Why waste his breath, though? He doubted anything he had to say would change her mind. And what did her opinion of him matter in the general scheme of things?
Defending himself aside, Sam admitted he should still call Emma and let her know that help—such as he hoped he could be—was on the way if for no other reason than to ease her mind. Working a full-time job while caring for his mother on her own had to be a strain, not just physically but emotionally. Yet he pushed away from his desk without reaching for the telephone again.
Though he freely acknowledged he wasn’t being fair to Emma, Sam decided it might be wiser to catch her unawares. He had no idea how she would react when they finally came face-to-face again. But forewarned would give her time to be forearmed against the kind of man she had chosen to believe he was.
There was no denying the part he had played in destroying her dreams. Yet for his sake, as well as his mother’s, he hoped he and Emma could be allies rather than enemies. He had changed a lot over the years. He wanted a chance to prove it to her.
Of course, a truce could still prove to be impossible. But then, at least he would be the one braced for battle. It wouldn’t be much of an advantage, and certainly not one he intended to use against her unless absolutely necessary. But it would be better than nothing. And maybe, just maybe, it would save him from a whole new world of hurt.
Crossing his office, Sam grabbed his jacket, flicked off the light switch, then strode down the shadowed hallway, his footsteps echoing around him. With a mighty effort, he fought the urge to head for the officers’ club, turning instead toward the housing complex. It wasn’t company he was craving, but a good, stiff drink, and he knew—all too well—where that could lead. There were other, better ways to outdistance his demons.
Not quite twenty minutes later, changed into shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes, his warm-up complete, Sam set off at a steady pace, focusing his thoughts on nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other, eating up the first of what would be many miles as he blended into the twilight.
Chapter 2
“Emma, come in out of the sun and have a glass of tea,” Margaret Griffin urged.
Glancing up from the flower bed she had just finished weeding, Emma Dalton offered her old friend an appreciative smile.
“Sounds wonderful. I’ll be right there.”
She gathered her gardening tools together, then sat back on her heels, surveying her handiwork with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Early that Saturday morning, she had been determined to whip Margaret’s much too long neglected front yard into shape. Now, nearly eight hours later—with only a short break for lunch during the worst heat of the day—she could happily say she had succeeded.
The scent of freshly mowed grass still lingered in the late-afternoon air. Once scraggly shrubs marched in neatly clipped rows along the railing that edged the wraparound porch. And the flowers in the beds—impatiens in various shades of pink and purple, bright-orange-and-yellow marigolds, hearty red geraniums, even a delicate smattering of white Gerber daisies—could finally be seen and appreciated.
As exemplified by her own riotously colorful yet neatly kept yard, Emma loved gardening. Working out of doors, close to the soil, with the sun shining overhead and a gentle breeze blowing never failed to fill her with a feeling of peace. That she seemed to have a green thumb helped, as well.
She had been itching to have a go at Margaret’s yard for several weeks. But convincing her friend that she would be doing Emma a favor by allowing her to mow and clip and weed had taken some doing.
Margaret had insisted she’d imposed on Emma enough over the past few months. Emma, in turn, had argued that wasn’t true. Whenever she had needed a strong shoulder to lean on, Margaret had always been there for her—even when she herself had been grieving. Helping Margaret cope with her illness had given Emma the chance to reciprocate. Not out of a sense of duty or indebtedness, but out of love.
Emma had never considered Margaret to be a burden, and she never would. Unfortunately, she had yet to get her to stop feeling as if she had become—in Margaret’s words—little more than an old bother.
Sometimes I think it would be easier on everyone if I went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up again….
Recalling her friend’s offhand remark, Emma stared at the small shovel in her hand, not really seeing it. What would she do without Margaret? she wondered, overcome by a sudden sense of desolation. What would she do?
With a mighty effort, Emma shoved aside thoughts of worst-case scenarios as she grabbed the trash bag full of weeds and pulled the drawstrings tight.
Granted, Margaret’s most recent round of chemotherapy had left her frightfully weak, but she had rebounded with amazing fortitude. In fact, over the past three weeks she had regained much of her strength, and lately seemed to be almost her old self again.
She still tired more easily than before, but generally, her spirits were high. She kept herself busy—experimenting with new recipes, needlepointing a pillow cover and reading the cozy mysteries she enjoyed most. And she never, ever, uttered a word of complaint—
“Hurry, Emma, the ice is starting to melt,” Margaret called out.
“I’ll be just a minute more,” Emma promised as she stood. “I want to put the tools away and dump the trash bag in the can around back.”
Heading for the small, wood-frame garage at the end of the driveway, Emma wished she could have foreseen Margaret’s extraordinary recovery. How that would have been possible, she didn’t know. Even Margaret’s doctor had expressed serious concerns about her prognosis. But at least she wouldn’t have been in such a rush to write to Sam.
She shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have jumped the gun in such a ham-handed way. First and foremost, because Margaret would have forbidden it had Emma asked her permission.
Margaret had made sure that she understood her son was not to be worried unnecessarily. And for the past six months—despite her own reservations—Emma had bowed to her friend’s wishes.
Had she been Sam, she wouldn’t have wanted to be kept in the dark. She would have rather been apprised of the situation without delay. But her loyalty had been to Margaret. Until that day three weeks ago when her doctor said she might not live to see the summer’s end.
Margaret had been in a Houston medical center hospital undergoing treatment. Luckily, she had brought her address book with her, and Emma had found Sam’s current F.P.O. number listed in it. Sitting beside her friend’s bed as she slept, Emma had written to him as tears blurred her eyes, then posted the letter before she had time to change her mind.
Miraculously, Margaret’s condition had improved within seventy-two hours, and Emma had begun to regret her hasty decision. Yes, there was a possibility the doctor could still be right. Margaret’s recovery could be nothing more than a temporary respite. As often happened with a potentially life-threatening illness, she could suffer a relapse at any time. One that she might not survive.
But with Margaret almost her old self again, there no longer seemed to be any reason for Sam to come home. Not that he was going to. At least, not to her knowledge.
Three weeks had passed since Emma had sent her letter, and she had heard nothing in reply. He could have responded by mail, of course. That would take at least ten days. But considering the urgency with which she had written…
Emma had been sure he would call, if only to affirm that his mother’s illness was as serious as she had implied. Beyond that, she hadn’t known what to expect. But she’d been fully prepared for him to have some reason—some very good reason—why he wouldn’t be able to make the trip to Serenity. And she would have understood.
There were too many painful memories for Sam in the small town where he’d grown up. Memories to which she had contributed in a ruinous way. She knew now that by blaming him for Teddy’s death, she had