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She looked up at him, then turned away. She couldn't bear to see the expression in his eyes.
She'd hurt him. Deeply. Because she didn't trust him. Even now, after all they'd been through together, she didn't have enough faith to believe him.
Silence filled the room. Finally, she turned back to face him. "We can still have a good life, Sam--"
He backed away. His voice became gruff. "No, Emma, we can't. I want a wife, a real wife. I want a woman who loves me, who trusts me enough to know I wouldn't hurt her. I've done everything I can do to convince you that I'm not like your father or like Barclay, and you don't believe me. I'm sorry, Emma, but I'm finished trying."
"I--" What was he saying? Did he want her to leave? Or did he plan to continue with their marriage, but treat her as nothing more than someone who happened to share his home and care for his children?
He turned towards the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back to face her. Emma could see he was angry. "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Emma," he said, his voice low and controlled. "The trouble is, no matter how many times I tell you that, you won't believe me. You think everyone else is shallow, that all they care about is physical appearances. The truth of the matter is that you're the one who's shallow. You're the one who can't accept anything less than perfection."
"That's ridiculous."
"No, it isn't. You can't accept that you have a flaw, and rather than face it and deal with it, you've convinced yourself that it's everyone else who can't accept you. You can't accept it yourself."
Tears welled up in Emma's eyes, threatening to spill over. She blinked. She wouldn't let him see her cry. "No ... you're wrong ..."
"Think about it, Emma. Think about why you're so scared to let me see that you aren't perfect. Is it really because you think I'll turn away from you, or because that's how you'd react if the shoe was on the other foot."
"How dare you! Outward appearances mean absolutely nothing to me--"
"Then why do you assume it means anything to me? Why are you so scared to trust me?"
"Because if I'm wrong ... I'm afraid ... you'll be disgusted ... I'll lose what we have ..."
"If you can't trust me, then we have nothing, and you've lost it anyway," he said sadly, then turned away and picked up his hat. "I'll sleep in the barn." Then he left, letting the door close behind him.
Emma ran upstairs and sank down on the side of the bed, the drying sheet falling unnoticed to the floor. Sobs racked her body, and her tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks.
She'd lost him. Because she was afraid she would lose him, she wouldn't allow herself to trust him. Yet because she hadn't trusted him, she'd lost him. No matter how she looked at it, the result was the same.
Could he be right about her? Could it be that she had made assumptions about other people's reactions to her based on how she felt about herself?
And what of Barclay and her father? Granted, they were the two men in her life who should have cared enough about her to love her anyway, but was it possible she'd expected too much from them? That perhaps those two particular men weren't capable of real love?
Could Sam truly be different?
The flame in the lamp on the dressing table flickered, then went out, plunging the room into darkness.
Darkness.
This was how she'd spend the rest of her life. Hiding in the darkness.
Because she was afraid of the light - always afraid someone would find out who she really was.
But was life worth living that way? Could she spend the rest of her life living with Sam, but living alone in all the ways that mattered?
She climbed under the quilt and tucked it around her. It didn't matter that she was naked. Sam wouldn't be back.
There was only way he would share her bed - and her life - again.
But did she have the courage to risk it?
***
Sam tugged a horse blanket from the t
op rail of one of the stalls and spread it on a bed of straw. He laughed bitterly at the realization that he'd be sleeping here every night from now on. On their wedding night, when sleeping apart would have been the gentlemanly thing to do, he'd insisted on sharing her bed. But here he was now, less than three months later, getting ready to bed down with the horses.
