Always Emily

God or the devil or both had a wicked sense of humor. Why did they keep sending her back to him? It messed with the balance he strived so hard for in his life.

He’d told her to stay away. After first asking her to stay here with you. After nearly asking her to marry you.

A moment of temporary insanity, of wanting life to go my way, even briefly. Of needing an end to the loneliness.

That night in the moonlight, Emily had looked like heaven.

He loved his daughters and respected the daylights out of his father, but missed having a woman around. Worse, he missed Emily. He’d married one woman while he’d wanted another, and had spent his married life suppressing his desire and trying to be a good husband. He had paid a price, and the currency had been longing, yearning and too much time spent alone.

He’d spent his married years tamping his emotions into a hard brick of denial, constantly controlling everything he said to his wife, and everything he did with Emily.

Then Annie had died.

That night last year, he’d gotten this crazy thought. There had been a long period of mourning, out of respect for the mother of his children. That time had passed. Now he and Emily could be together.

He had thought she would return his feelings and want to be with him, but despite telling her how he felt, she’d left anyway.

He’d blurted his heart’s desire. Thank the Lord, she’d said no. He’d dodged a bullet.

In his smarter moments, he knew it would never work between them. Emily loved adventure.

Salem glanced longingly at the book he’d been studying. Reason, intellect and learned discussion were his gods.

But now here she was, despite him telling her to never return, and everything inside him rebelled against turning her away sick. Em was smart. She would have known that when she came here. He disliked being used. But he couldn’t let her go.

He tamped down the emotions twisting in his belly like warring snakes, because she looked like hell. He didn’t want to worry about this woman who weighed next to nothing, but he did. She angered and frustrated him, but he couldn’t turn her away.

He laid her on the sofa in his office, where she had spent so many hours over the years when she came home from her digs sitting and pouring out her heart about Jean-Marc and his latest escapades. He’d heard her anger and pain, but he’d never interfered. Back then, he could never say, Leave him and come to me.

On all of her visits, he’d held a chunk of himself back—to protect both his peace of mind and his marriage. He might not have been in love with his wife, but he had been committed to her.

And so, restraint had become his middle name, and the act a habit, but sometimes these days, the restraints chafed and he wanted to bust out so badly.

When he finally did ask Emily to be with him, she’d said no. End of story.

“What’s wrong, Emily?”

When he tried to let her go, she grasped his shirt.

Even through her clothing, her skin burned. Just like Emily to come here like this, to bring mayhem into his well-ordered existence. She liked drama. He liked peace. She liked chaos. He needed order.

“Emily,” he said, keeping his voice low to soothe her as he would a skittish animal. “I need to get water.”

She nodded. “Yes. Water.”

Even so, she didn’t ease her grip.

“Let go.” He became stern. “I’ll come back.”

“Promise?” Her insecurity tore at him. Trouble roiled in her witchy blue-hazel eyes.

Where was his confident, brash Emily? What happened to you?

“I’m always here for you, Emily. You know that.” Even when it was hard, and even when he had vowed to break away from her, to sever all ties. She called to a part of him he had trouble denying.

She smiled so sweetly it broke his heart. Yes, he was always here for her, but she wasn’t always available for him.

He cut off the anger and bitterness. Now wasn’t the time.

At this moment, she needed him, and that was all that mattered. He would get rid of her when she was well.

She released him and he retrieved water and damp towels from the washroom. Just before he left the room, he noticed muddy handprints on his shirt where Emily had gripped it. Strange.

When he returned, he asked, “What is it? The flu?”

She shook her head. “Malaria.”

“Malaria?” He stilled his panic long enough to swab her face. “Isn’t that bad?”

She lifted a shaky finger to smooth the frown from his forehead, the smattering of freckles across her nose stark against her sickly white skin. “It’s okay. I’ve seen a doctor.”

“And?”

“And there’s nothing to do but wait. I felt a bit better for a while, but I shouldn’t have walked over here in the rain.”

“You walked here? Sick? From your dad’s?”

She nodded.

A flush of violence coursed through his blood. “So help me, Emily,” he muttered, swabbing her face too hard, “you are infuriating.”

She smiled, and it was weak, but sweet. “Wanted to see you.” He fought the urge to wrap his arms around her and never let go. No one could make him feel warm and fuzzy as Emily could, even while he wanted to shake her.

Why didn’t she take care of herself? Why hadn’t she learned to control her impulses?

“When did you get home?”

“About an hour ago.”

“And you rushed over here? Why not wait until morning?”

When his glance fell on her hands, the warm fuzzies came to a screeching halt. He grasped one. Mud caked her fingers. “What have you been up to?” Her nails were crammed with dirt. Digging? In the rain? Where? On this land?

Wanted to see me, my ass.

She pulled her hand out of his grasp.

“What did you do?” he asked, recrimination riding his tone like acid.