just fine."
He stood up straight to leave, thinking it had been an altogether pleasant time here with her. It had been a while since he'd enjoyed something as simple as a meal shared with a nice woman. He thanked her once more, and all too soon found himself at the front door oddly reluctant to leave.
"What are you doing here all by yourself at Christmas?" he asked as he shrugged into his coat. "Why didn't you take off with the rest of them?"
"I was just finishing up at college..." she began.
Which made her... What? Twenty-two? Maybe twenty-three?
He felt ancient beside her.
"I'd planned to spend this week with a friend." She paused, for a moment looking uneasy, then pasted on a smile and continued. "But something came up at the last minute. I just left them a message on the answering machine and got on the train to come home early, while Rachel and the kids were already heading north. Sam sent them ahead in case the weather got bad today, and then he waited here for me. But I decided to stay."
"All by yourself?"
"Yes. A few days of peace and quiet sounds good to me." She took a breath. "Things have been hectic lately."
He nodded, thinking she seemed uneasy about something, thinking it was really none of his business, even if she was.
"Well, I guess I should go," he said, reaching for the door.
"Wait. You forgot something."
"What?" He turned back to her.
"Your name. I can't tell Sam who you are if I don't know your name."
"Sorry," he said, but it was no accident that he hadn't told her. "Emma, maybe it would be better if I just wait and talk to him when he gets back."
"But you came all this way," she said. "It must be important."
"It is, but..." He took a chance and admitted, "Look, it's more personal than business, okay?"
"Okay." She put her hand on his arm, ever so lightly, the touch thoroughly unsettling him. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"No." He stepped back. Her arm fell to her side, and he found himself missing her touch in a way he had no right to do.
"Sam's good when it comes to trouble, and he takes care of people."
He shook his head and tried not to think of the irony of that. One of those Sams had sure done a number on him. Not that he was going to explain it to her. He'd hang around town for a few days, see what he could find out, figure out what to do next.
"Look, it's nothing for you to worry about," he said finally. "Okay?"
"Do I at least get to know your name?"
He stared at her, not sure what to say to something as simple as that.
She laughed a bit. "It's such a hard question? Your name?"
"These days it is." But he'd gone and done it then. She was even more curious, and, he suspected, even more likely to go talking about him to Sam. Finally, he said, "It's Rye."
"Do you have a last name, Rye?" she asked, sticking out her hand for him to shake.
"I've got a couple," he said, forcing himself to grin.
"Aliases?" she teased.
"Not exactly." He took her hand. It was very, very soft and very smooth, small and slight. He liked holding that hand.
"You're just a mysterious kind of guy?"
"Ryan's the last name. John Ryan, but most everybody calls me Rye."
"Okay, Rye. I won't tell Sam. Not if you don't want me to."
"Thank you. And thanks for the meal."
She smiled again. "Any friend of Sam's..."
"I told you, anybody could walk off the streets and claim to know Sam."
"Okay. No more breakfasts with men claiming to be friends of Sam's."
Chapter 2
Emma felt better having him in the house.
She'd thought she'd feel perfectly safe here. Once she'd found out Rachel and the kids were gone and that Sam was leaving, she'd actually been relieved. Although she'd never wish for any kind of trouble for Ann or the baby, it meant Emma's secret was still intact. She hadn't had to explain anything.
But once Sam had left, she hadn't liked being here alone. She wasn't looking forward to trying to get to sleep by herself tonight, as ridiculous as that was, and she was reluctant to let Rye go.
Who in the world was he?
She puzzled over it as he buttoned up his jacket, one that wasn't going to keep him warm in this climate. She heard a touch of the South in his voice. He probably wasn't used to this kind of weather.
She was reaching for the front door to let him out when the phone rang.
They both froze, just looking at each other. She wished it was Sam, and he looked like he hoped it wasn't.
"I won't tell," she said.
One more secret she would keep from Sam, when there had been so few things she'd ever kept from him. She picked up the phone, thinking it was probably Rachel or one of her aunts wanting news about Ann. They were all on her list of people to call. She pressed the receiver to her ear and said "Hello."
"Emma," he said, his voice sounding smooth and easy, as if this were just any other old day. "I thought I'd find you there."
"Mark," she whispered, stunned.
"I wish you hadn't gone and left like that, Emma. My parents will be here any minute. What am I going to tell them? That we had some silly little fight?"
"What?" she asked. Silly? Little?
"Oh, hell. Never mind. Just come back, Emma. I'll tell them you're going to be late. We'll still have the rest of the week in the city with them. They've been waiting for months to meet you."
As if she'd just turn around and go back up there? As if she were going to forget what he'd done?
"No," she said. She didn't need to explain, didn't owe him anything.
"Emma, don't be like this."
"Like what?" she whispered.
"So silly."
"I don't think I am," she said, with a near-death grip on the phone.
"All couples have their little spats," he said.
Yeah, she knew all about little spats. "I'm going to hang up now."
"What?" The word positively exploded out of him.
"I'm going to hang up," she said firmly.
"Don't you dare."
"And I don't want you calling here. I don't have anything to say to you."
"Emma, this is crazy. You and me... You know what you mean to me. And this... I know I lost my temper, but... Surely you're not going to let something as silly as this—"
/> "I'm going to hang up now," she said again.
"Why, you little—"
She hit the button on the phone to disconnect the call, cutting off whatever else he might have said. But he'd been yelling, and the words carried through the air, the tone unmistakable.
She looked up and saw Rye watching her, his expression grim. She feared she was near tears, and her hands were shaking something awful.
He took the phone from her hand and set it down on the small table by the door, then said, "Come and sit down."
"I'm fine," she lied.
"No, you're not."
She went to turn away, thinking she didn't want to talk about this, and she didn't want him looking at her, didn't want him seeing. But he put his hands on her arm to stop her. For a moment, it just felt awful. Like she couldn't have gotten away from him if she'd wanted to.
She went a little crazy at that. For a second, it was like when Mark grabbed her and wouldn't let go.
Emma cried out, went to jerk herself away, and in the next minute her head cleared, and she realized this was Rye, not Mark. She was home, not at school, and then she felt so foolish.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, her eyes flooding with tears.
"No, I'm sorry." He waited, grim faced and fighting as hard as she was for breath, not moving a muscle, probably worried about scaring her again.
How had her life come to this?
"Will you come and sit down? Please?" he asked. "Because for a minute, you looked like the whole world was spinning, and I don't want you to fall down. That's the only reason I... I wouldn't try to hold you against your will, Emma. I promise."
"Okay."
She shivered. Rye hovered by her side, holding out a hand to her, ready to take her arm but not touching her this time, not without her permission. She took one step closer to him, and that was all he needed. His arm came around her waist, lightly, and she felt the warmth coming off his body.
For a moment, she let herself lean into him, not liking that little kick of fear that came from realizing how much bigger he was. The solidness of his body, the strength in it. She hadn't thought of those things in so very long—the things a man's strength could do to a woman. Or a child.
It had always seemed like another life entirely.
Until yesterday.
God, how in the world had this happened to her?
"Let's just sit down, okay?" He led her to the big, comfortable sofa in the living room, the one near the fireplace. Emma sat down in the corner, wanting the support, drawing her legs up beneath her, her head resting against the back.
"Want to tell me about it?"
"No, but I bet you can figure it out all by yourself."
He sat on the edge of the sofa facing her, one arm resting along the arm of the sofa, the other on the cushion behind her head. "Husband?"
"No. Thank goodness it never came to that." There had been hints that he wanted to give her a ring.
"Boyfriend?"
"He used to be." Emma shivered. She was still so cold.
Rye took the afghan off the back of a nearby chair and draped it ever so carefully around her. "And he's not happy about that?"
"No."
Rye took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his. He snapped on the lamp on the end table beside her. Leaning in close, he stared grimly at her right cheek, the tips of his fingers gently moving along the bruise she'd hoped so desperately didn't show.
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."
&
nbsp; 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.