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Hank studied the girl, carefully, methodically, which was pretty much how he approached everything and everyone. “I know you want to think that but—”
“There’s no point in arguing with her.” The distinct swish-thump-swish of Emma walking one-shoed up behind him alerted him to her closing in on him. “She’s—”
“Yeah, I know.” Hank held up his hand to cut her off. “She’s a Newberry woman. And when a Newberry woman makes up her mind about something, then she expects the rest of the world to order itself according to her….” He stood and turned to face her at last, prepared to see a cool, aloof, polished professional woman ready to fiercely protect her child. Instead he saw an almost frail figure with uncombed hair blowing in the breeze, dark circles blended with smudged makeup beneath her luminous eyes, wearing… “What are you wearing?”
“What?” She glanced down as her fingers flitted over one slender strap. She adjusted the sparkling belt then tugged at the hem just above her knees. “It’s your basic little black dress. Every woman needs one.”
“Not in Gall Rive.” He shook his head. “And certainly not at a bird sanctuary at half-past dawn.”
“You know us Newberry women. When you live your life expecting the world to bend to your every whim, you have to be prepared for anything.” She pushed past him in a way that let him know that she neither appreciated his opinion of the women of her family nor was she inclined to explain her attire to him. She held her arms out to her child. “You never know when you might get an impromptu invite to a glam party.”
“Obviously, this isn’t one of those times,” he joked in a way he hoped sounded casual not combative.
“Obviously.” She stood there holding her daughter by the hand. Their eyes met for a moment. Color washed up over her warm-toned skin, rising into her cheeks and the tip of her perfect nose.
There was that feeling deep in his gut again. The welcoming one, not the warning one. He didn’t like it. Not one bit. And he didn’t intend to endure it any longer than he had to. “Emma, I—”
“I’m sorry, Hank. I’ve been driving all night and I just…” She blinked and tears washed her eyes but did not fall.
That got to him in ways he was totally unprepared for. Still, he should say something. He wished he still knew her well enough not to have to say anything at all. He settled for a softly spoken “It’s okay.”
“No. It’s not. I’ve acted like a brat, ordering you off the property without even asking…” She glanced down and suddenly seemed enthralled with something. She took a step, a lurch really, then bent and picked up the shoe that had flown off her foot when she had ordered him off the property. She held the elegant black pump up and turned it one way then another, as if trying to discern exactly what it was and what she should do with it. “Huh.”
“I want that!” The little girl, her arms held up, fingers straining to wind around the slender heel, danced and leaped around her mom, who seemed to have completely zoned out.
“Emma? You okay?” he asked.
“Can I have your shoe, Mommy?” The girl tugged at the hem of Emma’s too-chic black dress.
“When did that come off?” she said, relief easing over her pinched features. She laughed lightly. “I made it all the way from Atlanta in heels, survived pit stops for coffee to keep me awake and moving and snacks for Ruth. But as soon as I get to Gall Rive, I start falling apart!”
She looked better when she laughed, even at a shoe.
Hank rubbed the back of his neck, not exactly sure what to do next. “Look, if you need—”
“No. No. I’ll be fine. I always am. I have to be, it’s all on me, after all. Not like I have a choice. Unless, of course, I chose to accept…” She didn’t even attempt to finish her thought, just looked down and swept her hand along the round cheek of the child beside her. Then she sighed, gave a wave of her shoe, bent to scoop up her child and began to walk away. “C’mon, sweetie, I don’t know how much longer I can stay upright. I am totally exhausted. Let’s go inside.”
Hank watched her go, not sure what to do. Something was not right in all this, not right with Emma, not right with her child, not right with her showing up now and not asking about Sammie Jo. She had come back because her sister, Claire, had called her about their aunt, right? Hank had assumed, but…
“Buh-bye, dog-friends. Come see me some more soon.” The child waved over her mother’s shoulder.
Like her mama, the little girl got to him on some level Hank couldn’t quite yet explain. “Why is she here, boys? Did she come for her aunt or is she looking for something?”
Earnest T whined.
Hank knew that was the dog’s way of reminding him they were still in their “stay” positions and would very much like to get up and romp after the pair of strangers. Hank kind of knew how the animal felt in that respect. He wanted to follow them, not to just let them go off and try to sort whatever was going on with them alone.
Emma walked with an uneven gait as she made her way toward the large old house that sat at the center of the migratory-bird sanctuary. Then, just as suddenly as she had taken off, she stopped and called out, “Did I ask you why you’re here? I don’t—” she gave out a huge yawn “—think I did. Do you, um, did you need something?”
I need to get away from here, process a few things, he thought. What he said was, “I came as a favor to your aunt.”
“Oh. Yeah. Not like you’d be here for me. Not like I told anyone I was coming home.” She took another staggering step toward the house. Her daughter waved the shoe around and hit her mother lightly along the side of her head. Emma didn’t even seem to notice. Another yawn. “Home.”
Something changed about as she said the word. The angle of her shoulders eased. She pushed one hand back through her hair and laid her cheek against her squirming child’s head as she whispered, “You hear that, Ruth? We’ve come home.”
As much as he knew he should turn and go, the awe in her voice, the tenderness of seeing the only woman he had ever loved as a mother drew him closer. He cleared his throat. “Been a while, huh?”
She shifted her weight to put herself facing the Newberry home again. “Funny, up until I decided to come back here, I had stopped thinking of it like that. It became a memory. Not quite real. Just a place I thought of the way I first saw it—like a big birthday cake on cinder blocks.”
Built sturdy and adorned delicately, the lower story of the house was gray stone. It had a flat, concrete downstairs porch jutting out into the yard and a broad outdoor staircase sweeping upward to the second story. That story had tall windows framed by faded black shutters against once-crisp white siding. The stair railings and the balcony were scrolled wrought iron, currently painted a dusty-rose color. Above that the dormered windows of the attic looked out on every side over the pale gray roof.
“I’d forgotten you’d called it that.” Hank chuckled quietly. “Birthday cake.”
“Cake!” The child lifted her arms stiffly toward the structure.
“Don’t mention food, honey. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. I’m getting light-headed just thinking about cake.” Emma settled the girl on the ground and put her hand to her flat stomach. She turned toward Hank again. She tipped her head to one side as if she had just turned around and noticed his arrival. She let out a long sigh before whispering, “Hi, Hank. I don’t think I actually said that yet, did I?”
“Hi, Emma.” For an instant the years fell away. She was fresh out of nursing college and he still brand-spanking-new to his veterinary practice and anything seemed possible.
The little girl loped the last few steps up the walk and up to the huge double doors on the first floor. As her small fist pounded away, she called out, “Hello. Come out, Great-aunt Sammie. It’s your pretty-great Ruth. I came to visit you.”
“Visit?” That yanked Hank back to the present. He looked from the child to Emma. “Then…you don’t know?”
“Know what?” Emma lifted her hair off the graceful curve of her collarbone and met his gaze unflinchingly.
“Your aunt Sammie isn’t going to come out, Emma. She had a heart scare last night.”
“A heart scare?” Her hand dropped from her neck to form a fist against her wrinkled black dress. She took a step in his direction, but her legs seemed unsteady. Her face went pale. Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “You mean a heart attack?”
“Not a heart attack.” He took another step toward her. “I was here when it happened, she just—”
“No one called me.” She seemed to teeter a bit, swaying but not actually moving her feet. “Is she…is she going to be all right?”
Another step and he was close enough to see the crinkles of concern between her eyebrows.
“Just a scare,” he assured her. She looked in no condition to hear the details of the story from him right now. “Doctor wanted her to stay in town for a day or two as a precaution. That’s all. That’s straight from your sister Claire’s mouth and you know she’s not one to sugarcoat anything.”
“I had my phone off while I was driving. Drove all night, after… I just had to get away and…” Emma put her hand to her temple. “I’m so tired and hungry. This is so… I came here because I couldn’t…” She glanced down at her daughter and shook her head. “I thought Sammie would be here to… I thought Sammie Jo would always be here, and now you’re telling me…”
He thought she was going to sit down, bury her head in her hands and sob uncontrollably.
Injured animals he could deal with. But crying women were way outside his comfort zone. And Emma, the woman he had thought of all these years as made of stone, dissolving into tears? “Why don’t I let you into the house. You can lie down a minute and—I’ll fix you something to eat then—”
“Lying down. Eating. They both sound so good.” She put her hand to her head and yawned again. “I can’t think straight but I need to talk to my aunt, or my sister or…” She took a step toward the house, pressed one hand to her head and another to her stomach. Her knees crumpled beneath her.
“Are you kidding me?” In less than a heartbeat he dropped his reservations about getting involved, his reservations about all things Emma, and did what needed to be done. “What’s with you Newberry women and fainting?”
She didn’t say a word as he fit his arm under the crook of her knees and wrapped his other arm firmly around her shoulders.
Her eyelids fluttered slightly.
“At least I know you’re alive,” he murmured as he jostled her around until he felt sure he had her securely in his grasp.
“Hey!” She roused slightly and tried to kick. The feeble attempt only emphasized how weak she was from her long drive. “Put me down. I can do this myself. I do everything myself.”
“Nope. Sorry, not this time.” He clutched her high against his chest and gazed at her sweet, sleepy face. “I have a key to this place and have already cleared my schedule for the morning. I’m going to watch your daughter and you’re going to take a nap…”
“I’m fine.” Her kick turned into more of a halfhearted swing of one leg. She yawned. “I need to go see Sammie Jo.”
“Sammie Jo is fine.” It was nothing for him to carry her, even over the largely unkempt ground of the old bird-sanctuary lawn. He had made his living mostly wrangling farm animals, wrestling with everything from birthing cattle to giving a ferret nose drops. He could handle one wily but weary Newberry woman without any complications. “You just need to—”
“Be careful. That’s my mommy,” the girl said, her chin thrust out and her soft blond hair wafting in the breeze.
“I know. She’s…” Hank looked down at Emma Newberry, who had laid her head against his shoulder when he’d begun walking. She was now blissfully dozing on his blue work shirt.
“Your mom is going to take a nap. But that’s okay. You have Earnest T and Otis and me to look after you until she wakes up.”
No complications? Her daughter couldn’t be left to her own devices, her aunt was ill and her sister was preoccupied, to say the least. He hadn’t wanted to get involved but he didn’t have any choice. Emma Newberry didn’t have anyone but him.
Trouble? Hank had a feeling that was an understatement for what had just come home to roost.
Chapter Two
“It’s pretend cake, Ruth. This isn’t my house. You aren’t my kid. I can’t feed you real cake. That’s just the way it is.”
At the sound of a man’s voice holding a potentially temper-tantrum-inducing conversation with her daughter, Emma sat bolt up and almost tumbled off the edge of the couch.
Her mind raced back frantically over the events of the past twenty-four hours. She tugged at the neckline of her only really nice dress then ran her fingers over her diamond bracelet. She never should have accepted it as a birthday gift from her boss, Dr. Ben Weaver. She had told him it was too expensive, not to mention impractical for her as a nurse and single mom. But he’d made her feel like an ingrate for refusing the gesture. He liked to see her happy, to give her nice things, he’d said. That decision lead to another date and then another. And then last night, an out-of-the-blue proposal.
Emma shut her eyes. Why hadn’t she just said no? Running away wasn’t an answer. She of all people should know that.
“I think you’ll find, Miss Ruth Newberry, that there is a lot to be said for having pretend cake. Starting with not having to do dishes after eating it.”
Emma swept her gaze over the cluttered but homey living room of the old Newberry home and thoughts of Ben and the choice she had avoided making fell away. How did she get to this couch? How long had she been sleeping? And why was Hank—Mr. “kids are great—for other people”—Corsaut talking to her daughter about pretend cake?
“Ruth?” Emma pushed up to her feet and for a second the momentum made her head go woozy.
“But if you throw a fit—” Hank kept his tone matter-of-fact sounding, smooth and soothing “—you will upset Otis and Earnest T and the three of us will have to go have our tea somewhere else.”
Emma pressed her fingertips to her temples and clenched her back teeth to force herself to focus. The room stopped swimming. She turned to find Ruth, still in her ballerina tutu and tie-dyed top, standing barefoot on a wooden kitchen chair painted banana-yellow, glaring across the 1950s’ style dinette table at Hank.
Hank Corsaut! Her pulse kicked up. She couldn’t catch her breath. She’d been too exhausted and too upset for it to really sink in earlier.
From the moment she’d run blindly out of one of the best restaurants in Atlanta, rushed to pick up Ruth and driven from Georgia to Louisiana without even stopping to change her clothes, Emma had prayed. She had prayed for guidance. She had prayed for insight. She had prayed for courage.
Maybe she should have prayed not to run into the last person she wanted to see at the old house on the same day she had come running home with her tail between her legs and her future up in the air.
“Cake,” Ruth demanded with the quiet intensity of the calm before a storm.
“Sorry. No cake.” Hank stretched his long legs out and did not budge. He did not even shift enough to make the somewhat rickety, wildly decorated wooden chair beneath him squawk. That impressed Emma, since she had painted those chairs herself more than a decade ago and knew how little it took to get them to complain under a person’s weight.
The two big-eyed dogs, sitting in front of empty plates on chairs painted pink and lime green, watched solemnly. Silently.
Ruth did not show such grace. She gripped the back of her chair, her face beet-red, and let out a low, threatening growling sound.
Emma rounded the couch and headed for the kitchen. The soles of her bare feet slapped the warped boards of the hardwood floor as she said, “Hank, you don’t understand. About Ruth—”
“I understand enough.” He held his hand up to warn her to keep her distance. “If you want to talk to me about this, Ruth, you have to use words. Okay?”
Ruth shifted her weight from one fat little foot to the other. She frowned. She balled her small hand into a fist against the layers of pink netting of her outfit. After a moment she spread her fingers open wide and shook them the way someone might react to touching a hot iron. She didn’t say a word, but then she also didn’t grunt or growl, either.
Emma wanted to tell Hank that she considered this development a small triumph.
But before she could say anything, the man smiled at Ruth warmly then nodded. “Okay. Looks like we have reached an agreement.”
A shiver snaked up Emma’s spine. Try as she might she could not look away from the man. Not even to keep him from seeing how much she found herself drawn to him with his easygoing approach, kind wit and seemingly endless patience coupled with unflinching sense of purpose. He wasn’t bad to look at, either.
At thirty-seven his still-thick black hair did not show signs of graying. She couldn’t say the same for her own dark brown locks at thirty-three. He still didn’t seem inclined to get regular haircuts, though now the shaggy look seemed more a causal look than a young man too wrapped up in establishing his business to take time for the barber. His skin was tanned and he didn’t show even the first bulge of a belly or suggestion of love handles.
The years had been good to him. He was no longer the kid she’d known and loved, the callow young man who had broken her heart by proposing to her and waiting until the eve of their marriage to tell her he didn’t want children. Hank was a man now.
And she was a mom.
She could not let herself forget that.
She shut her eyes and made herself focus on the situation at hand. The familiar smells of the old kitchen eased into every nuance of her mind and memory. The ever-present hint in the air of Louisiana loam and moss and river grasses, of lemon oil used to polish all the wood in the old house intertwined with the scent of fresh cotton from all the kitchen linens aired on the clothesline. It all comforted her but did not blot out the image of Hank Corsaut in faded jeans and a denim work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his well-muscled forearms.
Without even trying she could picture the watchfulness of his dark eyes, the way his hair fell against the beginning of smile lines fanning out above his high cheekbones. Whether climbing out of his truck coming to her aid or sitting in the kitchen playing tea party with her headstrong daughter, the man brought an instant sense of order to the chaos Emma seemed to drag along behind her wherever she went.
“Oh, Hank,” she said almost like a sigh.
“What?” His masculine voice, with just a syllable, brought her straight into the moment again.
She pretended to rub sleep out of her eye and took a step in their direction. “Can I get you something for those plates and cups?”
“I unpacked your car for you and found the bag of snacks you had in there.” Hank held up his hand. “So, we’ve eaten, thanks.”
“Not cake,” Ruth shot back.
“I explained about that,” he said softly.
“She likes cake,” Emma said with a soft, apologetic tone of affection she often used when trying to smooth her daughter’s way in the world. “But if you want something to eat, I can look around and see if there’s any—”
“Ruth asked Earnest T and Otis and me to have a tea party with her and we’ve had a very nice time sipping pink tea, which is pretend, by the way.” He gave Emma a quick look, chin down, his dark eyes as somber as an undertaker’s. Only the flicker of a smile gave away his good humor in the face of all he had been putting up with while she snoozed away who knew how much of the morning. “But when I suggested the boys might like some pretend cake to go with their pretend tea…”
Emma winced.
“I like cake,” Ruth muttered.
