LITMIR.BIZ

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uncomfortably, he bumped against the door by accident, opening it even more. “I heard…noises in here and thought…” He hesitated uncertainly. “Actually, I’m not sure what I thought,” he admitted.

      Unable to stop staring, he noted that she’d cleaned up quite nicely. Her glorious red hair curled about her face in artful disarray, making her look incredibly young and innocent. But the pale yellow sundress she wore emphasized her femininity in a way that left no doubt she was all grown up.

      “That’s all right,” she murmured, glancing at him, then away again.

      As she lowered her gaze, Sam spied the open suitcase on her bed, and frowned.

      “What are you doing?” he asked, though the neatly folded clothing already packed inside the bag made his question rather redundant.

      “Now that you’re here…” She paused, then tipped up her chin, her gaze finally meeting his head-on as she continued, “I thought maybe I ought to go back to my house.”

      So she had chosen to cut and run after all. Sam knew he should consider that a lucky break. If she went home, he wouldn’t have to deal with her dislike on a full-time basis as he had been dreading he would. But oddly enough, what he felt was disappointment—deep disappointment.

      While Emma hadn’t greeted his arrival with any great joy, she hadn’t gone out of her way to show any animosity toward him, either. Obviously he made her uncomfortable. Hell, she made him uncomfortable. But that didn’t mean there was no hope for them.

      Hope for what, he wasn’t quite sure. Reconciliation, perhaps? He wasn’t sure about Emma, but he wanted that, he realized. Wanted it and needed it. Only he couldn’t come right out and say as much. At least not yet.

      “Going back to your house?” He eyed her questioningly, trying to buy the time he needed to come up with a good reason for her to stay put. “Why?”

      “Because you’re here now,” she repeated in a slightly exasperated tone.

      “What difference does that make?” he asked, intentionally acting obtuse.

      “With you around, Margaret’s not going to need me anymore.”

      “I don’t know about that,” Sam countered, finally hitting upon a fairly good excuse for her to stay. “From what she said after you left us, she loves having you here. But she’s afraid she’s been taking advantage of you. If you rush off, she’s going to think she was right, and she’s going to be really upset.”

      “I’ve tried to tell her that wasn’t so,” Emma insisted, her brow furrowing.

      “For her sake, I wish you’d stick around. And for mine,” he admitted honestly.

      “Yours?” She eyed him uncertainly, her confusion evident.

      “My mother hasn’t said anything about the leukemia yet. When I casually asked about her health, she mentioned—just as casually—that she’d been ill, but not how seriously. I didn’t want to press her my first day home, so I didn’t say anything about your letter. I know we’re going to have to talk about it eventually, and we will. But until then…” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m afraid she won’t ask for my help if she has a bad spell. And if I’m the only one here…” Again he allowed his words to trail away before adding, “At least she would have you to turn to if you stayed a while longer.”

      “How long are you planning to be here?” Emma asked, her frown deepening.

      “A minimum of four weeks, longer if necessary.”

      “She has an appointment a week from Monday with her doctor in Houston. Since she won’t be able to keep that a secret, I suppose I could wait until then to go home,” she conceded, albeit reluctantly.

      “I’d really appreciate it,” Sam said.

      “Well, I wouldn’t want to upset Margaret.”

      With a look of resignation on her face, Emma tossed the nightgown on the bed, gathered an armful of clothes from the suitcase and turned back to the open dresser drawer.

      Feeling as if he’d been summarily dismissed, Sam said nothing more as he backed out of her bedroom doorway and collected his bags.

      “What’s going on up there, you two?” Margaret called from the foot of the staircase. “Dinner’s been ready for almost twenty minutes now.”

      “We’ll be right down,” Sam assured her.

      “You said that once already.”

      “This time I mean it.”

      “What about Emma?”

      “I’m on my way now,” she replied.

      Stepping out of her bedroom, she paused to exchange a wary glance with him, then started down the steps.

      Sam eyed her thoughtfully a moment longer, then crossed to his bedroom, opened the door and dumped his things on the floor. He noted that his mother had changed the bed linens and curtains since his last visit home. But much to his dismay, the room still had the look of a shrine about it—a shrine to his boyhood. Fortunately, that could be remedied in the time it would take him to pack everything away in a couple of cardboard boxes.

      By the time he reached the kitchen, Margaret was ready to serve. Since they were all hungry—or at least seemed to be if the way they filled their plates and set to eating was any indication—they managed to get through most of the meal without having to exchange more than the minimum of polite conversation.

      Sam relished every bite of his mother’s old-fashioned home cooking, helping himself to another serving of both the salad and the casserole. Emma ate heartily, as well, though she declined seconds. And though Margaret’s appetite seemed somewhat diminished, she, too, finished everything on her plate.

      “Sure you’ve had enough?” she asked when he finally sat back and pushed his empty plate away.

      “More than enough,” he replied, smiling gratefully.

      “I hope you saved room for a slice of fresh peach pie.” As his mother stood, she picked up his plate. “Emma baked it yesterday—homemade from scratch.”

      “There’s vanilla ice cream, too,” Emma added, helping Margaret clear the table.

      “Sounds tempting, but I really stuffed myself with the King Ranch chicken.”

      “Then I’ll make it a small slice,” Margaret said.

      “All right, but no ice cream…please.”

      “Coffee?” Emma appeared at his side, holding out a steaming mug. “It’s decaf.”

      “Thanks.”

      Sam took the mug from her, but she turned away before he had the chance to add a smile.

      “You know, I’ve been thinking…” Margaret began as she returned to the table with his pie.

      “About what?” Sam asked, eyeing with chagrin the slice she had cut for him.

      He had forgotten that his mother’s idea of small would be twice the size he’d had in mind. But the first bite was so luscious, he doubted he would have any trouble finishing it.

      “That car you rented,” Margaret replied as Emma returned to the table with mugs of coffee for herself and his mother. “You don’t really need it. You can use mine instead and save yourself a bundle of money.”

      “It’s not that expensive. And returning it to the San Antonio airport would be a hassle. Someone would have to drive over in another car and give me a ride back. Someone other than you,” he stated bluntly, hoping to ward off what he fully expected would be her next volley.

      Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she wasn’t up to making a long drive, especially on her own.

      “Well, yes. Someone other than me,” Margaret

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