Emma's Wish

Maybe he'd been too hard on her. Hell, he wasn't good at figuring out female feelings. Just because a few scars didn't bother him, that didn't mean females, particularly beautiful females, would feel the same way.

Maybe if he was patient, in time she'd come to realize he didn't care. He loved everything about her, scars and all. He wanted to look at her without her cringing in fear. He wanted to memorize every dimple and every curve of her body, kiss every inch of her naked flesh. And more than anything, he wanted to bury himself in her, hear her cry out his name, and spill his seed inside her.

Heat washed over him, settling in his groin. Damn! If he didn't stop thinking about what he'd like to do to her, he was going to be in trouble.

He'd told her he was finished trying to convince her he didn't care about the scars. But he knew, deep down, he'd keep trying until his dying day.

Yeah, maybe in time, he could get her used to the idea ...

Maybe ...

***

Emma threw off the quilt and lit the lamp on the small table near the window. For the past two hours, she'd lain in bed, alternately sobbing and trying to figure how she could spend the rest of her life this way.

Finally, she had realized there was only one thing she could do. Even though at first she believed it was a huge risk, when she really thought about it, there was no risk at all.

She had nothing to lose.

And everything to gain.

Kneeling down, she tugged the package from under the bed and unwrapped the gown Sam had bought for her weeks before. It seemed so long ago, and so much had happened since then, yet even now, she could still see the disappointment on his face when she'd refused to wear it.

The fabric, smooth and silky, slid through her fingers as she lifted it from the brown paper wrapping and slipped it on, then crossed the room to the mirror. A few wrinkles creased the full skirt, but she hoped Sam wouldn't notice.

She took a deep breath and looked at her reflection. Her face was pale, and her lips were trembling. The gown fit perfectly, the low neckline revealing the puckered skin on the swell of one her breasts and the inside of her arm.

For several long minutes, she stood at the mirror, staring at the imperfections facing her. Sam had said he loved her, but he had no idea how the redness of the scars stood out like a beacon against the pale skin around them, how rough and abrasive that skin felt beneath her fingers.

Shadows from the lamp danced on the walls and cast a golden glow on the room. She turned the bed down, and folded her nightdress and put it away in the bureau drawer. If Sam was telling the truth about how he felt about her, she would have no need of it tonight.

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and slid her feet into a pair of slippers. She was about to leave the room when she heard a sound beneath the window. Glancing out, she saw Sam cross the yard and climb the steps to the porch. She waited, expecting to hear the door open. Instead, she heard the sound of a match being struck against the sole of his boot, and the rocking chair squeak.

She called out to him. "Sam?"

"What is it?"

This is it! Now or never. Taking a deep breath for courage, she said, "Please come in."

For several moments, she heard nothing except the lonely call of a coyote far away and the chirp of the crickets in the fields.

He wasn't going to come. He'd meant what he said. He didn't want her.

She took a step away from the window, tears filling her eyes once more.

Then she heard it, the door handle turning.

Oh, heavens, she muttered aloud as she heard his boots on the stairs - or was that the beating of her heart. Her knees threatened to buckle and she gripped the edge of the dressing table for support.

The door opened and Sam walked in. "What --?" He stopped in mid-sentence. His mouth fell open, and his eyes widened in shock.

"Sam?" Emma's voice was barely a whisper. Her face burned with humiliation at exposing herself to him, but she knew it was the only way. She had to find out the truth.

"Oh, my God!" Sam scrubbed his hand through his hair as his gaze rested on her scarred and inflamed skin. "Oh, my God."

Emma burst into tears. "I knew it! You're just like the rest of them. You're disgusted--" She turned away, sobs wracking her body.

Suddenly, Sam's hands were on her shoulders and he was turning her towards him. She couldn't bear to see his face, but he wouldn't allow her to look away. Cupping her face in his palms, he forced her to look up at him. Their eyes locked. "Listen to me," he said, his voice gruff. "I'm not disgusted. I didn't expect it to be that bad, and I feel awful that you had to suffer so much pain, that's all. But it doesn't disgust me."