Chapter Ten

Emma’s heart raced. What the hell was she doing?

She’d just leaned in to kiss the man who had filled her dreams for the past several nights. The man who was so handsome that it sometimes hurt just to look at him. The man whose grin could send butterflies storming through her chest.

And he was kissing her back.

His lips were soft, and his mouth tasted like spearmint gum. His strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him, his hands sliding along her back.

A moan of hunger escaped her lips as she felt his hand slide under her T-shirt and grip her waist. The touch of his callused fingers against her bare skin sent shivers of heat down her spine.

His other hand slid across her shoulders and into her hair, pulling out the elastic band and freeing her hair to fall in a cascade around them. Every place that he touched felt like fire burning her skin with the heat of passion.

Then he pulled back, gasping for breath, as he put the slightest pressure against her shoulder.

Oh my gosh. What have I done?

That slight pressure, the tiniest bit of pulling away was like a mammoth sign of rejection, and her insecurities came slamming back with the force of a giant blow.

What a fool she was. He was Cash Walker. He could have any woman he wanted. And he was probably used to women throwing themselves at him.

She scrambled off him, the scratchy hay digging into her palms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she mumbled.

He’d made it clear that he only wanted to be her friend.

She must have misread the signals—the flirting, the playful teasing.

Cash was known to be a huge flirt. That didn’t mean he actually liked her.

She’d just thrown herself at him—practically jumped him.

He must think I’m an idiot. And a fool.

Pulling her shirt down as she stood, she pivoted and ran from the barn.

“Emma, wait.”

She heard him call her name, but she was already out the door, running for the house, a sob building in her throat.

…

The first drops of rain fell on his shoulders as Cash climbed the front porch steps to Charlie’s house the next night. He paused, turning to search the night sky, analyzing the clouds and hoping for a big storm. A heavy soaking tonight would sure help the fall crops.

Thunder rumbled a few miles away, dark clouds filling the sky and echoing in his chest. Last night still weighed heavily on him.

He’d found her forgotten sweater in the barn, and he now laid it across the back of one of the rockers.

It was probably the coward’s way to do it, but he wasn’t quite ready to face her yet.

He’d tried to talk to her the night before, knocking on the door and calling her name. But she hadn’t answered. Hadn’t answered his knock, or his call, or even his text. So he figured he would just give her some space.

But he wished she would at least let him explain.

She’d taken him by surprise, leaning down and kissing him like that. He hadn’t had time to think about his actions, he just reacted.

He’d been thinking about her for so long, imagining what it would be like to kiss her, to feel her body, to touch her. When she’d kissed him, he couldn’t help himself. God help him, he kissed her back, drew her to him, steeped himself in the scent of her skin.

Trying to regain his wits, and his breath, he’d pulled back.

Unfortunately, he thought Emma must have taken that as a sign of rejection. That was the only thing he could figure that would make her take off and refuse to talk to him.

He wasn’t rejecting her. He was just taking a second to breathe.

But she evidently didn’t see it that way.

Damn it. He never should have let it get this far. Should have never let them get in the position where this could happen. It was his own damn fault.

She’d been doing so well, too. He could see her confidence building as she learned the simple self-defense techniques.

Then in one moment, he destroyed it all. The hurt in her eyes was unmistakable. He knew it would happen. Knew it all along. Knew that he would end up hurting her. One way or another.

But now what the hell should he do? Keep trying? Trying to talk to her—to explain? Or should he just leave her alone? Let her lick her wounds then just forget about him.

He wished he knew the answer. But men had been battling the mysteries of women for thousands of years, and he wasn’t going to solve anything tonight.

He turned to leave, then heard a loud crash and a woman’s voice cry out.

Emma.

He grabbed the screen door, yanking it open, and stormed into the house.

Emma stood in the kitchen, a mess of dough on the counter, and a shattered mixing bowl at her feet. Her face and shirt were covered in flour, and tears welled in her eyes.

He stopped short of the mess. “You okay? Are you hurt?”

She didn’t say anything, just shook her head, her face filled with despair.

“It’s all right, darlin’. No use crying over spilled dough, or whatever it is that you were makin’ here.” He tried to tease her into smiling, but it didn’t work.

“I broke Charlie’s mixing bowl,” she said quietly as she sunk to the floor. “She told me her grandmother gave it to her.”

“Don’t worry about it. Her grandmother gave her everything in this kitchen. And Gigi broke plenty of dishes during her years in this kitchen. Let me get this bowl so you don’t cut yourself.” He picked up the broken pieces, carried them to the trash bin, then brought back the small brush and dustpan set that hung under the sink.

“What are you working on here?” he asked.

She looked up at him, one lone tear slipping from her eye and rolling down her cheek. “I was trying to bake a pie.”

Oh, dang. He couldn’t have felt worse for her if someone had actually ripped his heart from his chest and tore it in two. “Well, shoot. I thought you were gonna ask Cherry or Sophie to teach you.”

“Sophie had a fall break at school, so she went to New York with Charlie, and I didn’t want to bother Cherry. I wanted to figure it out by myself. To actually do it on my own.”

“Okay, I get that.” He knew that feeling all too well. He’d tried, and failed at, many things because he was too stubborn or pigheaded to ask for help. Bending down, he reached out and wiped the tear from her cheek. It had left a heartbreaking trail through her flour-covered cheek. “Would you let me teach you?”

She looked up at him, a questioning look in her eyes. “You? You know how to make a pie?”

He offered her a devilish grin. “Heck yeah, I do. I used to help my mom in the kitchen all the time, and she taught me how to cook a lot of things. I can bake the hell out of a pie.”

She laughed, then her face fell, and the tears welled again. “That almost makes me feel worse. Even you can make a pie, and all I can make is—” She looked around at the mess on the floor. “A big ball of glop.”

He chuckled and held out a hand to her to help her up. “Everybody starts with glop. You don’t climb onto a bike and just start riding it. You take it easy, you make mistakes, then all of a sudden, you get it.”

She swiped at her face with the back of her hand, straightening her spine in resolve. “Okay, you’re right. Yes, I would like it if you could teach me how to bake a pie.”

A stupid grin covered his face as he waved her away. “Go change clothes while I clean up your glop, and we’ll start over.”

Five minutes later, she emerged from the guest room. She had on her black yoga pants, and a short sleeved button-up top. Lifting her arms, she pulled her hair up into a ponytail as she walked toward him. He swallowed at the slim band of her bare stomach that showed under the hem of her shirt.

She smiled at him, her face freshly washed, and he knew he would do anything for her—hang the moon, pluck the stars from the sky, teach her how to make a hundred pies. Anything to earn him that smile.

“I’m ready,” she said.

He looked down at her and knew he wasn’t. He wasn’t ready at all.

“Let’s do it.” He tamped down his feelings, instead choosing to concentrate on the task. Grabbing one of Gigi’s aprons, he dropped it over her head and turned her away from him to tie the strings around her waist. “First things first. You can’t make a pie without starting with the essentials.”

She pulled her hair out from under the top strap, displaying her slender neck, and his hands fumbled as he worked to tie a simple bow. So much for concentrating on the task.

How was he supposed to think straight when his hands were around her waist, and he had a great view of her perfect round butt?

Turning around, she smoothed the simple white apron down her front and gave him a teasing grin. “What about you? Aren’t you going to wear one?”

“Of course.” He grabbed the frilliest apron, a bright pink one with ruffled trim and a herd of dancing cows holding mixing bowls on the front, and pulled it over his head. Who cared about his pride when wearing a funny apron could illicit a sudden burst of laughter from her?

She was still laughing as he led her over to the sink where they washed their hands then crossed to the freshly cleaned counter.

A cluster of the ingredients and measuring cups covered the back part of the counter, and he pointed to the bag of pecans and bottle of corn syrup. “I remember the other day that you said pecan was your favorite, so I assume from the fixings you’ve got set out here that we’re making a pecan pie.”

She nodded. “I found the bag of nuts in the pantry, and that’s what got me started on this idea. You don’t think Charlie will be upset that I’m using this stuff, do you?”

“Heck, no. She’d love it. She was a terrible cook when she first got here. About all she could make was scrambled eggs and grilled cheese sandwiches. Sophie taught her almost everything she knows. She’d be happy to have you use these things. Really.”

“Okay. I found a recipe on the back of the bag of pecans. That’s the one I was using.”

“That’s fine for the filling. We just might add a couple of tweaks to it. But we’ll do my mom’s recipe for the crust. It’s similar to the one Charlie’s grandma Gigi used.”

“Works for me. What do we do first?”

“So, the key to making a great crust is to make sure your ingredients are really cold. And to use real butter or shortening. Gigi always used oleo, but my mom liked real butter, so we’ll stick with that.” He pointed to the partially melted butter and the bottle of vegetable oil. “I’m sure these two things were the main culprits in creating your glop.”

She shrugged, a guilty look on her face. “My baking skills have always run to boxed cake mixes and chocolate chip cookies, and you always soften the butter for those. And I couldn’t find any solid shortening so I figured this would do in a pinch.”

“The only thing we’re going to pinch is the edges of the crust. You can’t skimp on the right ingredients. And the colder the better. I’m sure Charlie has a couple of sticks of real butter already in the freezer just for piecrusts.”

Opening the freezer, he grabbed two from the door. “I’ll show you a trick my mom taught me. You can use a cheese grater to grate the frozen butter. Then it mixes with your dry ingredients slick as can be.”

He quickly grated the butter, filling a mixing bowl with cheery yellow shreds. He pushed another empty bowl toward her. “You can measure the flour and salt, then I’ll dump in the butter. My mom always added a teaspoon of sugar.” He filled a measuring cup with ice water as she dumped in the ingredients.

“I always thought you were supposed to use lukewarm water.”

“Not for crust. You always want everything really cold. You want to use warm water when you’re baking bread.”

“You know how to bake bread, too?”

He offered her one of his most charming grins. “Darlin’, I know how to do a lot of things.”

Her cheeks tinged pink as she reached for the sugar. “So anyway, about this pie. How much sugar did you say I should use?”

Chuckling, he handed her the measuring spoons. “A good full teaspoon should do.” He held up his hands as she sprinkled the sugar over the flour. “Ready to get messy?”

Dumping the butter into the bowl, he used his hands to mix it together. “Get your hands in here. This dough isn’t gonna mix itself.”

She laughed and stuck her hands in next to his, making a face as she squeezed the dough between her fingers. “Oh, it is cold. And gooey.”

He chuckled and drizzled a teaspoon of the ice water onto the dough, earning a shriek from her as he sprinkled the last cold drops onto her hand.

Sticking his hands back in the bowl, they formed the dough into a ball, the familiar butterflies building each time their fingers touched. “You don’t want to overwork the dough. And it’s okay to leave little chunks of butter in there; it just adds to the flakiness of the crust.”

Sprinkling flour across the counter, he instructed her to dump the ball out, then covered a rolling pin with flour as well before handing it to her. “Now gently roll it out into a circle.”

She pressed down on the dough, creating a gulley in the middle. “Like this?”

“Here, I’ll show you.” He stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her sides, trapping her in a loose embrace. He covered her hands with his and guided the rolling pin along the dough. Darts of heat shot up his spine as he leaned forward, pressing his body against hers.

The smell of her hair almost drove him insane, and he held back from dipping down and nuzzling her neck with his lips.

He felt her catch her breath as he spoke, the whisper of his breath tickling her skin. “You want to take your time with this part. Take it slow and easy. You don’t want to mess with it too much or the crust won’t be as good. Like you don’t want to do the old playdough back and forth movement—piecrust doesn’t like that. Roll from the center outward in one easy stroke.”

Oh Lord, did he really just say “one easy stroke”? His mind drifted from the crust into a sinful place with her naked and straddling him as she took several easy strokes, and he fought back a groan.

She leaned forward, pressing on the rolling pin, and her backside rubbed against his groin in a torturous shift of movement.

Shit. With the way things were starting to swell, his thoughts weren’t going to stay hidden for long.

“So, tell me about your mom.”

Huh? His mom? Okay. At least changing gears to a new subject would quell any other thoughts of her in his bed, and would certainly stop the bulge developing in his suddenly too-tight Wranglers. “What do you want to know?”

She shrugged. “Anything. Everything. What is she like? This woman who taught her son how to bake a pie.”

“She’s great. You would actually love her. And not just because she’s fun and easy to get along with. But because you’ve lived through a lot of the same things.”

Emma nodded, and her ponytail bobbed. Her hair tickled his neck as he leaned over her shoulder. “Were you always close?” she asked.

“Yeah. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, so it was always my mom and I against him. My dad would come home around suppertime, and if I was in the kitchen with her, he’d usually leave her alone. I picked up the basics, and my mom taught me a lot of stuff. He knew I helped her, which was good, so if something wasn’t cooked right, or he didn’t like it, I could take the blame instead of her.”

Her hands stilled on the rolling pin, and her voice was soft as she asked, “Did he hurt you, too?”

“Yeah, he did. He wasn’t my real dad. My real dad was a bull rider and was killed when a bull kicked him in the head during a rodeo.”

“I’m sorry. I understand what that’s like. My mom died when I was eight. Cancer.”

No wonder she was so shy and kept to herself. He knew Clyde Frank was a widower, but had never really thought about the implications of that where Emma was concerned.

“That’s worse. I was still a baby when I lost my dad, so I didn’t really know him. My stepdad married my mom when I was around five, so he was the only dad I ever really knew. And in the beginning he was good to us, ya know?”

“Yes, they always start out that way.”

“He seemed so nice and fun. I’d never had any real male attention before, and he used to play catch with me and take me to baseball games. Even after, you know, he started beating us, he was always so sorry. He brought us gifts and took us out to eat and was that fun, nice guy again.”

He leaned his head against the side of hers, caught up in the memories. “It almost made it worth it. I mean the bruises healed, and it was like it was worth getting them to have that good guy back for a while—to have his attention and have him treat us so kindly.”

She didn’t turn, didn’t look at him, like it was almost easier to talk about the hard stuff if she just kept her eyes on their hands. “Leroy used to be so good to me afterward, bringing me flowers and offering to take me on dates. It didn’t seem so bad at first, ’cause he was always so sorry, and then he’d be so sweet.”

“It’s like they’re two different people. I always felt like I had two dads, the good one, and the other one. At least in the beginning. Then the drinking got worse, and it’s like the good one simply disappeared.”

She didn’t say anything, simply nodded instead.

“My dad was a gambler, always looking for the easy score, the one that was really gonna make him rich this time. He gambled away most of his paychecks and any savings we might have had. The more he lost, the more he drank, and the more he took out his desperation and anger on us.”

She squeezed his hand, still not responding, just letting him talk.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway. I don’t know why I just told you all that stuff. You asked me about my mom, not my life story. My mom’s name is Kathleen, but everyone calls her Kitty. You’ll really like her. She’s coming to town in a few weeks for the Fall Festival so you’ll get to meet her then.”

“I’d like that.”

“I’d like to get this pie in the oven. You have this way of distracting me.” He gave her a nudging tease. “The trick is to fold it in half, then fold it in half again, then lay it in your pie pan and gently unfold it. It’s okay to have this extra crust around the sides, just tuck it under and crimp the edges like this.” He showed her how to transfer the crust and pinch the edges. “Now for the filling.”

He grabbed another mixing bowl. “I’ll melt the butter and chop the pecans while you measure out the other stuff.”

“Okay, I can handle this part.” They worked in companionable silence, measuring and dumping ingredients into the bowl.

“Now, not everyone does this, but my mom always sprinkled about a half a teaspoon of cinnamon into her pecan pie. She said it gave it a kick and made hers seem just a little unique. She also used the darker variety of corn syrup to intensify the flavor.” He sprinkled cinnamon into the bowl then drizzled the dark syrup over the other ingredients.

“Good tips. I would have just followed the recipe on the back of the bag.”

He handed her a mixing spoon. “You can take it from here.”

The radio was on and tuned to a country station, and Emma hummed along to a Carrie Underwood song as she stirred the sticky filling then poured it into the prepared piecrust.

Cash set one of Gigi’s ancient pie shields on top of the rim of the crust. “This will keep the edges from getting too brown.” He held open the door of the already preheated oven, and Emma slid the pie onto the center rack.

“Now we set the timer for forty-five minutes and clean up this mess.” He filled the sink with hot water and squirted in some dish soap. “I’ll wash if you dry.”

“Deal.” She brought over the dishes and dumped them into the water then found a clean dish towel. Standing near him, she leaned her hip against the counter, watching his hands as she waited for the first dish. “Thank you for telling me. You know—about you and your mom.”

He kept his gaze on the soapy water as he washed the mixing bowl. “I don’t know exactly what you went through, but I get how hard it is to live with a man like that. It took a hell of a lot of guts to leave him for good.”

“Everyone always talks about why women stay so long. And why they don’t just leave. It’s so hard to make them understand. Leroy wasn’t always like that. He used to be funny and was actually pretty good to me. Things seemed to get worse for us after Leroy lost his job. And like you said, the drinking got worse, and when he was drunk he lost control. And those times started happening more and more often till I couldn’t even remember that sweet guy. I dreaded the minute he would walk in the door, not knowing if it would be a good night and I could keep him calm or if it would be bad.”

“It probably felt like you could keep him calm, but it didn’t really matter what you did. My mom and I used to do that, too. Like if we could just make the perfect dinner and talk about just the right stuff, he would be okay and not drink so much that night and get mad. But it didn’t really matter what we did. Or what you did. It was out of your control, Emma. And none of it was your fault.”

She took the bowl and ran the towel along the edge, catching the drops of water as she dried it. “I get that now. But I didn’t think like that then. All I thought about was doing whatever I could to keep him from getting mad and taking it out on me.”

His heart broke for her and the things she must have gone through. It was so hard for other people to understand what it’s like. Unless they’d been through it themselves. People always think why didn’t she just leave? But it wasn’t that simple.

“I know I should have left sooner than I did, but I was afraid. I had nothing. I had no one to turn to. I mean I had my dad, but he’d already done enough. I’d gone to him before, but then I went back to Leroy. I was ashamed and embarrassed. And I didn’t have any friends.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Not like I do now.”

He turned to her, took the towel, and dried his hands. “We are your friends, Em. All of us. You can count on us. We’ll be here for you. I’ll be here for you.”

She looked at the floor. “I believe you. That’s why I’m so ashamed of what happened last night. I know you just want to be my friend, and I overstepped those bounds. I’m horrified that I threw myself at you when you’ve made it clear several times that you don’t think of me that way.”

What the hell was she talking about? Was that the reason she ran out on him? Not because she thought he was rejecting her, but because she didn’t think he wanted her at all?

He reached out and touched her chin, tipping her face up to look at him. “You’re wrong, Emma. I do think about you that way. I think about you every way, every day, all the time. Thoughts of you haunt my dreams, and I spend a good part of my day wondering what you’re doing, how you’re feeling, and if you’re okay.”

His gaze drifted to her mouth. “I also spend a fair amount of time thinking about your lips and about kissing you.”

“You do?” She tugged the corner of her bottom lip under her front teeth, and it made him want to kiss her now, to suck her lip in between his. To taste her.

“Then why don’t you? Why haven’t you?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Because I do care about you. I care too much about you. And you don’t need to get involved with a guy like me. You deserve so much better.”

“But I like you.”

“Why? Why the hell would you want to get mixed up with someone like me?”

She searched his gaze as if trying to determine if he was seriously asking her that. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re kindhearted, you’re thoughtful, you treat me with care and like you want to protect me. Plus you’re so cute, and you have all these muscles.” Her lips tipped into a teasing grin. “And you have a great butt.”

He chuckled, a soft laugh. “I could say the same of you.”

“Then what’s the problem? I don’t understand. I thought it was because, you know, you’re used to women who are prettier, and curvier, and way more fun than I am. I was sure it was because I wasn’t enough.”

She was breaking his heart, shattering it into tiny pieces.

How could she think she wasn’t enough? “You’re more than enough. You’re…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Special, I guess. Those other women are fun, but that’s all they are. You’re more than that to me. You matter.”

Reaching up, she laid a hand on his cheek. “You matter to me, too. You’re the only one who really makes me feel safe.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his hand on top of hers, savoring her touch for a moment before he pulled her hand away.

Opening his eyes, he stared into hers, bracing his arms on either side of her against the counter, his voice now gruff with emotion. “But I can’t keep you safe. If you get involved with me, I can’t protect you from the thing that will surely hurt you—could possibly destroy you. And that’s me. I can’t risk hurting you, and I would never forgive myself if I did.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you think that? You’ve only been good to me. And I’m the one taking the risk. So what if it’s a chance I’m willing to take? Because I don’t think you will hurt me. You know what it’s like to live with a monster; that doesn’t make you one.” She inched forward, straddling his leg as she pressed against him.

He sighed, a heavy sound full of the torture he felt. He wanted to believe her. Wanted to see himself through her eyes.

He also wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless, peel off her clothes, and have his way with her right here on the kitchen floor.

But that would be a selfish move on his part. Selfish and stupid and only thinking of his own desperate need for her.

He bent his forehead down, leaning it against hers. “Emma, I have a lot of darkness in my past. A lot of stuff that I’m not proud of. You’re just getting out of that darkness. You have so much to look forward to. A future. Actual happiness. I don’t want to be the one to keep you in the darkness. Not when you deserve to be in the light.”

“My heart is hammering in my chest, and I can barely breathe. But being here with you, standing so close and praying that you’ll kiss me, this feels like I am in the light.”

His breath caught in his throat, his defenses cracking, as she gazed up at him with such tender emotion, and such raw desire. He knew he should step back, collect his wits, at least try to come to his senses.

But he couldn’t. His good sense had deserted him, leaving him with only his sense of want and need.

He didn’t care if it was selfish or senseless. He wanted her, and he wanted her now. His good conscience be damned, he knew he was about to do something stupid.

Never taking his gaze from hers, he lifted her onto the counter, pressed between her open legs, then reached up and took her face between his palms. He rubbed his thumb gently along her bottom lip. “Lord help me, I can’t resist you.”