The Major and the Librarian
Nikki Benjamin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

NIKKI BENJAMIN

was born and raised in the Midwest, but after years in the Houston area, she considers herself a true Texan. Nikki says she’s always been an avid reader—her earliest literary heroines were Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden and Beany Malone. Her writing experience was limited, however, until a friend started penning a novel and encouraged Nikki to do the same. One scene led to another, and soon she was hooked.

When not reading or writing, the author enjoys spending time with her husband and son, doing needlepoint, hiking, biking, horseback riding and sailing.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

“Hey, Sam, how about joining us for a drink at the officers’ club?”

Major Sam Griffin, United States Air Force, glanced at the young lieutenant lounging in his office doorway, arched an eyebrow at the familiarity of his address, then smiled in spite of himself. Billy Fonteneaux was one of the more promising young fighter pilots under his command, and his southern Louisiana charm made it all too easy to forgive the lack of decorum he tended to exhibit during his off-duty hours.

“I might just do that,” Sam replied, then turned back to the stack of mail he had been sorting. “Are you heading over there now?”

“We were on our way when I noticed your light was still on. Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, but if you have other plans already…”

“Actually, I don’t,” Sam admitted with a rueful twist of his lips.

Returning alone to his bachelor quarters to nuke a frozen dinner in the microwave wasn’t exactly the kind of plan Lieutenant Fonteneaux’s teasing tone had implied.

“So what do you say, Major? Have a beer with us, why don’t you?”

“I can’t make any promises,” Sam hedged after a few moment’s consideration. While the prospect of sharing a little lighthearted camaraderie with his junior officers was tempting, he preferred not to commit himself completely. “I have to clear up a few things around here first, then I’ll see how I feel.”

“Good enough, sir.” Satisfied, Billy sketched a jaunty salute, then turned away.

As the lieutenant’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Sam sat back in his chair, the stack of mail he had received that afternoon temporarily forgotten.

There had been a time when he wouldn’t have thought twice about accepting Billy Fonteneaux’s invitation. A time when he’d had a reputation for being the life of the party wherever he happened to be stationed. But that hadn’t been the case for years now—almost four years, to be exact.

At thirty-five, he was still a relatively young man, and he wasn’t tied down by a wife and children. But his younger brother’s death had changed him in ways that were undeniable. Something had died inside him on that late June day as he’d sat on the roadside, cradling Teddy’s lifeless body in his arms.

Don’t go there, Sam warned himself.

There was nothing to be gained by resurrecting the past. What was done was done, and no matter how long he wallowed in his bitter, painful memories, that would never change.

Forcing his thoughts back to the task at hand, Sam sorted through the few remaining envelopes addressed to him. Nothing of any real importance, he noted. Bills from a couple of credit-card companies along with statements for his bank and brokerage accounts that he trusted would assure him he was still financially solvent.

He had hoped there would be a letter from his mother, but he’d quickly seen that there wasn’t. Aside from the postcard she had sent over a month ago while visiting friends in Seattle, he hadn’t heard from her in almost six weeks. Not all that unusual, really, and certainly nothing to be concerned about. Mail from the States to the air base in Italy could sometimes take awhile. And since she’d been away recently, she probably had quite a bit of catching up to do around the house.

Sam supposed he could call, but he was never quite sure what to say to her. Though he had never had reason to doubt his mother’s love for him—quite the contrary, in fact—they had never been close. At least not as close as she and Teddy had been.

Sam had bonded more deeply with his father, perhaps because he and Caleb Griffin had been a lot alike—physically, as well as emotionally. Sam, too, had felt suffocated by life in small-town Serenity, Texas. And he, too, had found a way to leave, although not quite as dramatically or as devastatingly as his father had.

Once again, Sam caught himself venturing into a place he would rather not go. Forcing his thoughts away from the tragedy of his father’s suicide twenty-five years ago, he vowed to write to his mother later that evening. By putting pen to paper, he could maintain the distance he needed and delay calling—

Tossing aside an application for yet another credit card, Sam frowned, then sat back in his chair, his gaze locked on the last envelope in his stack. The handwriting hadn’t been familiar, so his attention hadn’t been caught by it when he’d first glanced through his mail. But now, finally registering the return address, he experienced a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“Emma Dalton, 1209 Bay Leaf Lane, Serenity, Texas.”

Emma…shy, sweet Emma with her wild red curls, her bright green eyes and her lovely, lilting laugh.

She was the last person on the face of the earth Sam Griffin would have ever expected to send him a letter.

For years, she had been his brother’s best friend. And sadly, secretly—for the most part—the only woman Sam had ever wanted. The one woman he could never have. All through high school and college, she had been Teddy’s girl, then his blushing bride-to-be. And then, after he had taken Teddy from her—

I hate you, Sam Griffin. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you….

Reflexively, Sam crushed the envelope in his hand as he saw again the anger and pain flashing in her eyes, heard again the heartrending sobs shaking her slender body as she sank to the floor of the hospital waiting room, her cream silk wedding dress puddling around her.

Why had she chosen to contact him now of all times? The anniversary of Teddy’s death was only a few weeks away. Was it something to do with that? But then, what could she possibly have to say to him after four long years of silence?

Sam wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Emma Dalton was a part of his past—one of the most devastating parts, to be exact. Surely he would be better off if that was what she remained.

What good could possibly come of allowing her to reenter his world? For years, he had done his damnedest to avoid even the mere thought of her. More and more often lately, he’d actually succeeded. Now…this…

He wasn’t fool enough to think Emma’s opinion of him had changed. And he certainly wasn’t masochistic enough to feel he had to endure another round of her reproach. There was nothing she could say to him that he hadn’t already said to himself a thousand times or more.

He would never forget what had happened to Teddy, nor would he ever forgive himself for it. He knew that he deserved Emma Dalton’s animosity. He deserved it in spades. Of that he had never needed a reminder.

But he had finally come to realize all the mea culpas in the world wouldn’t bring his brother back. That understanding, accompanied by acceptance, had gradually eased his anguish.

For one very long, very lonely moment, Sam fought the temptation to toss the unopened envelope into the trash can, grab his jacket, head for the officers’ club and start working his way through a bottle of Scotch. By the end of the evening, he would be lucky to remember his name, much less all that had occurred four years ago. Unfortunately, that respite would be temporary at best, and with it would also come the possibility of grave repercussions.

Once already, he had come close to destroying his career as a fighter pilot by seeking solace in a bottle of booze. He wasn’t about to risk doing it again. The air force was all he had left now. Which was only just, since the air force, with its promise of adventure, had been all he’d wanted from the moment he applied for an appointment to the academy in Colorado Springs.

Of course, that had been long before Teddy first introduced him to Emma. Then he had begun to realize the freedom he’d craved wasn’t quite as satisfying as he had thought it would be….

Cursing under his breath, Sam shifted in his chair and smoothed the crumpled envelope.

How long had it been since he’d last thought of Emma—really thought of her? Months, he admitted. Yet, in a few minutes’ time, and with nothing more than a plain white envelope addressed in her hand, she had slid under his skin all over again. And there she would stay, giving him no peace, if he threw her letter away without reading it.

He had no intention of suffering through any more sleepless nights than absolutely necessary. And there could be any number of reasons why she had written to him. Reasons that had more to do with the present than the past, he acknowledged. Reasons he had been too egocentric to consider initially.

Surely Emma Dalton had better things to do than send him a venomous letter four years after the fact. Yet he would lay odds she wasn’t the type to seek out, impulsively, a man she had once claimed to despise, either.

Thanks to his mother, who had taken Emma under her wing after Teddy’s death and mentioned her occasionally in her letters, Sam knew she still lived in Serenity and still worked at the town’s library, where she’d recently been promoted to head librarian. She was still single, as well, but lived quietly in the small house she’d bought a couple of years ago.

A steady, responsible young woman making a decent, respectable life for herself despite the tragedy she had suffered. A woman who should, by all accounts, want nothing to do with the likes of him. So why had she written to him out of the blue?

Realizing there was only one way to find out, Sam slit the sealed flap on the envelope and slowly withdrew the single sheet of stationery. He unfolded it reluctantly and saw that she had been brief—very brief—and almost painfully to the point.

Once again, Sam experienced a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he read the two short paragraphs rigidly written in her precise hand.

May 23

Dear Sam:

I am writing to advise you that your mother is ill. Specifically, she was diagnosed with a chronic form of leukemia several months ago. Since the initial treatment she received seemed to bring about a remission, she thought it best not to tell you. At that time she didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily. She still doesn’t. However, she recently suffered a relapse, and since the current prognosis is not good, I thought you should know.

I have been staying at the house with her and will continue to do so as long as necessary, so you don’t have to be concerned that she’s receiving proper care. But seeing you again would mean a lot to her. Since I realize you might not be able to get away on such short notice, I haven’t told her that I’ve contacted you. She isn’t expecting you, so she won’t be disappointed if you can’t make it. But please try to come home, Sam—for a few days, at least.

Sincerely,

Emma Dalton

Sam read through the letter a second time, wishing he could ignore the one thing Emma had left unsaid, yet knowing in his heart that he couldn’t. Though she had refrained from spelling it out in so many words, he realized there was a very good chance that his mother was dying. And while she hadn’t reached out to him herself—perhaps out of fear that she would be rebuffed by her wild, wayward son—he also knew that she needed him.

Unlike Emma, Margaret Griffin had never held him accountable for his brother’s death. Instead, she had let him know time and time again that her faith in him was as strong as ever. And she had told him more times than he could count that she would always be there for him, just a phone call away—that if he needed her for any reason, she would come to him. As she had, traveling at least once a year to wherever he happened to be stationed.

She had understood how difficult returning to Serenity would be for him, and she had never expected it of him. Even now, faced with a life-threatening illness—her only remaining family half a world away—she hadn’t asked him to come home. Not because she didn’t want him there, but because she hoped to spare him what she knew as well as he would be a painful journey.

The mere thought of returning to Serenity with the anniversary of Teddy’s death looming less than a month away filled Sam with trepidation. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach increased, and his hands shook ever so slightly. Reactions more suited to the moments preceding a dog fight with enemy aircraft high above Earth. Reactions he had overcome when much more than his emotional well-being was at stake.

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, he set aside Emma’s letter, then opened the center drawer of his desk and pulled out a calendar. His current tour of duty would be ending the following week. Though he’d had no specific plans, he had intended to take several weeks of leave before returning stateside.

Barring any unforeseen difficulties, he could be on a flight to San Antonio Thursday, Friday at the latest. Depending on the connections he was able to make, that ought to put him in Serenity sometime Saturday. He would also have time to request an assignment at one of the air bases in Texas so he would be reasonably close by when his leave was over.

Sam reached for the phone on his desk and began to dial his mother’s number, easily calling it up from memory despite the length of time since he’d last used it. Halfway through, however, he stopped, then slowly cradled the receiver.

He didn’t want to give his mother the chance to talk him out of coming, and he had no doubt that was exactly what she would try to do if he advised her of his plans. She wouldn’t want to burden him, and in his present frame of mind, he would find it awfully hard to argue with her. In fact, allowing her to dissuade him would be too damned easy. Especially if she set her mind to it as he knew she would.

He couldn’t let himself be drawn off course. Not if he had any hope of living with himself in the future. He owed his mother more than he could ever repay. Going back to Serenity wouldn’t begin to cancel that debt, but it would be better than burying his head in the sand and pretending all would be well.

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.

Swiping futilely at her hair, Emma once again pasted a smile on her face and crossed to the porch steps.

“Yes, I see,” she said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded, then risked a glance at Sam, barely meeting his penetrating gaze. With his iron jaw and eagle eyes, he had always had a tendency to look…severe. The expression she glimpsed on his face assured her that hadn’t changed. “Hello, Sam. It’s nice to see you again.”

“It’s nice to see you again, too, Emma,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Well, come on up to the porch and have a seat,” Margaret urged. “How about a glass of iced tea?”

“Sounds good,” Sam agreed as he started up the steps.

“I’ll get it.” Emma made the offer gladly, eager to have a reason to retreat, at least temporarily.

“Why, thank you, dear.” Margaret patted her arm gratefully, then turned back to Sam. “You really should have given me some warning,” she scolded.

“Then you wouldn’t have been surprised…”

Relieved by Sam’s bantering tone, Emma slipped into the house. She had no idea how he planned to explain his unexpected arrival. But for the time being, he didn’t seem inclined to reveal the part she had played in it. That would mean he’d have to mention his mother’s illness, as well, and he wouldn’t spoil her happiness by doing that just yet.

Catching sight of herself in the hall mirror as she headed for the kitchen, Emma winced. The parts of her hair not plastered to her skull by the straw hat she’d been wearing stuck out in all directions. Her ratty T-shirt and shorts were sweat stained, bits of grass clung to her bare arms and her face was smudged with dirt and grime.

“Delightful,” she muttered as she continued down the hallway, then laughed ruefully.

Had she put her mind to it, she probably couldn’t have thought of a better way to put Sam off than she already had in her current state of dishevelment.

In the kitchen, she filled glasses for Margaret and Sam only, put them on a tray along with the tea pitcher and a fresh bowl of ice, then returned to the porch.

“Here you go,” she said, interrupting their murmured conversation as she bumped the screen door open with her hip.

They glanced up at her, but she avoided meeting either of their gazes. Even when Sam stood and, his fingers brushing hers, took the tray and set it on the wicker table.

“You didn’t fill a fresh glass for yourself,” Margaret noted.

“I thought I’d let you two visit on your own while I get cleaned up,” Emma replied as she turned to go back into the house. “I’ll pop that casserole in the oven, too. Unless you’d rather eat a little later tonight…”

“Oh, no, Emma. The usual time will be just fine.” Margaret touched Sam’s arm. “How does King Ranch chicken sound to you?”

“Like a slice of heaven.” He smiled at her with unabashed affection.

Feeling even more like a fifth wheel, Emma yanked the screen door open.

“Come out and join us as soon as you’ve had your shower,” Margaret called after her.

“I will,” Emma said, letting the screen door slap shut behind her.

Actually, she had no intention of hanging around now that Sam was home. She would shower, dress, then pack up her belongings, make her excuses and return to her own house a few blocks away. Her presence here was no longer necessary. Sam would be available if Margaret needed anything. And Emma could always return once he’d left again.

She put the chicken casserole Margaret had prepared earlier in the oven, then scurried upstairs to the guest room she had been using for the past three weeks. Margaret’s bedroom was right next door. The bedrooms Sam and Teddy had used as children were on the opposite side of the landing, their doors closed.

Emma supposed she should take a few minutes to air out Sam’s room, but just the thought of invading what had always been his personal space made her uneasy. She could only hope Mrs. Beal had changed the linen and dusted recently. If not, Sam could do it himself.

Right now, all Emma wanted was to get away from him before she said or did something stupid. She could only pretend to be cool and calm in his presence for so long. Then anything could happen. Could, and with her luck, probably would.

Chapter 3

“I wonder what’s taking Emma so long,” Margaret said, glancing at her watch for the third time in less than fifteen minutes.

Sam had been asking himself the same question as he eyed his own watch surreptitiously, and he already had a pretty good idea of what the answer could be. He’d seen how steadfastly Emma had avoided his gaze despite her courteous manner. As if she could barely stand the sight of him. Why, then, would she go out of her way to seek out his company?

He couldn’t say as much to his mother, though. She would pretend not to understand. Just as she’d already pretended not to understand why he had expressed concern about her well-being. He couldn’t come right out and tell her Emma hated his guts any more than he could come right out and tell her how shocked he was by her frailty.

She had aged to a frightening degree since he’d seen her last. But when he’d asked outright if she had been ill, she hadn’t said anything specific about having been diagnosed with leukemia.

Instead, she had hedged, admitting only that she had been a bit under the weather the past few weeks, thus finding it necessary to ask Emma to stay with her. Then she’d also insisted—rather hurriedly—that she was feeling much better, especially now that he had finally returned to Serenity.

“It was time you came back,” she had said. “But why now?”

“Because it was time,” he’d replied, hedging in his own way.

He couldn’t admit that Emma’s letter had been the real catalyst without also revealing why she had written to him. And what would that do for his mother other than spoil the thrill of his homecoming for her?

There would be more than enough time in the days ahead to confront her about the true nature of her illness.

“Maybe I ought to check on her,” Margaret continued. “Or, better yet, you could do that while I get started on the salad.” She nodded purposefully. “Yes, that’s a better idea. You can get your bags out of the car, take them up to your room, then make sure Emma didn’t slip in the bathtub and bump her head.”

Oh, now that was something he really wanted to do—intrude on Emma Dalton while she was taking care of her personal needs.

“She’s probably just drying her hair,” Sam said, the heat of a blush warming his face.

“Probably. But it would set my mind at ease to know that nothing’s happened to her. Of course, if you’re going to be shy about it, I can climb the stairs myself.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he muttered, smiling ruefully as he glimpsed the merry twinkle in her faded blue eyes. “As you pointed out, I have to take my stuff up anyway. I might as well check on her while I’m there.”

Margaret Griffin had always been much too good at getting her own way, and obviously, she still was. Though what she hoped to accomplish by sending him chasing after Emma he couldn’t even begin to imagine. Or perhaps, more accurately, he could, but chose not to.

“Thank you, son.” She smiled brightly as she retrieved the tray from the wicker table.

“You’re welcome,” Sam replied.

He held the screen door for her, then walked slowly down the porch steps and crossed the lawn to the car he had rented at the airport in San Antonio.

Had he honestly believed Emma had been delayed because of some mishap, he would have been more inclined to hurry. But likely as not, she had simply bypassed the front porch, going on to the kitchen instead.

No doubt Margaret would find her there, and the two of them would finish putting together the meal he’d been promised, leaving him to try to make himself at home in the one place he no longer felt he belonged.

The drive from San Antonio had been pleasant enough, but then he’d been away so long that the city itself, as well as the sprawling countryside on the outskirts, had seemed only vaguely familiar. As he’d entered Serenity, however, he had been bombarded by memories. Surprisingly, not all of them had been bad. And those that were… Well, they were also distant enough to have lost their edge.

Still, he had driven more slowly, prolonging the moment when he would have no choice but to pull into the driveway of the aging, two-story Victorian house on Holly Street.

Sam had told himself he was simply reacquainting himself with his hometown, taking in the various changes that had occurred during his four-year absence—the refurbishing of many older homes and the building of new ones, as well as the revitalizing addition of shops and restaurants to the downtown area.

Yet he had known what he’d really been doing. In a roundabout way, he had been putting off what he had long believed would be the ultimate test of his fortitude.

Eventually, he was going to have to walk inside his mother’s house, climb the steps to the second floor and face, once and for all, the emptiness—made even more awful by its permanence—of his brother’s bedroom.

As Sam had drawn closer and closer, he had found himself wondering how his mother had faced the void Teddy’s death had left day after day, year after year. And then, in a sudden flash of realization, he had mentally cursed himself for allowing her to do so all alone.

He had been so damned intent on distancing himself from his pain that, for the most part, he had blocked out all thought of hers.

Some son he had been, he’d thought as he finally turned into his mother’s driveway.

And yet, she had never held his disregard against him. Not once in the four years he had stayed away. She had waited patiently for him to come to his senses—something he hadn’t really done on his own, but rather, thanks to Emma’s none too gentle nudging.

Hell, in her own subtle way, Margaret Griffin had even given him time to adjust to actually being home again before suggesting, at last, that they ought to go inside.

“So stop dragging your feet,” Sam growled, grabbing his bags, then slamming the trunk lid and turning back to the house.

The place looked exactly the same as he remembered, at least on the outside. It also seemed to have held up fairly well. His mother had had the white clapboard and the dark red gingerbread trim painted within the past couple of years, and the yard appeared to be well tended—thanks to Emma, his mother had said.

He imagined little had changed on the inside, either. Which, while understandable, wasn’t wholly heartening. Growing up there hadn’t been a totally disagreeable experience. He and Teddy hadn’t suffered for lack of love and affection from their parents or each other.

But Sam had suffered his most tragic losses while living within those four walls. And now the possibility of another equally life-shattering loss had brought him back again. Was it any wonder he had to force himself to mount the porch steps, open the screen door and enter the shadowed hallway?

“I’ve switched on the air-conditioning, so shut the front door, will you, please?” his mother requested from the door to the kitchen.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, displaying the manners she had worked so hard to drill into him.

“Oh, go on.” She waved a hand at him dismissively. “Don’t be so fresh.”

“I’m not,” he protested, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

“You are,” she retorted, a smile of her own belying her grumpy tone.

“All right, I am,” he conceded as he started up the staircase.

“Don’t forget to check on Emma.”

“She hasn’t come down yet?”

Sam paused a moment, his brow furrowing. He didn’t think Emma had come to any harm, and he doubted his mother did, either. She seemed much too placid for that. But then, what had she been doing up there for almost an hour? While she might have needed a little time to reconcile herself to his arrival, to his knowledge she had never been the type to hide from anyone, including him.

“Not yet, and she must know dinner’s almost ready. See if you can hurry her along,” Margaret instructed. “And don’t dawdle yourself.”

“I won’t,” Sam promised as he continued up the stairs.

From the little he had seen of the first floor, he had been right to assume most everything in the house had stayed the same. The sofa and chairs in the formal living room and dining room had been reupholstered, and the heavy velvet draperies on the windows had been replaced by curtains in a lighter, lacier fabric. Otherwise, the pieces of dark wood furniture stood in their respective places as stolidly as ever.

Yet Sam hadn’t felt quite as uncomfortable as he had feared he would. Instead, he’d experienced a surprisingly strong sense of warmth and welcoming.

Probably due to the mouthwatering aromas wafting out of the kitchen, he told himself. But no matter. He was grateful for anything that eased his homecoming.

He paused again on the second-floor landing, his gaze drawn first to the hall bathroom straight ahead of him. Thankfully, the door was open and the light was off, indicating that Emma had finished in there. He didn’t have to worry about finding her lying in a naked heap.

From the bathroom, his gaze swept farther down the hallway, taking in the closed doors of his and Teddy’s bedrooms. With relief, Sam realized he wouldn’t have to look inside his brother’s room unless he chose—

A muffled thump brought his attention to the bedrooms on his left. The one with the door wide open was his mother’s. The other, with the door partially closed, was the guest room where Emma must be staying.

Another thump, followed by a screech that sounded like a drawer opening, then an unintelligible mutter of words, almost made him smile. What on earth was she doing in there? Surely not rearranging things.

Drawn by his curiosity, Sam acted without really thinking. He dropped his bags on the floor, walked over to the guest room and nudged the door open a few inches.

The slight movement caught Emma’s eye, and she looked up, obviously startled. Her gaze met his for an instant, then skittered away as she clutched what appeared to be a white sleeveless nightgown to her chest. From the expression on her face, Sam wasn’t sure whether she was more angry or embarrassed by his intrusion.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. Shifting uncomfortably, he bumped against the door by accident, opening it even more. “I heard…noises in here and thought…” He hesitated uncertainly. “Actually, I’m not sure what I thought,” he admitted.

Unable to stop staring, he noted that she’d cleaned up quite nicely. Her glorious red hair curled about her face in artful disarray, making her look incredibly young and innocent. But the pale yellow sundress she wore emphasized her femininity in a way that left no doubt she was all grown up.

“That’s all right,” she murmured, glancing at him, then away again.

As she lowered her gaze, Sam spied the open suitcase on her bed, and frowned.

“What are you doing?” he asked, though the neatly folded clothing already packed inside the bag made his question rather redundant.

“Now that you’re here…” She paused, then tipped up her chin, her gaze finally meeting his head-on as she continued, “I thought maybe I ought to go back to my house.”

So she had chosen to cut and run after all. Sam knew he should consider that a lucky break. If she went home, he wouldn’t have to deal with her dislike on a full-time basis as he had been dreading he would. But oddly enough, what he felt was disappointment—deep disappointment.

While Emma hadn’t greeted his arrival with any great joy, she hadn’t gone out of her way to show any animosity toward him, either. Obviously he made her uncomfortable. Hell, she made him uncomfortable. But that didn’t mean there was no hope for them.

Hope for what, he wasn’t quite sure. Reconciliation, perhaps? He wasn’t sure about Emma, but he wanted that, he realized. Wanted it and needed it. Only he couldn’t come right out and say as much. At least not yet.

“Going back to your house?” He eyed her questioningly, trying to buy the time he needed to come up with a good reason for her to stay put. “Why?”

“Because you’re here now,” she repeated in a slightly exasperated tone.

“What difference does that make?” he asked, intentionally acting obtuse.

“With you around, Margaret’s not going to need me anymore.”

“I don’t know about that,” Sam countered, finally hitting upon a fairly good excuse for her to stay. “From what she said after you left us, she loves having you here. But she’s afraid she’s been taking advantage of you. If you rush off, she’s going to think she was right, and she’s going to be really upset.”

“I’ve tried to tell her that wasn’t so,” Emma insisted, her brow furrowing.

“For her sake, I wish you’d stick around. And for mine,” he admitted honestly.

“Yours?” She eyed him uncertainly, her confusion evident.

“My mother hasn’t said anything about the leukemia yet. When I casually asked about her health, she mentioned—just as casually—that she’d been ill, but not how seriously. I didn’t want to press her my first day home, so I didn’t say anything about your letter. I know we’re going to have to talk about it eventually, and we will. But until then…” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m afraid she won’t ask for my help if she has a bad spell. And if I’m the only one here…” Again he allowed his words to trail away before adding, “At least she would have you to turn to if you stayed a while longer.”

“How long are you planning to be here?” Emma asked, her frown deepening.

“A minimum of four weeks, longer if necessary.”

“She has an appointment a week from Monday with her doctor in Houston. Since she won’t be able to keep that a secret, I suppose I could wait until then to go home,” she conceded, albeit reluctantly.

“I’d really appreciate it,” Sam said.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to upset Margaret.”

With a look of resignation on her face, Emma tossed the nightgown on the bed, gathered an armful of clothes from the suitcase and turned back to the open dresser drawer.

Feeling as if he’d been summarily dismissed, Sam said nothing more as he backed out of her bedroom doorway and collected his bags.

“What’s going on up there, you two?” Margaret called from the foot of the staircase. “Dinner’s been ready for almost twenty minutes now.”

“We’ll be right down,” Sam assured her.

“You said that once already.”

“This time I mean it.”

“What about Emma?”

“I’m on my way now,” she replied.

Stepping out of her bedroom, she paused to exchange a wary glance with him, then started down the steps.

Sam eyed her thoughtfully a moment longer, then crossed to his bedroom, opened the door and dumped his things on the floor. He noted that his mother had changed the bed linens and curtains since his last visit home. But much to his dismay, the room still had the look of a shrine about it—a shrine to his boyhood. Fortunately, that could be remedied in the time it would take him to pack everything away in a couple of cardboard boxes.

By the time he reached the kitchen, Margaret was ready to serve. Since they were all hungry—or at least seemed to be if the way they filled their plates and set to eating was any indication—they managed to get through most of the meal without having to exchange more than the minimum of polite conversation.

Sam relished every bite of his mother’s old-fashioned home cooking, helping himself to another serving of both the salad and the casserole. Emma ate heartily, as well, though she declined seconds. And though Margaret’s appetite seemed somewhat diminished, she, too, finished everything on her plate.

“Sure you’ve had enough?” she asked when he finally sat back and pushed his empty plate away.

“More than enough,” he replied, smiling gratefully.

“I hope you saved room for a slice of fresh peach pie.” As his mother stood, she picked up his plate. “Emma baked it yesterday—homemade from scratch.”

“There’s vanilla ice cream, too,” Emma added, helping Margaret clear the table.

“Sounds tempting, but I really stuffed myself with the King Ranch chicken.”

“Then I’ll make it a small slice,” Margaret said.

“All right, but no ice cream…please.”

“Coffee?” Emma appeared at his side, holding out a steaming mug. “It’s decaf.”

“Thanks.”

Sam took the mug from her, but she turned away before he had the chance to add a smile.

“You know, I’ve been thinking…” Margaret began as she returned to the table with his pie.

“About what?” Sam asked, eyeing with chagrin the slice she had cut for him.

He had forgotten that his mother’s idea of small would be twice the size he’d had in mind. But the first bite was so luscious, he doubted he would have any trouble finishing it.

“That car you rented,” Margaret replied as Emma returned to the table with mugs of coffee for herself and his mother. “You don’t really need it. You can use mine instead and save yourself a bundle of money.”

“It’s not that expensive. And returning it to the San Antonio airport would be a hassle. Someone would have to drive over in another car and give me a ride back. Someone other than you,” he stated bluntly, hoping to ward off what he fully expected would be her next volley.

Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she wasn’t up to making a long drive, especially on her own.

“Well, yes. Someone other than me,” Margaret countered with a faint tinge of sarcasm, then faced Emma with a beguiling smile. “You wouldn’t mind following Sam in my car and driving back with him, would you? Tomorrow. After church, of course.”

Trying hard to mask his dismay, Sam glanced at Emma. She stared at Margaret for a long moment, a stricken look on her face, then bowed her head and gazed intently at the contents of her coffee mug, saying nothing.

“I’m sure she has a lot of things she’d rather do with her Sunday afternoon,” he said.

“Oh, no,” his mother said. “She’s been wanting to go to San Antonio for ages. Haven’t you, dear? To visit that nursery where they sell those Old Garden roses you like so much. You could stop at the needlepoint shop on the Riverwalk, too. Dolly called to say the canvas and yarn she ordered for me finally came in. I’m fairly sure both places are open on Sunday afternoon, so you could make a day of it. Unless you do have other plans…”

“Not really,” Emma admitted. “But what about you? Don’t you want to ride along with us, too?”

Sam couldn’t help but hear the desperation in her voice.

She didn’t want to go off on her own with him any more than he wanted to go off on his own with her. But his mother seemed oblivious to that fact. Seemed being the operative word, since she had always prided herself on being highly perceptive.

What was she up to? he wondered. Surely not match-making. She, of all people, had to realize how impossible any union between him and Emma would be.

“I think I’ll just stay here and take it easy,” Margaret replied, then turned her gaze on him again, her eyes laser sharp. “So that’s settled. We’ll go to Mass at nine, have breakfast at the Serenity Café—they still make the best pecan pancakes in town—then you can hit the road.”

“Only if Emma is sure she doesn’t mind,” Sam said.

“I don’t.” Without looking at either of them, she stood quickly, her jerky movements belying her words, and took her mug to the sink.

Sam could think of at least a hundred things he would rather do the following day, and he imagined Emma could, too. But she obviously wasn’t any better at defying Margaret’s wishes than he was. He could almost feel sorry for her, but he was already much too busy feeling sorry for himself.

Damn it, he should have let her go back to her house when he had the chance. Now he was going to be stuck with her all day tomorrow, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. What would she say to him once they were away from his mother’s house?

And what in heaven’s name would he say to her?

“Emma, dear, you look tired. And no wonder after all your hard work today. Why don’t you make an early night of it. Sam can help me clean up the kitchen. Can’t you, son?”

“Yeah, sure.” He stood, his empty plate and mug in hand.

“You know, I think I’ll do just that,” Emma agreed, her relief evident. “See you in the morning.” She gave Margaret a quick hug, then barely glanced his way and added, “Good night, Sam.”

“Good night, Emma.”

As he watched her leave the kitchen, Sam caught himself thinking about the frilly white nightgown she’d held against her chest when he’d intruded on her earlier.

Thought of her slipping into it, then climbing into the big, old-fashioned four-poster bed in the guest room, and wished—

“You wash and I’ll dry,” his mother instructed, diverting his attention not a moment too soon.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Stepping up to the sink, he turned on the hot-water faucet, then reached for the liquid soap. Wordlessly, his mother moved to his side, reached up and curved her palm against the side of his face, surprising him.

“Have I told you how glad I am that you’ve come home?”

“At least once already,” he assured her, putting an arm around her slender shoulders. “But I don’t think I’ve told you how glad I am to be here.”

“Are you really?”

“Yes, really.”

Sam hugged his mother close, aware that he had spoken the truth. Despite everything that had happened there, coming back to Serenity had been the right thing to do. And he was glad he’d realized it before it was too late.

“I’m glad.” She hugged him back, then eased away. “Now let’s get this mess cleaned up so we can sit out on the porch awhile and talk. I want you to tell me all about those young pilots you’ve been training.”

Chapter 4

With each mile that spun by beneath the whirring tires of Margaret Griffin’s stately Volvo, the dread that had first settled into Emma’s soul the night before blossomed anew. She sat stiffly in the driver’s seat, clutching the steering wheel with sweaty hands, her eyes locked on the dark blue sedan traveling at a sedate pace a couple of car lengths ahead of her.

Sam seemed in no more of a hurry than she was to reach their destination, but that inevitable moment would be upon them very soon. They had long since left the winding country roads outside Serenity for the four-lane freeway leading into San Antonio. Now they were less than a mile from the airport exit along which the car-rental agency’s lot was located.

Emma couldn’t remember the drive to San Antonio ever seeming to go by so swiftly. But a glance at the clock on the dashboard assured her they had been on the road the requisite hour and a half such a trip normally took.

Apparently, time could also fly when you weren’t having fun.

Not that the drive had been unpleasant. Quite the contrary, in fact, since the weather was nice and the traffic light. What had her quailing wasn’t the journey itself, but rather what awaited her at its end.

From the moment Margaret had first suggested she and Sam spend the afternoon together, Emma’s stomach had been tied in knots. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had been alone with him. And she could recall in all too devastating detail the last of those blessedly rare occasions.

The memory of what had happened on that late June afternoon—only two days before she was supposed to marry Teddy—had seared itself into her mind and heart in such a painful way that any attempt to disregard it proved to be utterly futile. And though she knew better than to imagine there was any chance of a repeat performance, the mere thought of finding herself in a similar situation had been more than enough to unnerve her.

Sam, too, had seemed just as dismayed as she was by his mother’s proposal, which—in a perverse way Emma refused to contemplate too closely—had not only annoyed her, but offered her a small measure of consolation, as well. At least she hadn’t been the only one thrown for a loop.

Yet there had been little either of them could say to dissuade Margaret from the course she had set. Arguing with her would have been a waste of time. She’d had right on her side, and she’d known it.

Allowing Sam to pay for a rental car when he could use hers would have been foolish. And since Margaret really wasn’t up to making the drive to San Antonio on her own…

Of course, she could have ridden along as a passenger and served as a buffer of sorts, Emma thought as she pulled to a stop behind the sedan just outside the rental agency’s office.

Actually, she had been counting on Margaret to do just that up until the moment they had finally said their goodbyes outside her house. The chance to spend some time with Sam had to have appealed to her. And hadn’t she often said how restful she found it to ride in a car?

Not that she had seemed in need of a nap. In Emma’s opinion, she had been in fine fettle that morning. Standing proudly beside her son, she had sung the hymns during the church service in a vibrant voice. Then she’d polished off a tall stack of pancakes at the Serenity Café with obvious relish.

Her decision to take to her bed once they’d returned to her house hadn’t rung true. And Emma had been hard-pressed not to remind her of her oft-stated disapproval of sleeping the day away. Especially when she’d caught the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. A twinkle Emma sincerely hoped Sam hadn’t seen.

Bad enough that she had an idea of what Margaret seemed to have had in mind when she’d sent them off alone. She didn’t want Sam getting wind of his mother’s machinations, as well. Too much had happened for them to be friends, much less anything more…intimate.

For Margaret’s sake, they could try to tolerate each other in the days ahead. But expecting either of them to do more than that would be like asking for the moon. Or, more accurately, expecting any more of Sam.

In all honesty, Emma had to admit it wouldn’t take much for her to succumb to his masculine appeal. After all, she had spent the past four years mourning his absence, as well as Teddy’s, albeit in a very different way. But she knew without a doubt that she had destroyed any feelings he might have had for her. Otherwise, he would have never stayed away so long.

Only his concern for his mother had brought him back to Serenity—his very obvious and deeply felt concern.

As Emma shut off the Volvo’s engine, Sam—looking cool and confident in navy shorts and a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows—stepped from the sedan. He glanced back at her a moment, his expression unreadable thanks to the mirrored sunglasses he wore, lifted a hand in acknowledgment, then turned toward the rental agency’s entryway.

With a pang of longing that was almost laughable under the circumstances, Emma watched him pull the door open and disappear inside.

She had always prided herself on her ability to face facts head-on. And she had certainly never considered herself a masochist. So how could the mere sight of one man—especially the one man who had every reason to spurn her—still have such a devastating effect on her?

Her reaction to seeing him just now had been only slightly less unsettling than the reaction she’d had when she’d seen him yesterday afternoon and again when she’d first come upon him early that morning.

At Margaret’s request, he had dressed in uniform for the church service. Seeing him standing tall and handsome in the living room, Emma had felt her breath catch in her throat. She had halted in the doorway, staring at him as a rush of emotion engulfed her. The urge to walk up to him, put her arms around his waist and rest her head on his shoulder had been almost overwhelming.

Until he had glanced at her, his chin up, his blue eyes cold and distant.

Then she had wanted to turn on her heel and run as far and fast as she could. Her pride alone had held her still. Lifting her chin, she had somehow managed not only to hold her ground, but to meet his icy gaze with her own brand of hard-won reserve, as well.

She had stayed on in his mother’s house because the argument he’d made in favor of it had been a valid one. But she hadn’t been about to let him intimidate her.

Now Emma wondered if that might have been the wisest course of action, after all.

Had she simply walked away, she wouldn’t be sitting here, her heart racing, waiting for Sam to finish his business. She wouldn’t be dreading the moment when he joined her in the close, quiet confines of his mother’s car. And she certainly wouldn’t be making herself crazy trying to decide what she could say to him, what she should say to him and what she actually would say to him in the hours ahead.

He would probably want to discuss his mother’s illness. But there was only so much she could tell him about that. Then what? she wondered.

In an effort to pull herself together, Emma grabbed her purse, exited the Volvo and locked the door, then walked into the rental agency. A sideways glance assured her Sam was still waiting to speak to an agent. He stood third in line, his head bent, studying the rental contract. Moving quickly, she went on to the ladies’ room without attracting his attention.

When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she grimaced. The expression on her face was one more suited to a woman on her way to her execution.

She couldn’t afford to let Sam see her looking so grim. Not when he was capable of cloaking himself in such utter dispassion. That would give him even more of an edge than he already had. If she was to have any chance of getting through the afternoon without making an idiot of herself, she was going to have to try to level the playing field. And she could only do that by at least pretending a nonchalance equal to his own.

She took several deep breaths as she dried her hands on a paper towel, then refastened the banana clip holding her curls away from her face. Forcing herself to think no further than the present moment, she faced the mirror on the wall by the door, smoothed a hand over her narrow, calf-length denim skirt and adjusted her white, sleeveless blouse.

It would do no good to anticipate the worst. In fact, she would only be buying trouble. Better to paste a smile on her face and hope for the best. No matter how blasé Sam might seem, he couldn’t be looking forward to the next few hours, either.

As she left the ladies’ room, Emma saw that Sam had finally made it to the counter. Pen in hand, he was signing a paper while the young female agent stood by, eyeing him appreciatively.

Emma imagined he garnered lots of looks like that from women everywhere he went. Why, she would smile at him that way, too, if she thought it would do her any good.

Realizing that she was frowning again, Emma went on to the car. She unlocked the passenger’s door and slid onto the seat. Reaching over, she stuck the key in the ignition, started the car and turned up the air-conditioning in readiness for Sam’s arrival. Then she took out a map of San Antonio and the article about the nursery she wanted to visit, and tried to pinpoint its location.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sam leave the rental agency. He crossed to the driver’s side of the Volvo, opened the door and leaned inside.

“Sure you wouldn’t prefer to drive?” he asked. “You know your way around here better than I do.”

“Not really,” she admitted, glancing up at him, then away again. “I don’t get into the city all that often, and the traffic near the downtown area can get kind of hairy.” She gestured at the map spread open in her lap. “I’d just as soon navigate. Unless you’d rather not…”

Realizing that she was rambling, Emma allowed her words to trail away. She stared at the map, her grip on it tightening until the edges crumpled in her hands.

“No problem. I don’t mind driving,” Sam replied, his tone matter-of-fact. Slipping behind the steering wheel, he adjusted the seat to accommodate his height. “Where would you like to go first—the nursery that specializes in Old Garden roses or the needlepoint shop down on the Riverwalk?”

“You know, we could just…head back to Serenity,” Emma ventured, looking out the windshield.

Beside her, Sam turned in his seat so that he faced her, but he said nothing. Acutely uncomfortable, Emma hastened to fill the silence stretching between them.

“I mean, you just got into town after traveling for several days, and here you are, on the road again. You must be exhausted. Now that we’ve taken care of the car business…” She waved a hand at the rental-agency office. “I can always go to the nursery another day, and the needlepoint shop can send your mother’s supplies the way they’ve always done in the past.”

When several moments passed and Sam again made no comment, Emma finally turned to look at him. The darkened lenses of his sunglasses made his expression hard to read, but there was a grim twist to his lips as he eyed her quietly.

“I don’t mind going to the nursery and the needlepoint shop as we planned,” he said at last. “But if you want to go back to Serenity, Emma, just say so, and we’ll go back.”

“We didn’t plan to go to the nursery and the needlepoint shop, Sam,” Emma argued as calmly as she could. “Your mother planned that for us. So why go through the motions if we don’t want to?”

“I’ve already said that I don’t mind,” he reminded her reasonably. “But I also said if you do, we can head back right now.” He shifted in his seat again, released the parking brake, put the car in gear, then added almost as an afterthought, “Of course, if we get back earlier than expected, she’s going to wonder what made you change your mind. And more than likely, regardless of what you say, she’s going to hold me responsible for spoiling the day.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Emma protested.

“I’m afraid she would.” Sam pulled to a stop at the rental agency’s exit and glanced at her again. “She warned me two, maybe three times before we left to mind my manners and behave like a gentleman so you’d have a nice time. She said you deserved a day away, and she wanted me to make sure that it was as pleasant as possible.”

Emma groaned inwardly as she bent her head over the map again. She could almost hear Margaret saying the words. And she now knew without a doubt that she’d been right about that mischievous twinkle in her friend’s eyes.

She wished she had kept her mouth shut. Her only intention had been to spare Sam, and in all honesty herself, from several hours of strained silence punctuated by odd intervals of stilted conversation. But all she had actually succeeded in doing was putting both of them in an even more untenable position.

Had she just gritted her teeth and gotten with the program, they could have pretended to make the best of the situation. Now they each knew that the other would rather be anywhere but there. Margaret wanted to give Emma a respite of sorts, and she had elected Sam to do the honors in the hope that something more might come of their spending time together.

And something most certainly would. Only not what Margaret had in mind. Sam would consider her even more of a cross to bear. And she would have to work even harder at acting as if she didn’t have any feelings for him one way or another.

“Well, then, I supposed we ought to go to the nursery first,” she said, hoping her cheerfulness didn’t sound as false to him as it did to her. “Unless I’m mistaken, it’s not far from here.” She looked at the street sign, then back at the map. “Turn right here, go down to the second intersection and turn left.”

“Emma, if you really want to go back, we can,” he offered. “Just because my mother gets a notion in her head doesn’t mean we have to go along with it. This is supposed to be your day, after all.”

“I know. But I do want to check out the roses at the nursery, and we’re already here.”

“Well, then, let’s go.” He turned out of the agency lot as she had directed, then glanced at her questioningly. “Left at the second intersection?”

“Yes, then down about two miles or so. According to the article I clipped out of the paper, the nursery should be on the right.”

They covered the relatively short distance in virtual silence. Sam seemed perfectly at ease. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, his shoulders relaxed, his long, lightly tanned legs stretched out in front of him as he gripped the steering wheel in a loose hold, his attention focused on the road ahead.

Emma, on the other hand, sat rigidly in her seat, hands clasped knuckle white in her lap, so tense she could hardly draw a breath. She willed herself to say something inane, but the longer she waited, the more impossible it became. She could barely swallow around the nervous flutter in her throat, much less speak.

Sam had given her no reason to feel so uncomfortable in his presence. He hadn’t said or done anything to disparage her. Nor had he given any indication that he would.

He had argued for her staying at his mother’s house when he could have sent her packing. And he had just gone out of his way to make sure they did what she wanted now. All with the deference of a true gentleman.

As if the last time they had been together she hadn’t screamed at him like a madwoman, spewing out her hatred—

“This must be it,” Sam said, jerking her back to the present as he flicked on the turn signal and slowed the car. “Wimberly and Sons Nursery?”

“Yes, Wimberly and Sons Nursery,” she murmured, scrambling to gather her wits about her.

He seemed to have put the past behind him. Unless she succeeded in doing the same, the next few weeks were going to be unbearable.

Sam found a parking space under a leafy oak tree and switched off the engine.

“I won’t be long,” Emma said, reaching for the door handle.

“Take your time. I’m not in any hurry.” He, too, opened his car door.

Emma wasn’t sure what she had expected him to do while she prowled around the nursery’s spacious grounds. Even with the windows rolled down, it was too warm out for him to sit in the car. But he could have gone off on his own in search of something that might catch his interest—the goldfish pond, perhaps. Instead, he seemed quite content to trail after her.

At first, she was overly conscious of his presence close behind her. Gradually, however, as the beauty of the flowering rosebushes for sale captured her interest, she finally began to relax.

“I never realized there were so many different varieties of roses,” he said after a while.

“And they’re all so lovely,” she replied, trailing her fingers over the velvety pale yellow petals of an especially lush blossom.

“Are you looking for one bush in particular?”

“Several, actually. I have only modern hybrids in my garden at home. Now that they’re established, I want to add some Old Garden roses. They bloom only once in late spring or early summer, but they’re known for their wonderful fragrance. That makes their petals an especially favorable addition to potpourri,” she explained, then gestured to a long, wide plot set slightly apart from the others and marked aptly enough, Old Garden Roses. “Ah, here they are.”

Emma eyed the various containers carefully, and soon saw that the bushes she wanted were all available at prices she could afford.

“You’ve found what you were looking for, haven’t you?” Sam asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Yes, I have. But how did you know?”

She glanced at him curiously, but he was still wearing his sunglasses, making it all but impossible for her to determine exactly what he might be thinking.

“The way your eyes lit up. Like a kid on Christmas morning.”

Emma felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“That obvious, huh?”

“Yes, that obvious,” he replied in a kindly tone. “Why don’t I grab one of those little red wagons and help you load up, or will you need more than one?”

“One will be enough,” she assured him with a wry smile.

For just an instant, the ghost of an answering smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Then he turned away to claim a wagon for her.

Feeling oddly lighthearted for the first time since the previous afternoon, Emma went about selecting the new additions to her garden. Two of the Great Maiden’s Blush bushes, known for their ivory coral-centered blooms. Two of the Leda bushes—a smaller, more compact shrub than the Maiden’s Blush featuring shell pink flowers picoteed with crimson. And two of the Tuscany bushes bearing semidouble dark red blooms.

Sam lifted the large, heavy containers into the wagon for her, then pulled it up to the counter where a clerk tallied her bill. Emma gladly wrote a check, her thoughts racing ahead to the following afternoon—the soonest she would be able to start putting her new rosebushes in the ground.

At the car, Emma spread the tarp she had brought over the floor of the trunk, then stood aside while Sam loaded the containers. Luckily, all six fit quite nicely. And thanks to the deep well, Sam was able to close the lid without crushing the tops of the bushes.

“Are you sure they’ll be all right in there?” he asked with obvious concern.

“They may look delicate, but they’re hearty enough and healthy enough to survive a lot worse than a few hours in the trunk of a car. So don’t worry. They’ll be fine,” she assured him as he helped her into the car.

“My mother told me that you really enjoy gardening,” Sam continued as he settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

“Yes, I do, although I’m not sure why. Probably because my mother enjoyed it, and I was the only one around to help her. Everywhere we lived before she died, she always planted something. Usually flowers, but sometimes herbs and vegetables, too…if we moved into a house with a big yard. Even when there was a good chance we wouldn’t be around long enough to see the results of all our hard work. I remember asking her once why she did it. She said it was the only way she could put down roots. All she ever really wanted was to live in one place and have a home of her own, but she never did.”

“You moved around a lot when you were a kid?” Sam asked.

At first, Emma was surprised by his question. She had always assumed he knew as much about her background as Teddy had. Now she realized that wasn’t necessarily so.

Sam had gone off to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs a year before she and his brother became friends. Granted, he had seen her with Teddy on the rare occasions when he’d been home on leave. But he’d probably had more important things to discuss with his younger brother than the shy little redhead Teddy had taken under his wing.

“Until my mother died,” she replied. “My father had a hard time hanging on to a job. He was always looking for something better, somewhere else. My mother insisted on trailing after him even though she hated always having to start over in a strange place. She loved him so much, and I suppose he loved her, too. But he was never there for her when she really needed him. After a while, the loneliness got to be too much for her and she started drinking.”

Pausing for a moment, Emma stared out the window, recalling a time when her home had been anything but the haven she craved. Clasping her hands in her lap, she drew a breath and pushed back the painful memory of her mother lying on the floor in a drunken stupor.

“She died when I was twelve,” Emma continued matter-of-factly, determined to head off any show of sympathy from Sam. “We were here in San Antonio at the time, but my father was getting ready to move on again. He claimed he couldn’t look after me on his own and dumped me into a foster-care program. I was lucky enough to be placed with the Gruenwalds in Serenity, and except for the years I spent at the university in Austin, I’ve been there ever since. Putting down roots of my own, I suppose.”

“And you’re happy living in such a small town?”

“More than happy,” Emma stated succinctly.

Nothing on earth could tempt her to relive—ever again—the constant upheaval of her childhood years. That was why marrying Teddy had been so important to her. He offered her the kind of stability she needed, and now, although she didn’t have the family she’d always wanted, she had a home of her own. And lonely though it sometimes was, she had long ago convinced herself that was all she really needed.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Sam mused as he shifted into gear and pulled out of the nursery’s lot. “The place used to give me claustrophobia. In fact, I couldn’t wait to get away.”

“I know…” she murmured, then barely caught herself before she added that was what Teddy had told her once. She wasn’t ready to bring him into their conversation yet. Instead, she added, “My foster sisters at the Gruenwalds’ felt exactly the same way. I’m the only one of the four of us who stayed in Serenity. Jane lives in Seattle with her husband and son—my little godson. Megan lives in San Diego with her husband and son. And last I heard, Kathleen was living in New Orleans. Of course, that was almost a year ago. She’s always liked to move from place to place, so she could be anywhere by now.”

“Jane is the one who stayed with you last year, isn’t she? My mother mentioned her in her letters. She also said the two of you went up to Seattle to visit them about six weeks ago.”

“That’s right. We did.”

“Point me toward the needlepoint shop, then tell me about Jane and your trip to Seattle.”

Emma guided Sam back to the freeway and told him which exit to watch for. Then, glad to have something neutral to talk about, she explained briefly how Jane, and eventually her husband, Max, had come to stay with her in the months before the birth of their baby.

What a time that had been for the two of them. But thanks to the power of their love for each other, Jane and Max had solved their problems.

As Emma had six months ago, she wished that could be true for everyone, herself included. Of course, she didn’t say as much to Sam. That could open the door to questions she didn’t want to answer. So she gave him the facts, then went on to talk about the lovely time she and Margaret had had in Seattle.

“So you liked it there,” he said.

“I loved it there. It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.”

“But you absolutely, positively wouldn’t ever want to live there?”

“Well, no…” Emma began, then hesitated as she looked out the window.

Actually, she had considered that possibility while she was there, imagining more than once what it might be like to live in one of the high-rise condos within walking distance of Elliott Bay and the Pike Street market or to ferry over from a little cottage on one of the islands as Jane and Max did. Though their house was anything but a cottage—

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“Well, it was awfully nice there. I guess I wouldn’t mind it too much,” she admitted.

“I imagine roses would grow rather nicely there,” Sam said, the barest hint of teasing in his tone.

“Rather nicely, indeed.” Emma gazed out the window thoughtfully, then added, “Still, I was really glad to get home again.”

“Most people usually are. Especially when home is where their heart is.” He paused for only a moment, giving her no time to reply, and when he continued, he changed the subject without seeming to miss a beat. “Looks like we’re getting close. Where do you think we should park?”

Relieved that Sam didn’t expect any reply to his comment, Emma directed him to a small parking lot down a side street near one of the entrances to the Riverwalk. From there, it was only a short walk to the needlepoint shop. Picking up Margaret’s supplies took less than ten minutes since the clerk had the package ready and waiting.

Emma assumed they would go straight back to the car again, but out on the Riverwalk Sam halted, looking around at the milling crowds as he tucked the brown paper bag under his arm.

“I don’t remember this place being so busy. At least not on a Sunday afternoon,” he said.

“San Antonio has become a popular tourist town. Companies from around the country have also begun holding conferences here. Lots of shops and restaurants have opened up along the river over the past few years.”

“Do you mind if we take a walk along here? Maybe stop and have a cup of coffee?” He gestured toward the famous-name coffee bar on the other side of the narrow river channel, accessible by an old stone bridge about half a mile away.

What Emma really wanted was to quit while they were ahead. So far, they had managed to get along rather well, all things considered. But she didn’t want to push her luck. Leaving now, they would still have almost two hours together.

But Sam seemed so eager to see the sights. And he hadn’t given her any grief about the lengthy amount of time she’d taken at the nursery. Acknowledging that fair was fair, after all, she mustered as much enthusiasm as she could.

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