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,
