Buch lesen: «The Major And The Librarian»

The Major and the Librarian
Nikki Benjamin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

NIKKI BENJAMIN

was born and raised in the Midwest, but after years in the Houston area, she considers herself a true Texan. Nikki says she’s always been an avid reader—her earliest literary heroines were Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden and Beany Malone. Her writing experience was limited, however, until a friend started penning a novel and encouraged Nikki to do the same. One scene led to another, and soon she was hooked.

When not reading or writing, the author enjoys spending time with her husband and son, doing needlepoint, hiking, biking, horseback riding and sailing.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

“Hey, Sam, how about joining us for a drink at the officers’ club?”

Major Sam Griffin, United States Air Force, glanced at the young lieutenant lounging in his office doorway, arched an eyebrow at the familiarity of his address, then smiled in spite of himself. Billy Fonteneaux was one of the more promising young fighter pilots under his command, and his southern Louisiana charm made it all too easy to forgive the lack of decorum he tended to exhibit during his off-duty hours.

“I might just do that,” Sam replied, then turned back to the stack of mail he had been sorting. “Are you heading over there now?”

“We were on our way when I noticed your light was still on. Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, but if you have other plans already…”

“Actually, I don’t,” Sam admitted with a rueful twist of his lips.

Returning alone to his bachelor quarters to nuke a frozen dinner in the microwave wasn’t exactly the kind of plan Lieutenant Fonteneaux’s teasing tone had implied.

“So what do you say, Major? Have a beer with us, why don’t you?”

“I can’t make any promises,” Sam hedged after a few moment’s consideration. While the prospect of sharing a little lighthearted camaraderie with his junior officers was tempting, he preferred not to commit himself completely. “I have to clear up a few things around here first, then I’ll see how I feel.”

“Good enough, sir.” Satisfied, Billy sketched a jaunty salute, then turned away.

As the lieutenant’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Sam sat back in his chair, the stack of mail he had received that afternoon temporarily forgotten.

There had been a time when he wouldn’t have thought twice about accepting Billy Fonteneaux’s invitation. A time when he’d had a reputation for being the life of the party wherever he happened to be stationed. But that hadn’t been the case for years now—almost four years, to be exact.

At thirty-five, he was still a relatively young man, and he wasn’t tied down by a wife and children. But his younger brother’s death had changed him in ways that were undeniable. Something had died inside him on that late June day as he’d sat on the roadside, cradling Teddy’s lifeless body in his arms.

Don’t go there, Sam warned himself.

There was nothing to be gained by resurrecting the past. What was done was done, and no matter how long he wallowed in his bitter, painful memories, that would never change.

Forcing his thoughts back to the task at hand, Sam sorted through the few remaining envelopes addressed to him. Nothing of any real importance, he noted. Bills from a couple of credit-card companies along with statements for his bank and brokerage accounts that he trusted would assure him he was still financially solvent.

He had hoped there would be a letter from his mother, but he’d quickly seen that there wasn’t. Aside from the postcard she had sent over a month ago while visiting friends in Seattle, he hadn’t heard from her in almost six weeks. Not all that unusual, really, and certainly nothing to be concerned about. Mail from the States to the air base in Italy could sometimes take awhile. And since she’d been away recently, she probably had quite a bit of catching up to do around the house.

Sam supposed he could call, but he was never quite sure what to say to her. Though he had never had reason to doubt his mother’s love for him—quite the contrary, in fact—they had never been close. At least not as close as she and Teddy had been.

Sam had bonded more deeply with his father, perhaps because he and Caleb Griffin had been a lot alike—physically, as well as emotionally. Sam, too, had felt suffocated by life in small-town Serenity, Texas. And he, too, had found a way to leave, although not quite as dramatically or as devastatingly as his father had.

Once again, Sam caught himself venturing into a place he would rather not go. Forcing his thoughts away from the tragedy of his father’s suicide twenty-five years ago, he vowed to write to his mother later that evening. By putting pen to paper, he could maintain the distance he needed and delay calling—

Tossing aside an application for yet another credit card, Sam frowned, then sat back in his chair, his gaze locked on the last envelope in his stack. The handwriting hadn’t been familiar, so his attention hadn’t been caught by it when he’d first glanced through his mail. But now, finally registering the return address, he experienced a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“Emma Dalton, 1209 Bay Leaf Lane, Serenity, Texas.”

Emma…shy, sweet Emma with her wild red curls, her bright green eyes and her lovely, lilting laugh.

She was the last person on the face of the earth Sam Griffin would have ever expected to send him a letter.

For years, she had been his brother’s best friend. And sadly, secretly—for the most part—the only woman Sam had ever wanted. The one woman he could never have. All through high school and college, she had been Teddy’s girl, then his blushing bride-to-be. And then, after he had taken Teddy from her—

I hate you, Sam Griffin. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you….

Reflexively, Sam crushed the envelope in his hand as he saw again the anger and pain flashing in her eyes, heard again the heartrending sobs shaking her slender body as she sank to the floor of the hospital waiting room, her cream silk wedding dress puddling around her.

Why had she chosen to contact him now of all times? The anniversary of Teddy’s death was only a few weeks away. Was it something to do with that? But then, what could she possibly have to say to him after four long years of silence?

Sam wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Emma Dalton was a part of his past—one of the most devastating parts, to be exact. Surely he would be better off if that was what she remained.

What good could possibly come of allowing her to reenter his world? For years, he had done his damnedest to avoid even the mere thought of her. More and more often lately, he’d actually succeeded. Now…this…

He wasn’t fool enough to think Emma’s opinion of him had changed. And he certainly wasn’t masochistic enough to feel he had to endure another round of her reproach. There was nothing she could say to him that he hadn’t already said to himself a thousand times or more.

He would never forget what had happened to Teddy, nor would he ever forgive himself for it. He knew that he deserved Emma Dalton’s animosity. He deserved it in spades. Of that he had never needed a reminder.

But he had finally come to realize all the mea culpas in the world wouldn’t bring his brother back. That understanding, accompanied by acceptance, had gradually eased his anguish.

For one very long, very lonely moment, Sam fought the temptation to toss the unopened envelope into the trash can, grab his jacket, head for the officers’ club and start working his way through a bottle of Scotch. By the end of the evening, he would be lucky to remember his name, much less all that had occurred four years ago. Unfortunately, that respite would be temporary at best, and with it would also come the possibility of grave repercussions.

Once already, he had come close to destroying his career as a fighter pilot by seeking solace in a bottle of booze. He wasn’t about to risk doing it again. The air force was all he had left now. Which was only just, since the air force, with its promise of adventure, had been all he’d wanted from the moment he applied for an appointment to the academy in Colorado Springs.

Of course, that had been long before Teddy first introduced him to Emma. Then he had begun to realize the freedom he’d craved wasn’t quite as satisfying as he had thought it would be….

Cursing under his breath, Sam shifted in his chair and smoothed the crumpled envelope.

How long had it been since he’d last thought of Emma—really thought of her? Months, he admitted. Yet, in a few minutes’ time, and with nothing more than a plain white envelope addressed in her hand, she had slid under his skin all over again. And there she would stay, giving him no peace, if he threw her letter away without reading it.

He had no intention of suffering through any more sleepless nights than absolutely necessary. And there could be any number of reasons why she had written to him. Reasons that had more to do with the present than the past, he acknowledged. Reasons he had been too egocentric to consider initially.

Surely Emma Dalton had better things to do than send him a venomous letter four years after the fact. Yet he would lay odds she wasn’t the type to seek out, impulsively, a man she had once claimed to despise, either.

Thanks to his mother, who had taken Emma under her wing after Teddy’s death and mentioned her occasionally in her letters, Sam knew she still lived in Serenity and still worked at the town’s library, where she’d recently been promoted to head librarian. She was still single, as well, but lived quietly in the small house she’d bought a couple of years ago.

A steady, responsible young woman making a decent, respectable life for herself despite the tragedy she had suffered. A woman who should, by all accounts, want nothing to do with the likes of him. So why had she written to him out of the blue?

Realizing there was only one way to find out, Sam slit the sealed flap on the envelope and slowly withdrew the single sheet of stationery. He unfolded it reluctantly and saw that she had been brief—very brief—and almost painfully to the point.

Once again, Sam experienced a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he read the two short paragraphs rigidly written in her precise hand.

May 23

Dear Sam:

I am writing to advise you that your mother is ill. Specifically, she was diagnosed with a chronic form of leukemia several months ago. Since the initial treatment she received seemed to bring about a remission, she thought it best not to tell you. At that time she didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily. She still doesn’t. However, she recently suffered a relapse, and since the current prognosis is not good, I thought you should know.

I have been staying at the house with her and will continue to do so as long as necessary, so you don’t have to be concerned that she’s receiving proper care. But seeing you again would mean a lot to her. Since I realize you might not be able to get away on such short notice, I haven’t told her that I’ve contacted you. She isn’t expecting you, so she won’t be disappointed if you can’t make it. But please try to come home, Sam—for a few days, at least.

Sincerely,

Emma Dalton

Sam read through the letter a second time, wishing he could ignore the one thing Emma had left unsaid, yet knowing in his heart that he couldn’t. Though she had refrained from spelling it out in so many words, he realized there was a very good chance that his mother was dying. And while she hadn’t reached out to him herself—perhaps out of fear that she would be rebuffed by her wild, wayward son—he also knew that she needed him.

Unlike Emma, Margaret Griffin had never held him accountable for his brother’s death. Instead, she had let him know time and time again that her faith in him was as strong as ever. And she had told him more times than he could count that she would always be there for him, just a phone call away—that if he needed her for any reason, she would come to him. As she had, traveling at least once a year to wherever he happened to be stationed.

She had understood how difficult returning to Serenity would be for him, and she had never expected it of him. Even now, faced with a life-threatening illness—her only remaining family half a world away—she hadn’t asked him to come home. Not because she didn’t want him there, but because she hoped to spare him what she knew as well as he would be a painful journey.

The mere thought of returning to Serenity with the anniversary of Teddy’s death looming less than a month away filled Sam with trepidation. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach increased, and his hands shook ever so slightly. Reactions more suited to the moments preceding a dog fight with enemy aircraft high above Earth. Reactions he had overcome when much more than his emotional well-being was at stake.

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, he set aside Emma’s letter, then opened the center drawer of his desk and pulled out a calendar. His current tour of duty would be ending the following week. Though he’d had no specific plans, he had intended to take several weeks of leave before returning stateside.

Barring any unforeseen difficulties, he could be on a flight to San Antonio Thursday, Friday at the latest. Depending on the connections he was able to make, that ought to put him in Serenity sometime Saturday. He would also have time to request an assignment at one of the air bases in Texas so he would be reasonably close by when his leave was over.

Sam reached for the phone on his desk and began to dial his mother’s number, easily calling it up from memory despite the length of time since he’d last used it. Halfway through, however, he stopped, then slowly cradled the receiver.

He didn’t want to give his mother the chance to talk him out of coming, and he had no doubt that was exactly what she would try to do if he advised her of his plans. She wouldn’t want to burden him, and in his present frame of mind, he would find it awfully hard to argue with her. In fact, allowing her to dissuade him would be too damned easy. Especially if she set her mind to it as he knew she would.

He couldn’t let himself be drawn off course. Not if he had any hope of living with himself in the future. He owed his mother more than he could ever repay. Going back to Serenity wouldn’t begin to cancel that debt, but it would be better than burying his head in the sand and pretending all would be well.

There was Emma to consider, too. Apparently, she had already assumed a great deal of responsibility where his mother was concerned. Responsibility he had no intention of letting her continue to shoulder alone despite her all too obvious unwillingness to count on him.

She isn’t expecting you…won’t be disappointed if you can’t make it…

Just as he had four years ago, Sam wanted to rise to his own defense. He wanted to call Emma and tell her—in no uncertain terms—how completely she had misjudged him. Granted he had made mistakes, and by God, he had paid for them dearly. But he had never meant Teddy any harm.

Why waste his breath, though? He doubted anything he had to say would change her mind. And what did her opinion of him matter in the general scheme of things?

Defending himself aside, Sam admitted he should still call Emma and let her know that help—such as he hoped he could be—was on the way if for no other reason than to ease her mind. Working a full-time job while caring for his mother on her own had to be a strain, not just physically but emotionally. Yet he pushed away from his desk without reaching for the telephone again.

Though he freely acknowledged he wasn’t being fair to Emma, Sam decided it might be wiser to catch her unawares. He had no idea how she would react when they finally came face-to-face again. But forewarned would give her time to be forearmed against the kind of man she had chosen to believe he was.

There was no denying the part he had played in destroying her dreams. Yet for his sake, as well as his mother’s, he hoped he and Emma could be allies rather than enemies. He had changed a lot over the years. He wanted a chance to prove it to her.

Of course, a truce could still prove to be impossible. But then, at least he would be the one braced for battle. It wouldn’t be much of an advantage, and certainly not one he intended to use against her unless absolutely necessary. But it would be better than nothing. And maybe, just maybe, it would save him from a whole new world of hurt.

Crossing his office, Sam grabbed his jacket, flicked off the light switch, then strode down the shadowed hallway, his footsteps echoing around him. With a mighty effort, he fought the urge to head for the officers’ club, turning instead toward the housing complex. It wasn’t company he was craving, but a good, stiff drink, and he knew—all too well—where that could lead. There were other, better ways to outdistance his demons.

Not quite twenty minutes later, changed into shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes, his warm-up complete, Sam set off at a steady pace, focusing his thoughts on nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other, eating up the first of what would be many miles as he blended into the twilight.

Chapter 2

“Emma, come in out of the sun and have a glass of tea,” Margaret Griffin urged.

Glancing up from the flower bed she had just finished weeding, Emma Dalton offered her old friend an appreciative smile.

“Sounds wonderful. I’ll be right there.”

She gathered her gardening tools together, then sat back on her heels, surveying her handiwork with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Early that Saturday morning, she had been determined to whip Margaret’s much too long neglected front yard into shape. Now, nearly eight hours later—with only a short break for lunch during the worst heat of the day—she could happily say she had succeeded.

The scent of freshly mowed grass still lingered in the late-afternoon air. Once scraggly shrubs marched in neatly clipped rows along the railing that edged the wraparound porch. And the flowers in the beds—impatiens in various shades of pink and purple, bright-orange-and-yellow marigolds, hearty red geraniums, even a delicate smattering of white Gerber daisies—could finally be seen and appreciated.

As exemplified by her own riotously colorful yet neatly kept yard, Emma loved gardening. Working out of doors, close to the soil, with the sun shining overhead and a gentle breeze blowing never failed to fill her with a feeling of peace. That she seemed to have a green thumb helped, as well.

She had been itching to have a go at Margaret’s yard for several weeks. But convincing her friend that she would be doing Emma a favor by allowing her to mow and clip and weed had taken some doing.

Margaret had insisted she’d imposed on Emma enough over the past few months. Emma, in turn, had argued that wasn’t true. Whenever she had needed a strong shoulder to lean on, Margaret had always been there for her—even when she herself had been grieving. Helping Margaret cope with her illness had given Emma the chance to reciprocate. Not out of a sense of duty or indebtedness, but out of love.

Emma had never considered Margaret to be a burden, and she never would. Unfortunately, she had yet to get her to stop feeling as if she had become—in Margaret’s words—little more than an old bother.

Sometimes I think it would be easier on everyone if I went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up again….

Recalling her friend’s offhand remark, Emma stared at the small shovel in her hand, not really seeing it. What would she do without Margaret? she wondered, overcome by a sudden sense of desolation. What would she do?

With a mighty effort, Emma shoved aside thoughts of worst-case scenarios as she grabbed the trash bag full of weeds and pulled the drawstrings tight.

Granted, Margaret’s most recent round of chemotherapy had left her frightfully weak, but she had rebounded with amazing fortitude. In fact, over the past three weeks she had regained much of her strength, and lately seemed to be almost her old self again.

She still tired more easily than before, but generally, her spirits were high. She kept herself busy—experimenting with new recipes, needlepointing a pillow cover and reading the cozy mysteries she enjoyed most. And she never, ever, uttered a word of complaint—

“Hurry, Emma, the ice is starting to melt,” Margaret called out.

“I’ll be just a minute more,” Emma promised as she stood. “I want to put the tools away and dump the trash bag in the can around back.”

Heading for the small, wood-frame garage at the end of the driveway, Emma wished she could have foreseen Margaret’s extraordinary recovery. How that would have been possible, she didn’t know. Even Margaret’s doctor had expressed serious concerns about her prognosis. But at least she wouldn’t have been in such a rush to write to Sam.

She shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have jumped the gun in such a ham-handed way. First and foremost, because Margaret would have forbidden it had Emma asked her permission.

Margaret had made sure that she understood her son was not to be worried unnecessarily. And for the past six months—despite her own reservations—Emma had bowed to her friend’s wishes.

Had she been Sam, she wouldn’t have wanted to be kept in the dark. She would have rather been apprised of the situation without delay. But her loyalty had been to Margaret. Until that day three weeks ago when her doctor said she might not live to see the summer’s end.

Margaret had been in a Houston medical center hospital undergoing treatment. Luckily, she had brought her address book with her, and Emma had found Sam’s current F.P.O. number listed in it. Sitting beside her friend’s bed as she slept, Emma had written to him as tears blurred her eyes, then posted the letter before she had time to change her mind.

Miraculously, Margaret’s condition had improved within seventy-two hours, and Emma had begun to regret her hasty decision. Yes, there was a possibility the doctor could still be right. Margaret’s recovery could be nothing more than a temporary respite. As often happened with a potentially life-threatening illness, she could suffer a relapse at any time. One that she might not survive.

But with Margaret almost her old self again, there no longer seemed to be any reason for Sam to come home. Not that he was going to. At least, not to her knowledge.

Three weeks had passed since Emma had sent her letter, and she had heard nothing in reply. He could have responded by mail, of course. That would take at least ten days. But considering the urgency with which she had written…

Emma had been sure he would call, if only to affirm that his mother’s illness was as serious as she had implied. Beyond that, she hadn’t known what to expect. But she’d been fully prepared for him to have some reason—some very good reason—why he wouldn’t be able to make the trip to Serenity. And she would have understood.

There were too many painful memories for Sam in the small town where he’d grown up. Memories to which she had contributed in a ruinous way. She knew now that by blaming him for Teddy’s death, she had been trying to assuage her own sense of guilt. Guilt that had sprung from her relief that Sam had been the one to survive that terrible accident on the narrow, winding road just outside of town.

I hate you, Sam Griffin. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you….

Hardly a day had passed since then that Emma hadn’t wished she could recall those brutal words. But Sam hadn’t given her a chance. He had stayed for his brother’s funeral, but not in his mother’s house. And after the service, he’d vanished, never—as far as she knew—to return.

Emma couldn’t blame him. Not then, and certainly not now. Even with Margaret’s health in question, she could understand why—torn as he had to be—he might choose to stay away. All that he had to look forward to here was more grief.

Yet again, Emma cursed her impulsiveness. She could have waited, should have waited.

“But you didn’t,” she muttered as she hung the gardening tools on their hooks, then disposed of the trash bag.

Doing her best to shake off the melancholy mood that had settled over her, Emma hurried back to the front yard. She pasted a smile on her face as she joined Margaret on the porch and accepted a tall glass of tea. Then, with a murmur of thanks, she sank into the old wooden rocking chair that matched her friend’s. She took several swallows of the icy drink and sat back contentedly.

“Mmm, wonderful,” she said.

She tossed her straw hat aside, took off her gold wire-rimmed glasses and set them on the little white wicker table, then tried to finger-comb some life into her damp curls. She was in desperate need of a shower, but first she wanted to relax a while and enjoy the gentle breeze wafting across the shady porch.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Emma. The yard looks just lovely. I’m going to be the envy of all my neighbors,” Margaret stated proudly.

“Maybe not all. Mr. Bukowski looks like he’s trying to give us a run for our money.” Emma nodded toward the house across the tree-lined street where an elderly man puttered about, snipping and trimming his already well-tended rosebushes.

“That old coot would sleep with his precious American Beauties if his wife would let him,” Margaret retorted. “We won’t count him.”

“Well, then, I have to agree. Your yard definitely measures up now.”

“Thank you, Emma. I really do appreciate all your hard work.”

“Gardening never seems like work to me. Now scrubbing toilets and mopping floors—that’s my idea of work.” Emma shuddered delicately, then met her friend’s gaze with an impish grin. “I’m so glad we found Mrs. Beal to handle those nasty chores for us.”

“But you have a yard of your own to maintain,” Margaret said, a look of concern shadowing her eyes. “I feel like I’m already taking advantage of you enough as it is.”

“What nonsense.” Emma waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve been paying Mrs. Beal to clean my house, as well as yours, while I’ve been staying here with you. Aside from cooking dinner occasionally and doing a few loads of laundry, I haven’t really contributed that much until today. And, as I keep trying to convince you, I love gardening.”

“You also have the responsibility of a full-time job,” Margaret reminded her gently. “A job you love, too, but lately haven’t been able to give the attention it requires because of my needs.”

“Actually, I’ve found a solution to that,” Emma advised with studied nonchalance. “Marion Cole and I have agreed to try job sharing for the summer. She came in one day last week asking about part-time work, but I don’t have the funds to add anyone to the staff. So I’m going to let her have some of my hours. She’s an experienced librarian, she’s well liked by everyone in town and, with her husband out of work, she needs the money.”

“That’s awfully generous of you, Emma. But…” Margaret shrugged and looked away as she pulled a tissue from the pocket of her skirt.

“It’s only temporary. Marion’s fairly sure her husband will get a job offer from one of the companies he’s interviewed with in Dallas or Houston. And I like the idea of having more free time this summer. We’ll be able to drive down to Galveston for a few days before your next appointment with the doctor in Houston the way you wanted. I know how much you love the beach, and it’s been ages since I’ve been there.”

Trying to ignore the fact that Margaret was dabbing at her eyes, Emma took another long swallow of tea, then rolled the cold, wet glass over her cheek as she looked out across the lawn.

Margaret had never been the type to show her emotions, but lately even the smallest act of kindness seemed to make her weepy. Much as Emma wanted to comfort her, she said nothing. Calling attention to Margaret’s treacherous tears would only embarrass her friend unnecessarily.

Instead, she rocked quietly, allowing Margaret a few moments to gather herself. Without her glasses, everything beyond the porch railing blended pleasantly into a bright blur of colors, sometimes stable, sometimes shifting, depending on the slant of the breeze.

She didn’t realize that the dark blue blob she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye was an automobile moving slowly down the street until it pulled into Margaret’s driveway. Even then, Emma merely squinted at it lazily, sure that the driver, having made a wrong turn, intended only to back out and be on his way. The boxy sedan wasn’t one she recognized as belonging to anyone she knew. And Margaret hadn’t mentioned that she was expecting any visitors.

Unless—

“Well, who on earth could that be?” Margaret asked, her composure restored.

“I have no idea,” Emma murmured, an odd sensation unfurling in the pit of her stomach.

The car’s engine ceased its grumbling, but the driver seemed in no hurry to open the door and step out. Frowning, Emma reached for her glasses as Margaret stood, started toward the porch steps, then paused uncertainly.

“Oh, my…” she breathed, wonder in her voice. “It can’t be—”

Adjusting her glasses, Emma rose from her chair, too. She knew what Margaret only suspected. Knew with terrifying certainty who sat behind the wheel of the dark blue sedan. And she wished—oh, how she wished—she could simply slip away. Her friend wouldn’t understand, though. So she lingered in the shadows as the car door finally opened, and a breathless moment later, her heart slammed against her rib cage.