“Mom.”
“Now.” Rachel’s tone was as firm as he’d ever heard it.
Last spring when they had first met, Micah hadn’t thought her capable of being this stern. Then, she had been his prime suspect, odd as it seemed now, odd as it had been then. An antique dealer with wealthy patrons, providing cover for drug-smuggling and money-laundering, a business owned by two women who had been childhood friends. Neither were the sort of scum he was used to dealing with. He’d been drawn to Rachel’s softness, sure it was a facade. He hadn’t understood until it was too late what an essential part of her nature that gentleness was.
Sarah let go of his hand and gave him a long considering look before climbing the stairs. Rachel stared at the floor while they both listened to the child’s retreating footsteps. The high cheekbones that gave Rachel’s face an exotic cast were more pronounced than ever, undoubtedly because she was thinner than she had been last spring.
The month he’d spent ignoring Angela’s calls had been a month too long. Oh, he’d told himself that he was too busy, but that would have been only half-true—he was always overworked. The simple truth was, Angela reminded him of Rachel, and thoughts of the awful things he had done to her in the name of his job kept him from sleeping at night. How could he ask for God’s forgiveness when he had done the unforgivable?
He studied Rachel’s bent head, hating that she looked so drawn, hating that his actions were undoubtedly the cause. The instant Sarah’s voice carried to them as she said something to her brother, Rachel lifted her head and advanced on him like a mama bear protecting her young.
“You…” Her finger was pointed at him, carrying every accusation he believed he deserved. “…Turn yourself around and get out of my house right now. You’re not welcome here.”
“Rachel.” This was every bit as bad as he had feared.
“Don’t you ‘Rachel’ me with your sweet voice and your lies.”
“I came to…” Ask for your forgiveness. Except that he didn’t deserve it. “…Explain.” True, as far as it went.
“I heard all the explanation I needed at Angela’s arraignment, Agent McLeod.” Rachel swept past him, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder, her light-brown hair gleaming in the sunlight as she headed for the front door. “You used me. You lied to me.”
“Not intentionally.”
“You know that old saying about good intentions paving the road to hell.” She held open the door and motioned for him to leave. “You abused my trust.” She sucked in a shuddering breath, then stilled while she waited for him, the dish towel clenched so tightly that her knuckles were nearly as white as the cloth.
He slowly walked toward her, wishing she’d look at him. She didn’t.
“I had no choice,” he said. “The job came first.”
“And it still does, doesn’t it?” Her eyes finally met his.
Holding her gaze tore a hole inside him. Once he’d thought the luminous green of her eyes contained all the colors of life. Now they were as cloudy and dull as a ruined emerald.
He couldn’t give her the outright denial he so wanted to. Striving for as much of the truth as he could manage in this instant, he said, “I heard about the threats and the demand for—”
“Still checking up on me, Agent McLeod?”
“Angela called me after you went to see her.” Micah stared at Rachel, echoes of his questioning of her last spring ringing through his head. Then he had still been half convinced Rachel was involved in Angela’s criminal activities, and he had threatened her. I’ll be your shadow, Rachel. You won’t be able to sneeze without me knowing about it. That had been a lie, too, since he had left, figuring she’d be better off. And look at where that had gotten her.
Rachel’s face paled even more. “I don’t have the money.”
“I know you don’t.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“I know that, too.”
“If you come back, it had better be with a warrant.” Once again she motioned toward the door.
“You’re not a suspect, Rachel.” Reluctantly Micah moved toward it, sure he was about to lose his one chance. Though he was sure she wanted anything from him as much as she wanted a snake bite, he said, “I want to help.”
“Oh, that’s rich.” She let go of the door, and it slapped closed. Once again she advanced on him, all righteous fury despite the quivering of her chin. “And just how are you going to do that? Are you ready to call on my customers and assure them that I’m not peddling drugs to their children?” She snapped her fingers. “I have it. The bank that called due my loan. It’s a little hard to pay back money on a business that isn’t in business any more. Can you fix that?” When he didn’t answer she rushed on. “No, I didn’t think so.” Her eyes took on a shimmer. “Can you restore my reputation, Agent McLeod?”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Save it for someone who cares.” She turned away from him and again opened the door.
“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
“No, you don’t,” she agreed lifting her chin.
He stopped in front of her, lifted a hand. “Rachel…”
“Go,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “Just go.”
Micah stepped onto the porch and she closed the screen door. He stood there, his back to the door, his fingertips in his jeans pockets. Finally he cleared his throat and said, “You have no idea how much I regret what I did to you.” He raised his head but she was gone, both doors shutting him out. His heart heavy with loss, he turned back around, crossed the porch, and went down the walk.
Away from the woman he hadn’t known he loved until after he had ruined her.
From behind the sheer curtains in the parlor, Rachel watched him drive away, her fist pressed against her mouth to keep from crying out. For a single heartbeat, she had been glad to see him because the truth was she missed her friendship with him, grieved for it every bit as much as she grieved for her friendship with Angela. In the next heartbeat she remembered that he hadn’t been her friend at all and that she had been his suspect.
You’re not a suspect. Did she dare believe him?
The sharp pain of loss filled her all over again. For her best friend who had betrayed her. For her business that she had loved so much and sunk her life savings into. For the dreams that Micah had inspired. For the loss of it all.
“Mom,” came Sarah’s tentative voice from the doorway.
As she had done so many times over the last few months, Rachel straightened her back and forced the muscles in her face to relax into an expression that hid her grief and her anger.
“Yes, sweetie?” she said, turning around.
Sarah stood uncertainly in the doorway, rubbing her finger against her thumbnail as she often did when she was thinking.
“Why are you so mad at Micah?” she asked.
Rachel weighed that part of the truth she was willing to tell her daughter. She couldn’t tell Sarah that she had been falling in love with the man, that for the first time since her husband had died she’d felt alive and young and happy. Sarah wouldn’t understand that Micah’s friendship had been a sham. How could she? Rachel herself didn’t understand it.
Remembering the day she had hired Micah, she stared at her daughter. Never in Rachel’s wildest dreams had she imagined the carpenter with his