Twelve Days (42 page)

A woman like her...

He thought again of the slight puffiness of her cheek, the bump on her head, thought of all the things that man might have done to her that she refused to admit. He thought of her being scared every time the phone rang or someone came to the door.

He could wait another day.

* * *

Emma lay on the sofa, wrapped up in her blanket, staring at the fire and afraid to go to sleep. But at some point, she must have drifted off because she jerked awake much later, when the room was dark and cold. The sun had gone down, the fire died down, too, and the phone was ringing.

For a minute, she wasn't sure she could pick it up, and then she decided she was being silly and melodramatic and snatched it up. "Hello."

"Hi, Em."

It was Rachel. She was so glad to hear her voice. Rachel who was kindness incarnate, so supportive, so loving. Sometimes like an older sister to Emma and often the mother she needed so much.

"You okay?" Rachel asked. "You don't sound like yourself."

"I was napping. I couldn't sleep last night on the train, and I just crashed this afternoon," she said. "How's Ann and the baby?"

"Ann's scared, but hanging in there. They've got her on some medicine to try to stop the contractions, but they're just not sure if they'll be able to."

"And if they can't?"

"Then she'll have a very premature baby," Rachel said.

"But the baby will be okay?"

"Well... Honestly, they're not sure."

"Oh."

Neither one of them said anything for a moment. They didn't have to. Emma knew how hard this would be. She took her strength from them, had always thought they could get through anything together.

"Do you want me to come up there?" she asked, thinking maybe they'd take the decision out of her hands. It sounded so easy, just to go up there.

"No, sweetie. Not yet. Let's give it a day or two and see what happens. Besides, Sam said you looked all wiped out. Finals and all, huh?"

"Yes." She hated lying about it, but she was still thinking there might be a way to hide from it, maybe to pretend it never happened. How silly was that?

"What happened to Mark and his parents? You sounded so excited about meeting them," Rachel asked.

"Well..." And then she got all choked up. Darn. She had to say something. "We broke up."

There. That was easy. And true. It would have to be enough for now.

"Oh, sweetie. I'm sorry. Sam didn't tell me that."

"I didn't tell him," Emma confessed. "If I had, he would have felt like he had to stay, and I know he was worried about getting up there. I just told him things had been crazy and that I was looking forward to a little peace and quiet, which is true."

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"I will when you get home. I'll tell you everything."

"Okay, but... You sound a little shaky, Em. And I thought if you were going to meet his parents, things must be getting serious between you two."

"It wasn't like that. Really." At least, not on her part. "His parents were coming to Chicago on business at the end of the semester, and I haven't had nearly as much time as I'd like to see the city. We were going to catch a show, do some Christmas shopping, some tourist things. That's all."

"All right, but if you need us—"

"I'll call," she promised.

"Okay. We should have a better idea of what will happen with Ann and the baby tomorrow. I was going to ask you to make another round of calls—"

"I'll do it." She'd rather make the calls than have them call here looking for news. It would save her from worrying every time the phone rang. Rachel gave her the hospital phone number. Emma dutifully wrote it down. "Sam's at Ann and Greg's with all the kids. If you change your mind and want to come—"

"I'll just get on the train," Emma said.

It was a comforting thought. She could just leave and go be with her family, if that's what she needed. Maybe once the bruise on her face was gone. It would be bad enough to tell them, in time, in her own way. But to have them able to see it on her face the moment she arrived, and to have everyone see... Not just Sam and Rachel, but Zach and Grace. Her aunt and uncle. Her cousins. It sounded so humiliating, and right now she just wanted to hide.

Rachel said good-bye, and then Emma started calling relatives to fill them in on Ann's condition. By the time she was done, she had three invitations to dinner and two offers of places to sleep, in case she didn't want to be alone. But she put them all off with her same story—that she was wiped out after finals. Maybe she could buy a few days alone. Maybe she could just hide.

Women did this, she'd read. They wanted to hide, to pretend it never happened, that it never would again.

She would never have believed she could be one of those women. But inside her head, she heard all the familiar excuses. It wasn't like him to do this, not the man she knew. He must have been under a great deal of stress, because it wasn't something he'd normally do.

But he had. He'd done it to her.

Emma sat there trying to make all the images go away. She was thinking of building the fire back up, trying to go back to sleep when the phone rang one more time. She picked it up without even thinking, sure that it was one of her cousins or maybe a friend from high school.

"Emma." Mark sighed heavily. "I was hoping you'd be on your way back by now. Don't you think this has gone on long enough?"

* * *

Rye checked into the inn and had five different people ask if he was here for the Christmas festival. Obviously it was a big deal around here. That afternoon, restless and with nothing to do, he started walking the streets of downtown.

He found two discreet signs, one on a house under construction and another being renovated, announcing that the work was being done by McRae Construction. The second time he saw one, there was a man out front checking his mailbox. Rye struck up a conversation with him, telling him he'd been thinking of having Sam do some work for him.

"You can't go wrong with Sam. He lives six blocks over, in that house that was Rachel's grandfather's. Been a part of this town for twenty years now."

"He's been here that long?" Rye asked.

"Longer, now that I think about it. He was a freshman in high school when he came here. I graduated a year or two before he did. I remember because his grandfather had a house over on Sycamore Street, not far from one of my uncles'."

"His grandfather lived here, too?"

"Yeah, and Sam did, once his parents died."

"That would have been rough. Losing both his parents like that."

"Oh, yeah. Life's just harder on some people."

What did that mean? That it had been for Sam? Too bad.

The man he was looking for lost his parents at a much younger age, then got passed from relative to relative, foster home to foster home. He had no idea where the man ended up. There was a birth certificate supposedly showing the man to be thirty-nine now, but none of the Sam McRaes he'd found had a birthday that matched the one on the birth certificate. He had a feeling the Sam McRae he was looking for was older than that, anyway. Absolutely nothing fit.

"Guess Sam was lucky he had a grandfather to take him in," Rye said, remembering where he was, what he was supposed to be doing.

"I don't know if I'd go that far." The man shook his head. "Hate to speak ill of the dead, but Old Man McRae... I don't think anyone has fond memories of him. But somehow Sam turned out just fine. You don't have to worry. He'd do a good job for you."

Rye thanked the man and went on his way. The wind was picking up, and the sun was sinking fast. It was getting cold, and he was tired. Tired of looking for a man he sometimes thought he'd never find. What did he even think he had to gain by finding him? What could he ever say to Sam McRae?

Still, he kept going, finding himself in front of the diner Emma had mentioned. The food was indeed plain home cooking and very good. He sat at the counter, striking up a conversation with the waitress and two men who eventually came to sit on either side of him.

The story was always the same. Sam McRae came here as a teenager after his parents died. Which meant this couldn't be the Sam McRae he was looking for. He could cross one more name off his list.

It also meant there was no reason to stay here, except for Emma.

He sat in his room fighting the urge to call her. He had the number. He'd had it for months and never used it.

Finally, he convinced himself he was being ridiculous. If the woman needed help, she had plenty of people to call. If she needed him, she knew where he was. But she hadn't called him, so she must not need him.

He finally went to bed but slept badly. He got up the next morning and planned to leave, but decided to talk to her one more time. He needed to hear her say she was okay.

He called and called and called and never got an answer. No way he could leave like that. So he drove back to the house, managed to knock in a quite civilized way at first, and then, when she didn't answer, gave in to the urge to pound on the door and call out her name.

* * *

The phone finally stopped ringing shortly before ten the next morning.

She'd turned off her cell phone and hadn't answered the house phone, no matter how many times it rang. Not after the second time he'd called. At some point that morning, she'd been too rattled to even look at the Caller ID display and see his number once again.

And then sometime after the phone stopped ringing, someone started pounding on the front door.

She started shaking something fierce. Honestly, it was the most horrible thing. She felt absolutely powerless, in a way she hadn't felt in so very long. Almost enough to make her sick to her stomach.

Was that how her mother felt? This scared? This paralyzed?

Emma picked up the cordless phone, which she'd kept by her side all night and all morning, even though she wasn't answering it, and walked slowly to the door. Just in case, she hit the power button on the phone, carefully dialed nine-one and kept her finger on the one. If anything happened, all she'd have to do was press that button one more time.

As she stood by the door, willing her breathing to slow, she realized that over the pounding of her heart she could hear someone calling her name.

But it wasn't Mark.

Oh, thank God.

She flung open the door, and there was Rye.

Emma couldn't say who moved first. If she threw herself into his arms, or if he pulled her to him. Not that it mattered. Within seconds, she was there, held firmly against him, her face buried in the soft cotton of his shirt.

He was six feet or so of solid muscle, something she found thoroughly reassuring at the moment. His arms tightened around her. She sank against him, worried her legs might not hold her up much longer. But then, they didn't have to. Because he had her. He wouldn't let her fall.

She must have scared him as much as he'd scared her, because he kept asking if she was okay.

"Yes." The word was muffled against his shirt. She wasn't ready to relinquish an inch between them.

"He's not here?" Rye asked.

"No." Some of the tension in his body eased. His hold became one that was more about comfort than protection.

"You're shaking like you're scared to death, Emma."

"I was afraid you were him."

"That's it? That's all that happened?"

"No. He called again," she admitted, her face still buried in his shirt.

"Bastard. What did he say?"

"He's mad that I'm not back in Chicago. He thought I'd just go running back to him. Can you imagine that? He's mad because I'm not there asking him to forgive me for running away from him."

"He's an idiot," Rye said, practically growling.

"I know."

And then Emma felt better, fear receding and reality sneaking in.

She realized abruptly that she was clinging to him—a man she'd just met the day before. She'd shown him herself at her weakest and most vulnerable point, and now she'd thrown herself into his arms.

Yes, she was fairly certain now that's what she'd done.

And they were standing in the cold on the front porch in broad daylight.

She eased back in his arms, looked up to find his gaze running over her face and then her body, as if he had to convince himself she was okay.

"Sorry," she said. She hadn't meant to scare him.

She stepped back, because she thought she had to. But it was harder than she imagined it would be. She was more shaken than she cared to admit, and he was still right there.

She had her hands clasped to her chest one minute, then reaching for him the next. She stopped to think about what she was doing at the last moment, leaving her hands hanging in the air, not sure what to do with them anymore.

He knew. He covered her cold hands with his warm ones and pressed them against the worn, smooth cotton of his shirt. His heart was thrumming heavily, and she felt his chest rise and fall with the next breath he took. It was cold enough that when he exhaled foglike breath billowed out of his mouth and hung there between them, dissipating in the next seconds into nothingness.

She kept waiting for the feelings that hovered awkwardly between them to do the same, but they didn't. They seemed to be suspended there, frozen as the two of them were. Strangers, too, and yet...

She had the strongest urge to ease herself back into his arms. To raise her head and press her lips to his cheek. It was a bit rough and dark. He hadn't taken the time to shave, and she found herself wanting to know what it would feel like to have him kiss her with those soft, full lips and his rough cheeks. She was fascinated by the idea, no matter how completely inappropriate it might be.

Emma had been raised with all sorts of male relatives, young and old. They were a big, loud, affectionate bunch. This was just a hug. A kiss on the cheek. Honestly, it was nothing at all.

She left her hands where they were, raised up on her toes, and for a mere second, brushed her lips against one of those cheeks that intrigued her so.

"Thank you."