The Sugar House

“What about your mom?” he ventured when she offered nothing else. “Can I talk to her?”

Emmy took a step back. It was as apparent as the latent tension radiating from his big body that he had no idea of the events that had eventually destroyed both of her parents, and robbed her youth of nearly every trace of security.

That blissful ignorance almost felt like an insult, and that insult felt strangely painful. “My mother is gone, too.”

At her quiet reply, Jack felt a strange, sinking sensation in his chest. He knew how close she had been to her mom. She had absolutely worshiped her father.

“Emmy,” he said, scrambling for words as he searched the delicate lines of her face. “I’m sorry about your parents. I really am. I didn’t know about either of them,” he admitted, hating how pitifully inadequate the words and the explanation sounded. “Neither did Mom. She’ll be sorry to hear about them, too.”

He watched her glance shy from his as she took another step back.

An uncomfortable moment later, she murmured, “Thank you.”

Jack had forgotten how succinct some New Englanders could be with their responses. But he had the feeling Emmy wasn’t simply being concise. Her brevity and the way she edged from him made it abundantly clear that she had no use for either him or his presence.

He wasn’t surprised at all by how distrustful she seemed of him. What he hadn’t been prepared for, however, was how much the quiet vulnerability he’d remembered about her touched him now.

He remembered her as a small and quiet child, all skinny arms, legs and long dark red hair. She’d trailed after him like a puppy, constantly asking questions, giggling when he teased her. She had reminded him of his little sister, Liz. And, he supposed, when she’d been around, he’d watched out for her much as he had his little sister, too.

Until the day he’d so clearly let her down.

He had never forgotten the last time he’d seen her, or the haunted look in her luminous gray eyes. He’d come that day to return the spare keys for her dad’s truck, the one he had used in the sugar bush to haul dead snags for him. Emmy had stood on the porch beside her distraught father, holding his hand. As he’d given her dad the keys, he’d looked down to see Emmy looking up at him, her eyes huge as she silently begged him to do something to change everything back to the way it had been.

He didn’t remember what was said between him and Stan, if anything at all. All he remembered were the silent tears of incomprehension that had rolled down Emmy’s cheeks in the moments before he’d turned away.

He had never forgotten that look—the sadness, the bewilderment.

“I suppose you’re who I need to talk to, then,” he said, swearing that look was still there. So was the quietness about her. Only, now she seemed far more reserved than timid. And she was definitely no longer a little girl.

Her unadorned mouth was lush, the color of ripe peaches against skin that look so clear and soft it practically invited a man to touch. He couldn’t tell much about her slender shape beneath her heavy parka. But with her delicate features framed by the cap covering her hair, she looked as ethereal as a Botticelli angel and as fragile as glass.

“Can we go inside?” he asked, mentally regrouping to change his approach. “I only need a few minutes.”

As if even a few more seconds was too much to ask, she immediately turned away. “I’m sorry. I don’t have time to visit.”

His hand shot out. Grabbing her arm, he stepped in front of her, blocking her retreat. There were things he had to say. He couldn’t let her go until he did. He just couldn’t remember what those things were as her cautious glance jerked to his and wariness hovered around her like a mist. Even through her jacket’s thick layer of down, he swore he felt her muscles stiffen.

With the fog of their breath mingling between them, he was close enough to see the slivers of silver and pewter in her beautiful eyes. Close enough to see the tiny creases in the fullness of her lower lip. Her skin might invite a man to touch, but her mouth fairly begged to be kissed.

The tightening low in his gut made him go still.

So did her dog’s low, feral growl.

Suddenly as aware of the canine’s teeth as he was the woman warily watching him, he let her go. He’d braced himself for a less-than-welcoming reception, but things weren’t going at all as he’d expected.

“I didn’t come just to visit, Emmy.” With another glance toward the fifty pounds of fur and snarl that had yet to move from her side, he took a step back himself. “There’s something I need to do, but I can’t if you won’t hear me out.”

“If you’re here to tell me you bought the property next door, it’s not necessary. Everyone already knows.”

He would have been surprised if everyone hadn’t. “I take it the local grapevine is still intact.”

“Word gets around.”

“Word in this case is incomplete. No one knows what I want to do with that land.”

“What you do with it is your business.” Deliberately she moved around him. “And the community council’s. They’ll try to block whatever you do.”

“The community council has nothing to say about this,” he insisted, stepping into her path again, mindful of her guard dog. “I bought it to give it back to your parents.”

Blocked in her tracks once more, she glanced back up. An uncertain frown shadowed the gray of her eyes.

“My father passed away last year,” he explained before she could decide to bolt again. “Mom never felt right about what had happened between our families. Neither did I. I want to give the property back. And to apologize.

“I hadn’t realized your parents were gone,” he told her, relieved that she was staying put. He wondered what had happened to Stan and Cara, decided now wasn’t the time to ask. “When I checked with the real estate broker I used to see if the property was available, I was told that Larkin Maple Products was still in operation. I assumed your dad was still running it, so the quitclaim deed I brought is in his name.”

He touched the jacket pocket that held that deed, thinking of what he needed to do now. “I’ll redraw it for you. It won’t take long. I just need to know your full name. I’ve always known you only as Emmy.”

His glance shot to her left hand. The way she had her cuff pulled to her palm, he couldn’t tell if she was wearing a ring. “Is it still Larkin, or are you married now?”

For a moment all Emmy could do was stare at the man blocking her path to the sugar house.

He wanted to give back the property. Of all the possible scenarios she might have imagined, this one had never occurred to her. It had apparently never occurred to anyone.

Her only thought now was that he’d made a long trip for nothing.

“My name doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. I can’t change the deed without it.”

“You don’t need to change it.”

“Emmy,” he said, suddenly sounding terribly patient. “I’m not a tax attorney and I’m not sure what estate laws are here, but it’s to your advantage to have the deed recorded in your name. That way there will be no questions. No hassles. It’ll just be yours.”

“I don’t want it.”

The dark slashes of his eyebrows merged. It seemed he wasn’t prepared for that, either.

They were even, she supposed. She wasn’t at all prepared herself. Not for his unexpected offer. And definitely not for his disquieting presence. As he towered over her, his cool blue eyes intent on her face, she could practically feel his tension snake inside her. The sensation disturbed her as much as the odd heat his scrutiny caused to radiate from her breasts to her belly.

Pulling her glance from his, she let it fall to where the hem of his comfortably worn jeans bunched over a pair of heavy and expensive hiking boots. She didn’t feel terribly trusting of him, and he unnerved her in ways she wasn’t prepared to consider, but it wasn’t like her to be unfair.

His father was responsible for what had happened to her family. And Jack had earned a reputation, too. Everyone knew he was responsible for the scar that hooked down from the corner of Joe Sheldon’s mouth. Still, he had come to apologize. For himself, apparently. And for his mother. It sounded as if the matter had weighed for a long time on Ruth Travers.

As badly as Emmy wanted the past to stay there, she couldn’t deny someone their need to try to set it right.

“I accept your apology,” she told him. She had no desire, however, to hear whatever else he might have said beyond I’m sorry. All she wanted was for him to leave. “But I have no need of anything else.

“Please excuse me.” Ducking her head again, she backed away, hoping he would just let her go. She’d lost her appetite for supper. Even if she hadn’t, she had no time to put anything together now. “I’m boiling,” she said, using the sugar-makers’ term for making syrup. “I have to get back to work.”