Oh, shit.Not this.Not tears.
I clear my throat.“This ranch is a no-crying zone.”
Summer snorts.
Emma quickly wipes her eyes with the heel of her palm.“I’m not crying.”If she drops any lower in that chair her ass is going to hit the ground.
“It’ll be okay,” Summer says.
“Right.It’ll be totally fine,” I say.
There she goes.She’s slipping.I grab her by the upper arms and set her back into the chair.I felt nothing but skin and bones beneath my touch.And something else I have no business trying to name.
“You’ll find another job,” I tell her.“A much better job.”
Her eyes overflow.Her chin trembles.
“You got a place to stay?”Summer asks.
Emma drops her chin to her chest and slowly shakes her head.“I have fifteen dollars.”
Oh, fuck.
I’m such a sap.But I can’t send some poor girl out on the state highway at night.And this county isn’t exactly a social services mecca.It’s true—I don’t know her.But I can’t just pretend she never wandered in here.
I shove my hand into my pants pocket and come out with my money clip.
“Problem solved.”I rip bills from the clip and hand them to her.“See?Now you have money for—”
“A place to stay?”Summer asks, her eyes flashing at me.
Maybe Summer’s right.Three hundred won’t find her a place to stay, at least not for long.
I stare at the money Emma clutches in her hand.I see the dirty nails and cuts on her fingers.
“Thank you,” she croaks, wiping her eyes again.
“So…” I don’t know what I’d planned to say after that.I’ve got nothing.I should probably just walk away.Or maybe ask Joe the stable hand to drive her to Sweetbriar. Or do I go back to the house and write her a check?
I’ve never been in this position before.It’s awkward.And I realize that it’s because none of those are what I want.
I don’t want her to leave.
For some reason that’s totally over my head, I have the feeling that this Emma Clark person is here for a reason.
Thankfully, Aunt Phyllis is headed our way.She’s all dressed up tonight.It’s kind of weird seeing her without apron strings tied behind her neck and around her waist.
Since my mother died, she’s been the bedrock of the family.In a sea of testosterone-toxic ex-military hotheads, she keeps people on the straight and narrow and, if we let her, she keeps our households running smoothly.
Phyllis takes no shit from anyone, but in a very sweet way.Often while serving tea.With coffee cake.And withering commentary.
I can count on her to smooth over this awkwardness and fix whatever problem has just been dumped in my lap.
“You must be Emma Clark,” she says to the crying girl.
Say, what?
Phyllis takes Emma’s hand—the one not clutching my wad of cash—and pats it.“I’m so glad you made it on time.Did you get a plate?You must be exhausted after your trip.”
