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"What?" Sam shouted, then softened when Emma glared at him and shushed him, pointing to the window upstairs where Nathan and Joseph were sleeping. "Because I want what? Sex? Can you say that, Emma? Can you say sex?"
"Stop it, Sam."
"No. Do you really think I'm shallow enough that I'd take a woman to bed even though I'm disgusted by her just because I want sex?"
"I know men have needs--"
"Dammit, Emma. What kind of man do you think I am?"
Tears welled up in Emma's eyes and spilled down her cheeks. "I know you're a kind and gentle man, and you deserve more than a woman who is imperfect. I'm sorry I can't be that woman. Goodnight."
On quaking legs, Emma got up and ran past him into the house. The sooner she got away from him and could get her emotions under control, the better off she'd be.
Chapter 14
Imperfect?
Emma thought she was imperfect. She couldn't really believe that, could she? Hell, she was as close to perfect as any one human being could be.
So what if she had a scar? Ten scars. Hell, he didn't care if she had three heads. He loved her, and for a few minutes there, he'd been pretty sure the feeling was mutual.
Even now, standing alone on the porch with her scent still in the air, he was sure she cared about him. So what was the problem?
It had to be more than just simple embarrassment over a scar. Didn't it? He didn't have a lot of experience with women, but surely they didn't think something like that would stop a man from being interested in them.
Or maybe it was just Emma. Maybe other women wouldn't be so prickly about it, and it was something Emma alone had to deal with. Now that he thought about it, what was it she'd said about that fiance of hers? He wasn't the man she'd thought he was - wasn't that it?
Was that why she hadn't married him? Had this Barclay character left her because she'd had an accident that had left her scarred?
Okay, Sam thought, so maybe he should have handled it different. He wasn't used to ladies' feelings, and if it was so all-fired important to her, maybe he should have been a little more understanding. But hell, it was only a scar. It didn't mean anything. It sure as hell didn't make him care for her any less.
But how was he going to convince her of that?
Maybe he ought to go inside and show her a couple of his scars, like the one on his rump from when he caught his backside on a nail when he was twelve. Or the one just under his knee from when he was sixteen. He'd cut it the night he and Tommy Grange got caught sneaking a bottle of whiskey out of the inn Tommy's father owned. The pain in his knee had been nothing to what he'd suffered when his father found out what he'd done.
Would it help to show her his imperfections? He'd gladly bare each and every one of the scars he bore from growing up in a rough neighborhood, and working with his hands every day.
But Emma's scars weren't only on the outside, he realized. And it would take time for the hurt inside to heal. But he'd be there to help her heal. Because somehow, he had to show her he wasn't the least bit like that fiance of hers in Boston
.
***
All the next morning, Sam barely spoke to Emma. When finally he took the boys out to the back field after lunch, it was almost a relief.
Emma was darning a hole in Nathan's shirt when Becky's squeal split the air. She bounded up from the chair and raced outside.
Becky was standing in the yard, her attention on Apollo, who was busy worrying an object at her feet. As Emma got closer, she recognized the doll the Howards had bought for her at the mercantile.
The dog's head swung furiously from side to side, a low growl escaping his mouth as he held on to the doll's arm. The doll flapped uncontrollably in his grasp.
Crouching down, Emma grabbed Apollo's head and worked her thumb and fingers into the sides of his mouth. "Drop it, Apollo," she commanded.
The puppy growled, but his mouth opened and the doll fell to the ground. Tail wagging, he eyed Emma with his huge brown eyes and began to lick her hand.
Becky snatched up the doll and hugged it to her chest. "Bad doggie," she shouted, wagging her finger at the puppy. He looked up at her adoringly, and wagged his tail even harder.
She turned her attention to the bedraggled doll in her arms. It was covered in dust, and one leg was torn, the stuffing bulging out. Tears filled her eyes, and overflowed down her cheeks. "Doggie broke my doll," she sobbed, holding it up for Emma's inspection. "Doggie is bad."
