She’d burst into tears and ran straight for her room, sure Malachi hated her. It had been Aunt Bertie who’d finally explained. As she’d held Emma in her arms and wiped her tears away, Bertie had told her a secret. Sometimes people who had lost too much in life were afraid to care. About anyone or anything. For caring meant hurting if they lost what they cared about. And if they did start to care, they fought against it. Hard. That’s what Malachi was doing. Fighting.
Emma had decided then and there to fight, too. To fight for the frightened boy who didn’t know how to be a friend because he’d never had a friend. She’d started not an hour later, when she caught him pilfering food from the kitchen with the clear intent of running away. With a straightforward assurance only a child of eleven could muster, she’d instructed him on the fine art of apologies. All he had to do was say he was sorry for yelling at her. She would forgive him, and all would return to normal. She even gave him an example just like Miss Pratt always did in school when teaching a new lesson, and apologized for startling him by the woodpile.
She still recalled the look he’d given her. As if she’d suddenly sprouted a third eye in the middle of her forehead. She’d grown truly fearful then, thinking he’d leave for sure. So she started bossing him, even though her aunts had told her countless times that people disliked being told what to do. But she’d had no recourse. He was going to leave. So she’d planted her hands on her hips and demanded his apology. She’d goaded him for good measure, too, pointing out that saying two little words was far easier than finding a new home that was anywhere near as lovely as hers.
Her boast had been sinfully close to being a fib. She knew there were finer homes out there. Homes with fathers that a boy like Malachi could look up to. Homes with brothers he could play with and no pestering little girls who were too bossy for their own good. But he must have believed her, for his eyes got all shiny and he dropped his chin to stare at his feet. Then he’d given her the apology she’d wanted to hear, and she’d given him the hug she’d longed to share. He’d been a block of wood then, too. Not moving a muscle when she’d enthusiastically squeezed his middle.
Not much had changed. He hadn’t learned how to hug, and she hadn’t learned not to force herself upon him.
Emma’s face heated. Good grief. They weren’t children anymore. What must he think of her throwing herself at him like that? Probably that she hadn’t matured a bit in the past decade. Still the same leap-first-look-later girl she’d always been.
Emma released him at once and took a couple steps back, covering her embarrassment with a chuckle. “Sorry. Guess I got a little carried away.” She glanced up at him, and got her first true glimpse of the man Malachi had become.
Oh my.
In her excitement to see him, she hadn’t actually seen him. If she had, she’d probably still be glued to the porch, clinging to the railing for support.
“It’s good to see you, Emma.” His voice resonated with a masculine depth far removed from that of the boy she remembered. He pulled off his hat and fidgeted with the brim. “You’re looking . . . well.”
“And you’re much taller than the last time I saw you.” And had broader shoulders. A more muscled chest. And the bearing of a man unafraid to face whatever challenge fate threw at him.
Yet he just stood there. Staring. At everything except her. His gaze flitted toward her in haphazard patterns, like a nervous bumblebee that couldn’t decide whether to land or not.
The silence stretched. Why couldn’t she think of anything to say? She’d never been at a loss for words around him when they were young. Of course, he hadn’t looked like a rugged outlaw then. An extremely handsome outlaw with a gun on his hip, brown hair hanging past his collar, whiskers shadowing his jaw.
Good gracious. Her heart was pounding so hard against her ribs, she feared he would hear it if she didn’t fill the silence with something. Anything.
“I’ve missed you.”
Emma inwardly cringed. All right, maybe not anything. And definitely not something spoken in that breathy voice that sounded nothing like her usual take-charge self.
His gaze locked onto hers, though, and all regrets flew from her mind. For the briefest moment, she could have sworn she saw longing in his dark eyes. But then he cocked a half grin at her and looked up toward the heavens the way he used to do when she would pester him with too much jabbering.
“Seems you haven’t changed much, Emma. Still getting into trouble.”
Oh, she was in trouble, all right. But not because of the shooter targeting her town. Nope. Her real trouble had just arrived.
8
“Malachi Shaw, as I live and breathe.”
Mal forced his gaze away from Emma and turned toward the crotchety voice that hadn’t changed in all the years he’d been away. Henrietta Chandler, tall and thin, her dark hair still scraped back in the unforgiving bun he remembered, though with more gray streaked through it now than when he’d been a boy.
“Aunt Henry.” He dipped his chin in deference, surprised by the emotion that swelled in his throat.