The Loner (16 page)

Maybe he should have been more specific about his requirements. So far, he’d had four applicants, any one of whom could have done the job. But he’d found something
wrong with each of them.
Too much education. Too little English. Too old. Too young
. He stared at the fifth applicant standing just inside his kitchen door. With her, he could describe the problem in one word.
Pregnant
.

And way, way too pretty. “Don’t I know you?” he said as he wheeled his chair a little closer.

She smiled and he felt his heart skip a beat. “I’m Emma Coburn. I was two years behind your brother Luke in school.”

“That would make you—”

“Nineteen and pregnant. And unmarried,” she added, in case he hadn’t noticed the lack of a ring on her finger. “Which is why I need this job. You might have heard my brother recently got married.”

Bad Billy Coburn’s marriage to Summer Blackthorne was all anyone had talked about the past week. “I heard,” Sam said.

“There wasn’t room at home for me and her both,” Emma said.

Sam both understood and empathized with Emma’s plight. But she was still too pretty. And pregnant.

“I need someone to cook and clean for me. Maybe do some bookkeeping on the side.” He stared at her bulging abdomen. “You think you could handle that?”

“I’m not sick, just pregnant,” she shot back.

“How far along are you?”

“Five months.”

“What happens when the baby comes?” he asked.

“Pioneer women had to do chores even when they were nursing their babies. I can do the same,” she said, her chin lifted pugnaciously.

He thought of how quiet his simple one-story house
was every morning when he woke up. How empty it felt. He thought of being woken by a crying, hungry baby. Thought of that baby suckling at Emma Coburn’s breast. It wasn’t at all a carnal vision, but something natural and wholesome and good. A priceless moment of a husband’s life he’d been robbed of when Owen Blackthorne had stolen his ability to father children, along with the use of his legs.

Sam had long ago made peace with never having sons or daughters of his own. If Emma came to work for him, he’d have the vicarious enjoyment of seeing her child grow up. It was a tempting prospect.

“You understand you’d be living here in the house with me,” he said.

She glanced at his wheelchair. “Uh-huh.”

He gritted his teeth. He knew that she, like so many other women, had taken one look and decided that being tied to a wheelchair kept him from being either a physical or a sexual threat. He hated being dismissed as a man simply because he didn’t have the use of his legs. He still felt desire. He still needed to be held. He still needed to be loved.

And he could still love a woman. He could still bring her pleasure.

“Do you have any questions for me?” he asked.

“I… uh… heard you’re an alcoholic,” she said. “I don’t want to work for someone who… gets drunk.”

Sam controlled his features but couldn’t prevent the flush that rose high on his cheekbones. “I’m a recovering alcoholic,” he said. “I attend AA meetings, and I haven’t had a drink in four years, two months, and sixteen days. Anything else?”

She shook her head, and he watched her hair slide across her bare shoulders like silk.

It would be hell looking at Emma Coburn every day, wanting her to notice him, and being ignored in return. But he needed help. And she had one qualification no other applicant had named. She needed the job because a Blackthorne had come into her life and made trouble for her.

“You’re hired,” he said. “When can you start?”

“Today. Right now.” She took a step backward and pushed open the screen door, then leaned over and picked up a small cloth bag from the back porch. “I’ve got my things with me.”

“Is that all you have?”

She shrugged. “I don’t need much.”

“There are three bedrooms. Help yourself to either of the ones I’m not using. Then how about fixing supper while I work on the books?”

“Anything particular you’d like to have?” she asked.

“I’m hungry, so something quick. There’s hamburger in the fridge. See what you can whip up.”

He wheeled himself down the hall and felt her following a short distance behind him. She smiled tentatively at him as he entered his study.

“I’ll call you when supper’s ready,” she said.

“Fine,” he said, closing the door in her face. The sexy female sound of her voice had raised gooseflesh on his arms. He felt like a teenager with his first crush. Not that he could feel everything he would have felt as a teenager. He felt nothing from the waist down. Thanks to Owen Blackthorne.

He turned on his computer, determined to work, but
all he could see was Emma Coburn’s heart-shaped face, her shiny, fire-engine-red hair, her huge, vulnerable eyes. And her lithe body—with that precious bulge in the middle.

Well, why shouldn’t he have a beautiful woman to look at across the breakfast and supper table? There was nothing wrong with looking. He sure as hell didn’t have to worry about her looking back. She already had a lover out there somewhere.

Now that he thought about it, he remembered that once upon a time Emma had had a crush on his younger brother Luke. He remembered Luke at sixteen, furious that Emma wouldn’t leave him alone, saying that she was always trailing after him like a lovesick puppy.

Well, she certainly hadn’t been pining for Luke lately. Some other cowboy had obviously caught her eye. Sam wondered who the fellow was and why he hadn’t married her. Sam would have given his eyeteeth to have a kid of his own. The man who’d walked away from Emma Coburn, whoever he was, was a damned fool.

Sam imagined Emma lying on the bed beneath him, then erased that image. He’d be a dead weight on her. He rearranged the two of them in his mind so he was lying on the bed and she was sitting across his hips. Imagined her hair draped across his naked torso. Imagined her stripping off that T-shirt she was wearing and seeing a plain white bra underneath. Imagined reaching up to cup her breast, feeling the warmth and weight of her through the soft cotton. Imagined—

Sam heard a quiet knock at the door and Emma’s announcement, “Supper’s ready.”

“Be right there,” he replied. For once Sam was grateful
that his mind hadn’t produced the hard-on it would have before his body had been damaged. At least Emma would have no idea of the direction of his thoughts.

As he left his study, he sniffed the air, wondering what she’d done with the hamburger. She’d set the table using paper napkins, because he didn’t have any cloth ones, and picked some black-eyed Susans from the flowers growing wild around the back porch and stuck them in a jelly jar that sat in the center of the table.

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted coffee,” she said. “I found iced tea in the fridge. Which would you prefer?”

“Iced tea,” he said as he wheeled himself into place at one side of the square wooden table. She’d set her plate on the opposite side, rather than next to him, which put them a little farther apart, but made it easier for him to enjoy looking at her.

“I decided on sloppy joes, because they’re fast,” she said, “and because I couldn’t find any hamburger buns.”

She set a couple of slices of white bread on his plate and spooned a large helping of the saucy hamburger mixture on top.

He took a bite and gasped. “Spicy,” he wheezed. He couldn’t speak again until he’d taken a drink of tea. Even that didn’t ease the burning on his tongue. He pulled off a piece of bread that wasn’t covered with sauce and ate that.

“I saw the jar of jalapeños on the refrigerator door and figured it would be okay to add a couple.”

“No problem,” he said, taking another sip of tea to counter the effect of the hot peppers. “It’s good,” he added to ease the crease of worry in her brow. “Really good.”

She smiled and his stomach did a strange flip-flop.

He couldn’t afford to let himself care. Not when he knew he was asking for heartbreak. He made it through the whole meal without a word, but in the end couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Who’s the father?”

She was taken aback. “I don’t see where that’s any of your business.”

“It might be. If he decided to hunt you up and marry you, I lose my hired help.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” she said, her eyes lowered to her empty plate.

“What makes you so sure?”

She glanced up, then down again. “He doesn’t even know about the baby.”

“What?” He realized he’d shouted when she jumped in her chair.

She stood abruptly and picked up her plate and dropped it in the sink. “Forget I said anything.”

“Fat chance of that,” he muttered. “Get yourself another plate. You need to eat more than that little bird portion you took.” She opened her mouth to protest and he added, “For the baby’s sake.”

She grimaced, but opened the cupboard and got out another plate and served herself another portion of sloppy joes. He wheeled his chair around to pull out her chair for her so she could sit down, then pushed it closer to the table.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Eat.”

He kept his thoughts to himself while she ate, afraid that if he upset her again she wouldn’t finish the rest of her food, and he’d be responsible for her kid not getting
fed. When she’d swallowed the last bite, he said, “Don’t you think the father’s entitled to know?”

“He wouldn’t care,” she said.

“How do you know?”

When she looked at him he saw there were tears in her eyes. “Hey. None of that,” he said.

She swiped at her eyes and reached for a paper napkin to blow her nose.

“That’s better,” he said. “Want to tell me about it?”

She set the napkin aside and threaded her fingers together on the table. “I shouldn’t,” she said. “I mean, you’re my boss.”

“There’s no rule that says we can’t also be friends,” Sam said. “Especially since we’re going to be housemates.”

“I suppose,” she said.

He wanted her to confide in him. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted to help her. He wanted her to see him as a whole person. Hell. He wanted her to see him as a man who could protect her and care for her and solve her problems. And love her.

Talk about asking for the moon.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll make us both a cup of coffee while you talk.”

She started to rise. “I can make—”

He put a hand on her arm. “Sit there and relax. I can handle it.”

The entire kitchen had been remodeled to make everything accessible to him from his wheelchair. As he measured the coffee into the coffeemaker he said, “I’m listening.”

“I’m not sure where to start.”

“Would I be likely to know this fellow?” Sam asked.

When she didn’t speak he turned his head in her direction and raised a brow. “Would I?”

She nodded jerkily.

“Well, well, well. Are you going to tell me who it is?”

She shook her head. “No. Because who he is doesn’t matter.”

“He fathered your child. It matters.”

She shook her head again. “He was drunk. I seduced him.”

“Aw, shi—Shucks, girl,” he said, cutting out the profanity. “Why did you do a fool thing like that?”

She turned eyes on him that sparked with anger. “I wasn’t exactly sober myself.” She hesitated, then explained, “We attended the same party. He was more interested in another woman, but when she wouldn’t have him… I took advantage of the situation.”

“I see.” He didn’t, really. What man wouldn’t jump at the chance to have Emma Coburn in his bed? He poured each of them a cup of coffee, then brought hers to the table before returning for his own. “Milk and sugar?” he asked.

“Both,” she replied.

When he turned back toward the counter she jumped up and said, “I’ll get them.”

He fought back the urge to snap at her and said calmly, “You don’t need to wait on me, Emma. I’m crippled, but I’m capable of doing most things a man on two legs can do.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He was enchanted by the two roses that grew on her cheeks. “No problem. Assume I can handle it myself unless I ask for your help.”

“All right,” she said as she set the sugar and milk on the table. “Mind if I ask a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Is it true Jackson Blackthorne is divorcing his wife to marry your mother?”

Sam felt a chill run through him. He met Emma’s gaze with narrowed eyes and said, “He may be divorcing his wife. But he won’t be wedding my mother. Even if I have to shoot him down in cold blood to stop him.”

E
VE
B
LACKTHORNE HAD PLANNED HER DEATH
very carefully, so Jackson Blackthorne would be blamed for it. Tomorrow would be her last day on earth. Tomorrow morning the helicopter she was piloting would crash and she would die.

For a full week after Jackson had moved in with Lauren Creed, Eve had let herself hope that he would realize the folly of his ways and return home to her. After all, if he insisted on divorce, he would have nothing left. Nothing. She’d made it clear she would take everything he’d held near and dear, everything his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had fought to hold on to for generations.