Emily's Chance (v5)

by Sharon Gillenwater

  “That’s right.” Sue rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. “Ace headed for the barn, and Ramona is cleaning our bathroom.” She shoved the door to the dishwasher closed. “I’m going to play on the internet. You can keep me company or take off.”

  His dad caught her hand as she started out of the kitchen and walked along with her. “You goin’ to search for anything in particular on the internet?”

  “News. Weather. See if I have any email. Maybe I’ll find something fun to buy.” She stopped and looked back at Chance. “There’s some French toast in the oven for Emily.”

  “I’ll tell her.” He smiled at his mom. “Thanks.”

  She grinned and slid her arm around his dad’s waist. “Just tryin’ to help.”

  4

  A few minutes later, Chance heard the soft shuffle of slippers on the hardwood floor of the dining room. Shaking the drips of water off the frying pan he’d just washed and rinsed, he grabbed a dish towel with the other hand and turned toward the sound. When Emily walked into the kitchen, he froze, the dish towel splayed across the bottom of the pan.

  She was wrapped in a heavy, rose pink terry bathrobe that almost hit the floor. Matching pink fuzzy slippers peeked beneath the hem of the robe with each step, as did blue flannel pajamas with tiny white flowers. Her hair was a little mussed, as if she’d attempted to smooth it down but hadn’t tried real hard.

  It was slightly below freezing outside but comfortably warm in the house. Yet, she was bundled up like they’d had a blizzard. Since it rarely got down to freezing in San Antonio, it must’ve seemed like twenty below to her.

  Her eyes widened when she saw him. She blinked, then focused sleepily on the coffeepot and put her feet in motion. “Coffee.”

  Chance hid a smile. Emily Rose was an absolutely adorable nonmorning person. Automatically drying the fry pan, he watched silently as she took a large mug from the cabinet and filled it with the hot brew. She added three teaspoons of sugar and stirred. He cringed. Opening the refrigerator, she removed a half gallon of milk and carefully added some to the coffee, turning it light mocha. She set the milk back in the fridge and picked up the cup, taking a tentative sip.

  Turning to face him, she took another, larger sip. “You’re here.”

  Chance chuckled and set the pan on the counter. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She stared at the pan for a few seconds. “You in trouble with your mom?” Another big sip of coffee. He could practically see the sleepy haze beginning to lift.

  “No. Why?”

  “Thought maybe she was making you do the dishes.”

  Chance laughed and tossed the dish towel on the counter. “My mama hasn’t punished me in twenty years. Well, maybe fifteen. And doing the dishes wasn’t on the list.”

  “What was?”

  “Nothing related to chores. We did those anyway. No TV or video games for a week, maybe more depending on the offense. No going over to Nate’s or having him over here. Or just plain being grounded when I got older.”

  “No basements,” she muttered. “Lucky you.”

  A prickly sensation crawled along the base of his neck, and he slowly moved closer to her. “What about basements?”

  “Nothing.”

  He stopped next to her and rested his arm against hers. “Come on, Em. Tell me what you meant.”

  “For minor offenses, I had to sit in the corner. But for big things, I was locked in a small storage room in the basement. Bugs. Spiders. No windows. Totally dark.” He felt a shudder sweep through her.

  He put his arm around her shoulders, holding her against his side. “You couldn’t turn on a light?”

  “It didn’t have one. For a few minutes, I could see a sliver of light through the crack beneath the door. Then whoever hauled me down there would go upstairs and turn off the light.”

  No wonder she didn’t have much to do with her parents. If he ever met her father, he’d have a hard time not slugging him. “How long were you left there?”

  She shrugged and took another drink of coffee. “I remember some of the TV shows that were on a couple of times, so I think fifteen to thirty minutes. Unless they forgot about me.”

  “Forgot . . .” He stepped around in front of her so he could see her face. How could anybody forget about a child? Or punish a kid like that? “How often did that happen?”

  “Only once. I misbehaved when my parents were out, and my nanny threw me into the dungeon.” She grimaced and stared at the mug. “I was there all night.”

  “Didn’t you cry or scream for help?”

  When she looked up, he caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes before she quickly masked it. “No. If I made too much noise, I’d have to stay there longer. Sometimes I laid down and tried to nap by pretending it was nighttime. Except I had a night-light in my bedroom, so that didn’t always work very well. Other times I told stories to an imaginary friend, mostly tales my grandmother had told me about little girls who were settlers back when Texas was a republic.” A smile eased the strain on her face. “I get my love of history from her. That night I talked until I fell asleep. My mother came and got me the next morning. I think she felt bad about it – ”

  “I hope so!”

  “She fired the nanny, and they never put me in the basement again. I just had to stay in my room when I misbehaved.”

  “How old were you, that last time?”

  “Six.”

  He wanted to hug her in the worst way, but she held that blasted mug in front of her like a shield. So he brushed a wisp of hair from her cheek, letting his fingers linger. She closed her eyes, seeming to take comfort in his touch.

  “So it was the nanny who locked you in the basement. Did your parents know about it?”

  She looked up at him again, sadness clouding her eyes. “It wasn’t only the nanny. My dad started it. I don’t think Mom knew about it until I was left there overnight. I still don’t understand why he didn’t see how traumatic his form of punishment was on me. Or how he kept the basement thing from my mother, though I honestly think he did. She was so busy with her agency, she didn’t pay a lot of attention to things at home sometimes.”

  Now he knew he was going to punch the guy. Bust his nose. Then throw him in a small dark room for a few days. Forbid her to ever see him again. Yeah, right. And she’d think I was a Neanderthal.

  “It didn’t warp me too much.” Her stomach rumbled, and she smiled. “See, I’m really pretty normal. Except I don’t think I could handle small, dark spaces very well. I really haven’t tested it, but other than that, I’m okay.”

  Chance couldn’t help it. He leaned down and feathered a kiss on her forehead. “You’re a whole lot better than okay.” When he straightened, she stared up at him, wide-eyed. But he thought – hoped – he saw pleasure along with the surprise. “Ramona left you some French toast in the oven.”

  She blinked and turned toward the stove, her shoulder bumping into his chest in her haste to get away. “Good. I’m starving.”

  Chance mentally kicked himself for moving too fast.

  “So what are you doing here this morning besides washing the dishes?”

  “I thought you might like to take a look at the Morse Building. I have a meeting in town later, but I’m free before then.”

  Using a pot holder, she removed a plate with two pieces of French toast and three pieces of bacon from the oven. “Great. I’m excited to see if it will work.” She poured syrup on the French toast – skipping the butter, Chance noted – picked up her plate and mug, and headed for the dining room.

  He tagged along, carrying his coffee. When he set the mug on the table and pulled out the chair for her, she looked up in surprise.

  “Thank you.” She sat down, and he scooted it forward slightly.

  As he walked around to the other side of the table, she bowed her head, her lips moving in a silent blessing. He waited until amen to ease into his chair.

  Spreading a napkin across her lap, she met his gaze. “Why are
you so polite this morning?”

  He grinned and slouched a little. “Am I impressing you?”

  “Maybe.”

  He lifted his cup, looking at her over the rim. “I’m trying to.”

  “Why?” She nibbled on a bite of bacon, then broke eye contact and focused on cutting up her French toast.

  “Because I want you to like me.”

  “I already do.”

  He set down the mug and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Good. Emily, you’re going to hear rumors about me.”

  “I already have. Several, in fact.” She smiled and took a bite of French toast, her expression growing thoughtful as she chewed.

  “Good things, I hope.” He figured not everything was flattering. There were some folks in Callahan Crossing who resented the Callahans and their success. And a few people who just flat out didn’t like him.

  “Mostly.” She paused and tipped her head slightly. “Everyone thinks highly of you, but I’ve been warned that you’re a heartbreaker.”

  “Who told you that?” Even though he supposed it was true, he didn’t like hearing it. Nor did he like people sticking their noses where they had no business.

  “Several people. From what I hear, you date a woman once or twice, then they never hear from you again. But it’s not too bad. Nobody has said anything about one-night stands.”

  “They’d better not – there haven’t been any. I try to live my faith, Emily Rose. I mess up as much as anybody else, but not in that way.”

  She concentrated on her plate, swabbing a piece of the egg-coated bread around and around in the syrup with her fork. A soft flush spread across her cheeks. “You’ve never been tempted?”

  Chance wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed, but he had a feeling it might not be good. “Sure, I have. But I’ve never dated anybody I cared enough about to let things get out of hand. I’m not saying it was easy, but God helped me.

  “To be honest, being a Callahan helped too. We’re minnows compared to a lot of ranchers and oilmen. But around here, we’re the big fish in a small pond. Probably two-thirds of the women I’ve gone out with were a whole lot more impressed with my daddy’s money than they were with me.”

  “I don’t believe that.” She glanced up and ate the soggy bite.

  “Thanks, but it’s true.” Her sincere praise gave a boost to his ego, which according to most people didn’t need increasing. “There’s another side of being a Callahan too. I come from a line of honorable, Christian men, beginning with the one who came West in 1880 and founded this ranch. A Callahan’s word is his bond. He treats people right and with respect. He honors his wife and the sanctity of marriage. It’s a heritage and reputation I’m determined to live up to.”

  Emily leaned back in her chair and picked up her coffee cup. “So the people in your family have always been Christians?” “Most of them. There were some folks several generations back who were pretty wild. One female cousin umpteen times removed ran off with an outlaw.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. The guy was killed in a shoot-out not long afterward, and she headed off to Chicago. According to family legend, she opened up a fancy saloon. But as far as I know, that was never confirmed.”

  “So you’ve always gone to church?”

  “Starting two weeks after I was born. I can’t even tell you when I accepted Jesus as my Savior. I’ve just always known it. What about your family? Did y’all go to church?”

  “No. I went with Grandma Rose when I visited her, but my parents only go to church for weddings and funerals.” She set the cup on the table and traced the grain of the wood with her fingertip. “I didn’t become a Christian until my senior year in college, after I broke up with my boyfriend.” When she met his gaze, he couldn’t decipher the emotion in her eyes. “I haven’t been as honorable as you, Chance.”

  Judging by her body language the last few minutes, he’d thought that might be the case, but he still felt as if he’d been sucker punched. Obviously, he didn’t hide his reaction very well because she winced.

  “It’s been different since Jesus found me.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe because I haven’t really dated anyone for very long at a time, but I’d like to think I’ve changed.”

  He nodded and smiled, hoping it didn’t look as forced as it felt. “The old man, or in your case, woman, is gone. Replaced by a new creature in Christ. He changes us all.”

  Now, if he would quit judging her and believe that. The conversation hadn’t gone as he had planned, and his thoughts were bouncing around so fast he didn’t know what to say.

  “Do I have time to take a quick shower?” She pushed back her chair and stood, gathering up her dishes.

  Chance looked at his watch. “Sure. My meeting isn’t until 10:00. I’ll go back over to the house and check my phone for messages.” It was a lousy excuse, but he needed some time to clear his head, and that wouldn’t happen if his mom noticed he was alone. “Give me a call when you’re ready.”

  “Okay. I’ll follow you in so I can go on to the old museum when we’re done. I’ll hustle.” She took care of her dirty dishes and headed down the long hallway to her room.

  Chance carried the cup to the kitchen, absently slid it into the dishwasher, and grabbed his coat from the coatrack by the door, leaving quietly. He covered the distance to his place with quick strides, his breath puffing in little white clouds in the cold air. Though it would be in the sixties by afternoon, the clear night had brought a frosty morning.

  He charged into his house, slamming the door behind him. All the houses in the family compound were far enough away from each other for that kind of noise not to disturb anybody. Shrugging out of the coat, he tossed it on a kitchen chair and stormed back to his office.

  “This love at first sight stuff is a bunch of hooey.” He’d taken everything he knew about her – all good – and decided she was perfect. But she wasn’t. Nobody was. Not even him.

  Pacing back and forth across his office, he raked his fingers through his hair. He was ready to explode. She’d slept with another man – maybe more than one. “And that’s a big deal.”

  There, he’d admitted it. Out loud.

  He dropped into his desk chair, leaned his head back against the cushion, and analyzed the situation. She was a Christian, so he’d assumed she’d grown up in a Christian home. He’d expected her to have always lived by scriptural standards and acceptable behavior. The kind of behavior he found acceptable.

  A few years back, after his sister’s marriage fell apart, he’d made a list of what he wanted in the woman he married. Strong, mature Christian held the top spot. In his mind, mature equaled long-standing.

  He’d always believed that the woman he’d fall in love with would be as pure as newly fallen snow. That was number two on the list. Given the casual attitude of many people about sex, it had been a very high expectation.

  Emily had been washed clean through Jesus. She was a new person, one whose sins were forgiven. In God’s eyes, she was pure.

  Was Chance Callahan so high and mighty that he couldn’t forgive her, especially for something that she had done long before he met her? How could he expect her to live by Christian morals when she hadn’t been a Christian?

  But that wasn’t the only problem, was it? It was something more elemental. More of a man thing. And much more personal. He wouldn’t be her one and only.

  Chance leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk, and rested his forehead against his loose fists. “Forgive me, Lord. I’m the one in the wrong here, not her. I’m disappointed, but that has as much to do with pride as anything. Help me let it go. She was honest with me, even after my grandiose speech about my piety. That says a lot about her character. My reaction doesn’t say much for mine. Guide me, Lord. Help me make up for being a self-righteous jerk.”

  Feeling better because he’d gotten things out of his system, he called his finishing carpenter to make sure the helper had s
howed up that morning. They were about done with a house north of town that had been started the previous October. Then he answered the bricklayer’s email, which had confirmed that the man could start on the decorative brickwork on the same house on Monday.

  Gathering up a folder with some notes for his meeting, he wandered back to the kitchen and waited for Emily to call. He used the time to scribble off a grocery list and stared for a few minutes at his pathetically stocked pantry. There wasn’t much use in filling it up for one person, especially when he ate a lot of his meals with the family or picked up something in town.

  His cell phone rang, and he quickly unfastened the snap on the case attached to his belt. Caller ID told him it was Emily. Make it good, Callahan. “Hi, darlin’. Are you ready to go?”

  “I am.” She didn’t sound offended or upset.

  He breathed a little easier. “I’ll be there directly.”

  Anticipation spiraled through him as he slipped on his coat, tucked the grocery list in the pocket, and picked up the folder.

  His head was on straight. Now to get his plans back on track.

  5

  Emily looked up at the decorative tin ceiling fifteen feet above her head in the Morse Building. “Is it original?”

  “Mostly. That was one reason I bought it. Back in the sixties, the previous owner put in a dropped ceiling with acoustical tiles. Wanted it to be more modern, I suppose. When I was looking at the building, I pushed one of the tiles up to see what was above it. I spotted that tin ceiling and got so excited I almost fell off the ladder.

  “I had to replace some of the tiles because they’d been damaged when they put up the second ceiling. I found an outfit that makes reproduction ones in the same pattern.”

  “The new ones are made of tin, not aluminum?”

  “Yes, though it took some searching. I was kind of amazed that I found exact replicas. So many of the ones used today aren’t actually made of tin. I wish I hadn’t been required to put in the sprinkler system. Those pipes detract from the ceiling. But it was necessary to bring it up to code.”