more. Cold burrowed deep into his bones. He stuck them under his armpits.
Focus on the here and now. Not then. He shuffled through images in his mind until he latched on to one: Emma Langford, Ben’s sister. He zeroed in on her light blue eyes, as bright as sunshine. He shifted his attention to her dazzling smile. He couldn’t look away. The warmth of her expression chased away the chill.
He finally relaxed against the couch cushion. He couldn’t believe he’d invited her back today. That realization earlier had driven him to take a short nap before she arrived since he hadn’t slept much the night before. For that matter, since the nightmares began a couple of months ago, he slept only a few hours here and there.
He couldn’t keep going like this, or he would stop functioning altogether. The very idea appalled him. In the army he’d been a leader of men who went into tough situations to protect and defend. Now he couldn’t even leave his house without fearing he would have a panic attack and appear weak.
Lord, why? You brought me home to this—living in fear? How am I supposed to get better? What do I do?
His gaze returned to the mess on the floor, then trekked to the end table where the lamp and vase had been. He pushed to his feet to clean up the shattered pieces.
The chimes from the grandfather clock in the foyer pealed six times. Emma would be here soon. He hobbled toward the kitchen and retrieved the broom and dustpan. The glass lamp was beyond repair. He swept the shards and tossed them into the trash can.
Then he turned his attention to the vase. His granddad had created pottery bowls and vases in his spare time. This was one of the few left. He picked up each piece and laid it on the end table, trying to decide if he could fix the vase with glue. Maybe it was possible with time and a steady hand.
The doorbell sounded, jolting his heartbeat to a quicker tempo. Emma. She can’t see this, he thought, as though it were a symbol of his weakness. He opened the drawer on the end table and hurried to place what was left of the vase inside, then closed it.
It took him a minute to limp toward the foyer. Maybe she’d left. He hoped not, and that surprised him. When he opened the door, she stood on the porch with that warm smile and her hands full with a slender book and a plastic container.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to get to the door,” was all he could think to say.
“I figured it would. You’re still recovering from a leg injury. It might be a while before you’re up for a jog.” She stepped through his entrance. “I hope you don’t mind, but I made beef stew this morning in the Crock-Pot and had plenty to share with you.” She lifted the lid for him to see.
His stomach rumbled. The aroma filled his nostrils and made his mouth water. He’d had breakfast but skipped lunch. “How did you know I haven’t eaten much today?”
“A lucky guess. I’ll put this in your refrigerator, and you can heat it up when you feel like it.” She walked toward his kitchen. Pausing at the entrance to his dining room, she looked back at him. “Then I’ll show you the yearbook.”
He started to follow her into the kitchen but decided not to and headed for the living room. “I’ll be in here when you’re through.” He wanted to make sure there were no remnants of the broken vase or lamp on the floor.
After searching around the couch, he walked lamely to the leather chair with an ottoman. His left leg ached. He must have wrenched it when coming out of his nightmare. As he laid his cane on the floor by him, Emma came into the room. He lifted his leg onto the upholstered stool.
She took the couch, sitting at the end closest to him. “I’d heat it up in the microwave for about six minutes on high. I put bread in to bake, but it wasn’t done when I left.”
“You make your own bread?” Jake remembered his grandmother baking bread once a week, a good memory. “I used to love that smell when I was a kid and came to see Grandma.”
“I’m not a coffee drinker, but I love to smell a pot percolating. As well as bacon frying and bread baking.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, the best smell I remember from my childhood is my mother baking a cherry pie. I loved to eat it with vanilla ice cream.”
“If I wasn’t hungry before you came, I am now.”
“Good, you’ll enjoy my stew.” She rose and covered the short space between them. “This is the yearbook I was talking about.”
He reached up to take it. Their fingers briefly touched, and his breath caught. He held it for a few extra seconds then released it slowly. Their gazes connected, and Emma paused as though not sure what to do.
He grinned, trying to dismiss the bond that sprang up between them for a moment. “Where’s your German shepherd? I thought you’d bring him again.”
She laughed, letting go of the yearbook, then sat on the couch. “I’ll never force a dog on anyone, even when I think it would be good for him. Besides, Josh was throwing the Frisbee in the backyard for Shep, complaining that he was stuck at home and not at a friend’s.”
“Any problems with Josh in the past few days?”
“Nothing I can pin down. He tells me nothing more has happened, but he comes home from school angry and silent. I have to drag what little I can out of him.”
“I remember those days when Mom tried to get me to tell her about my day at school, especially when the bullying was going on in the sixth grade.”
“How did you handle it?”
“My mom found out and told my dad, who paid the parents of the instigator a visit. Tom Adams’s parents didn’t do anything to him, but Tom was furious at me. I won’t ever forget his name. I did learn one thing. I learned to defend myself if I had to and to let others know I could take care of myself. Also, I made sure I was always with a group of friends. That way it was hard for Tom and his buddies to find me alone. They only attacked when I was by myself.”
“Kids shouldn’t have to worry about this. Did you have trouble at school?”
“Yes, especially at recess.”
“Josh has been misbehaving so he doesn’t go out for recess.”
“Then it’s probably happening at school. Some bullies can be very sneaky. They might even have a lookout.”
Emma frowned. “When did the bullying stop?”
“Not until we moved here when I became a seventh grader.” He quirked a grin. “I also started growing over the summer and began to lift weights. I wanted to go out for football.” He flipped open the yearbook. “How old is Josh?”
“Eleven.”
“He’s small for his age. I was, too.”
Her eyes grew round. “But you’re what, six-four or five now?”
“Yes. I shot up not long after I was Josh’s age and used my size to help others who were bullied. Lifting weights helped me to bulk up. That’s what I mean by looking as if I could take care of myself. My dad taught me some self-defense but stressed I should only use it if it was absolutely necessary. Telling Tom’s parents didn’t work at all. I think his dad was actually proud
