Jamie’s arms tightened around her neck as a violent episode of coughing racked her small body. Emma buried her face in her daughter’s hair, close to her ear, and whispered for her to take a slow breath. When she looked up, Daron watched with questions in his thick-lashed eyes. He towered over her, all broad-shouldered and strong, ready to help.
There were days when she wanted to give in and let him be the hero he wanted to be.
Not today. Today she wanted to go home, help her child breathe a little easier and make sure her grandfather was okay.
“Is she okay?” Daron asked as she shifted Jamie to her other hip and pulled the hood of her jacket over her head.
“She’s fine. And thank you. For being here.”
“Emma, if you need anything...”
“I know.”
She took her grandfather by the arm and walked him out of the police station. Daron didn’t follow this time. She resisted the temptation to glance back, to see if he stood in the doorway watching.
* * *
Daron told himself to let it go. He knew that Emma was holding on to her pride by a thread that was coming unraveled fast. But he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t watch her struggle to keep afloat knowing that he was partly responsible for her struggle.
Emma didn’t want him in her life. He wanted to say he wasn’t interested in being in her life. But he guessed if he was going to be honest, he’d admit that he was attached to her, to Art and to Jamie.
There was something about their little family. They didn’t have much. He’d noticed a tarp on the roof, meaning it probably leaked. Her truck tires were worn slick. They were content with that little farmhouse, the small plot of ground they owned and the few head of cattle they ran.
Content. He sighed. It had been a long time since he knew the meaning of the word.
From the window of the police station he watched as they all climbed into her truck. She leaned to buckle Jamie into the car seat. Art said something and she shook her head, but then smiled and touched his weathered cheek.
The cop said something to him about rain. Daron nodded and headed out the door. The cop had been right. The rain was coming down in sheets. He hunkered into his jacket as he hurried to his truck. Once inside he cranked the heat and turned the wipers on high. It was cold for December in Texas Hill Country.
He headed in the direction of Martin’s Crossing, and the strip mall where he and his friends Lucy Palermo and Boone Wilder had their office. Since returning from Afghanistan the three had opened a bodyguard business. It kept them busy, supplying protection and security for politicians, businessmen and anyone else who might need and be able to afford their services.
Things had changed since Boone married Kayla Stanford, half sister of the Martins of Martin’s Crossing. Boone was building a house. Daron was still crashing at the RV on the Wilder ranch.
Lucy remained the same. She was still a loner. She was still hiding things that might be buried deep, keeping her tied up in the past.
Daron was still reliving that moment when he saw his friend Andy die, caught in the blast of an IED. He remembered the face of the kid who had led them all, knowingly or unknowingly, into danger.
Just a week before that explosion, Andy had learned that Emma was pregnant. He’d shown all the guys the ultrasound picture of the baby, the tiny dot he’d claimed would be his son. Andy had divorced Emma, not realizing she was pregnant. And she’d let him go, he said, because she wouldn’t force a guy to stay in her life.
Daron had made a promise to his dying friend that he’d check on Emma, make sure she and the baby were okay.
Daron had kept that promise. But after more than three years, maybe it was time to walk away.
Emma came in from the barn on Thursday morning to find her granddad in the kitchen making up a cold remedy concoction that smelled a little bit like mint and a whole lot like something he’d cleaned out of the corral. He held the cup up, his grin a little lopsided beneath his shaggy mustache. His overalls, loose over an old cotton T-shirt, reminded her he’d lost weight recently. But he was still her granddad, her hero. She wanted him to live forever.
From the bedroom she could hear Jamie coughing. “I’m going to call the doctor.”
Art pushed the cup into her hand. “Give her a sip of this. It’ll help that cough.”
She held the brew to her nose. “Art, what in the world is in this?”
“Mint to clear up her cough, some spices from the cabinet and a little cayenne.”
“We can’t give her this. She’ll choke.”
His mustache twitched. “It always worked for you.”
“No, it didn’t. I poured it out and then made a face so you would think it worked.”
“And here I thought I’d invented a cold cure.”
She set the cup down and gave him a tight hug. “You cured a lot of things, Granddad. Like loneliness and broken hearts. But you can’t cure that cough. You can’t cure her. And I know you want to.”
His blue eyes watered. With a hand that trembled a bit more than it had a year ago, he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. “I’d give this farm to cure her.”
“I know you would. So would I.” Emma brushed a hand down his arm, then turned her attention to the kitchen cabinet, intent on finding the right cough medicine and the inhaler that would clear her daughter’s lungs.
But the asthma and the cold were the least of their problems.
The coughing started up again. She hurried down the hall to the room she shared with her daughter. The teenage posters of Emma’s high school years had been taken off the walls and replaced with pictures of kittens and puppies. The twin beds were covered with quilts that Art’s wife, a grandmother Emma had never known, had made.
Jamie was curled on her side, her blue eyes seeking Emma as she walked through the door. She’d seemed to be getting over this virus, but last night she’d taken a turn for the worse. Emma had known they would be seeing the doctor today.
“Hey, kiddo, need something for that cough?”
Jamie sniffled and rubbed her blanket against her face. Her cheeks were red and her eyes watery. Emma had given her something for the fever before she went out to the barn an hour ago. A hand to her daughter’s forehead proved that this time a dose of over-the-counter fever reducer wasn’t going to cut it. She leaned to kiss Jamie’s cheek and managed a reassuring smile.
“We’re going to get you dressed and take you to the doctor, okay?”
Jamie nodded and crawled into Emma’s lap. Emma brushed a hand through the silky curls.
“Mama,” Jamie cried, her voice weak.
“I know, honey. Sit up and take this medicine, and then I’ll call Duke and tell him I won’t be in today.”
“Everything okay in here?” Art’s gruff but tender voice called from the doorway.
Emma glanced back over her shoulder. “We’re good. But we’re going to take a drive in to town to see Dr. Ted. You want to go?”
“Nah, I’ll stay here. But if you need anything, you call and I’ll head to town straightaway.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine. I think we just need something stronger than what I can buy at the pharmacy.”
“That