Cross Creek: Crossing Hearts Part 6

Just like he hadn't been able to make her want to stay in Millhaven with him twelve years ago.

Sliding back into the sort of effortless conversation he and Emerson used to lose hours and hours on might've been all too easy, but as enticing as their back and forth had felt, he'd do well to remember the past. While he'd once known her well enough to decipher her in less than a glance, now Emerson was guarded. Tougher. Wary.

Yet still beautiful enough to knock the breath directly out of his lungs.

Keep it simple, stupid. Only a few weeks left and you'll be back to normal. Rehab your shoulder and let the rest go.

It took all of ninety minutes after she got out of bed for Emerson to go bats.h.i.+t crazy. Even with fewer hours and the scaled-back intensity of her workweek, she'd been exhausted enough to barely pick her way through some canned soup and half an episode of Supernatural on Netflix before falling into bed at a whopping seven thirty last night. Her eleven-hour stay in dreamland-coupled with the facts that she'd recovered from that h.e.l.lacious drive to Lockridge and her furniture had finally arrived from Vegas a few days ago-had gone miles toward killing some of the ache in both her back and her knees.

Too bad her extended snooze also left her wide awake and crawling the walls at the unG.o.dly hour of eight o'clock on a Sat.u.r.day morning. And the more time she had to dwell on her current situation, the harder it would be to ignore the elephant-sized reality of her week. The thirty-five hours she'd put in at the PT center had yielded one client, and even then, he'd come to her only out of the sheerest of necessities.

How was she supposed to drown herself in work if there was no work to be done?

Nope. Not going there. Stilling the nervous energy that had made her start to fidget, Emerson smoothed a hand over her nights.h.i.+rt and turned to survey the dingy walls of the dollhouse-sized apartment around her. She just needed a distraction to get her through the weekend-even the next few hours would be good-and then she could get back to building her client base first thing Monday morning. Trouble was, she'd been so focused on her career over the last few years that free time had been way more theory than practice, and what little time she had taken off had been spent completing continuing-ed courses or volunteering at the Lightning's various fitness outreach camps.

But, come on. She was smart and resourceful-she had a PhD, for Pete's sake. Surely she could come up with something to keep her occupied when she wasn't at the therapy center with Doc Sanders. Something that wasn't breakfast (she'd managed to eat half a piece of toast with her coffee an hour ago), TV (110 channels of infomercials. Ugh), or trying to cover up the fact that while furniture made life a boatload more comfortable in terms of functionality, it somehow didn't make her apartment any more homey or appealing.

s.h.i.+t. Three strikes and she was definitely out.

Just as Emerson finished her shower and get-ready-for-the-day routine, which killed a whole forty minutes, even though she had nothing to actually get ready for, her cell phone buzzed its way across the chipped Formica of her kitchen counter. Her heart thumped faster beneath her pale-pink T-s.h.i.+rt, then plummeted all the way to the waistband of her denim capris at the sight of the name and number flas.h.i.+ng up at her from the display on her caller ID.

She might be desperate for something to do, but she wasn't m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic. A conversation with her mother would send what little sanity Emerson had left into immediate extinction right now.

Her phone dinged a minute later, signaling a voice mail and tripping her warning sensors into high alert. Bitsy hated voice mail, to the point that she rarely left messages for anyone that weren't going to be "appropriately handled" by a living, breathing human. Chances were sky high her sanity was about to take that hit even without the actual mother-daughter airtime.

"Sweetheart, it's your mother calling. I do hope you're not still in bed at this hour." The pause in the recording gave Emerson just enough time to lock her molars together, and wheee, they were off to an awesome start. "At any rate, I'm headed into Camden Valley for some work on the hospital's annual fund-raiser gala. I thought it would be in your best interest to come with me so you can meet some of the hospital staff. They have a wonderful orthopedics department, and certainly Dr. Norris would consider having you on board as a favor to your father. I'll stop by your apartment on my way through town to see if you're available to make the trip."

Emerson's cell phone hit the counter with a clatter, her pulse going full-on Rocket Man in her veins. Twelve years might have pa.s.sed since she'd left town, but dammit, her parents hadn't changed one iota. She might not have a schedule full of clients (or, okay, more than one client) but she already had a job she was d.a.m.ned good at, in a field she loved. Even if she did have the desire to go to medical school at age thirty to become an orthopedic surgeon-which she didn't-her multiple sclerosis would make getting through even an inch of the grueling residency a virtual impossibility.

Which was problematic as s.h.i.+t, since that was surely where her parents had set their sights, and she had absolutely zero intention of telling them about her diagnosis. Now her mother would be here in T minus-Emerson turned to look at the clock on the stove behind her-s.h.i.+t! Twelve minutes and counting for a trip to Camden Valley that would surely boast . . . well, a whole lot of boasting. Not to mention a metric ton of the pressure and panic she'd managed to keep at bay for the last twelve years by staying far enough away for her parents not to be able to wield their influence on her life.

She had to get out of here. Now.

Scooping her purse from the counter, she fast-tracked her feet into a pair of sandals and out the door. A quick drive around town to avoid her mother was a bit on the cowardly side, sure, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

And Emerson was definitely. Completely. Painfully. Desperate.

Thankfully, she didn't have a ton of time to dwell on that sad little nugget of truth. She dug her keys from the bottom of her purse, locking her front door with a swift flick of her wrist. Turning on her heel, she hustled over the sidewalk leading to the parking lot, fully intent on getting out of Dodge as fast as humanly possible . . .

And ran smack into a pet.i.te, pixie-faced blonde carrying two plastic bins packed full of bubble bath.

"Whoa!" the blonde squeaked, s.h.i.+fting to the toes of her navy-blue sneakers as she fought to keep both her balance and her grip on the bins. Emerson's hands shot out to steady the process, her cheeks flus.h.i.+ng in chagrin.

"I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you alright?"

"I'm A-okay. No worries," the blonde said, her smile marking the words as the truth. "To be honest, I was hoping to run into you. Just not, you know"-her ponytail slid over one shoulder as she gestured toward the bins to indicate their near miss-"literally."

Emerson blinked, the unease in her belly becoming genuine surprise as her brain paired the voice with its owner. "Daisy? Daisy Halstead?"

"Yep, it's me. Well, I guess I'm Daisy Bradford now, although not for much longer." The woman shook her head as if to dismiss the words, lowering the bins to the pavement beside her to pull Emerson into an unexpected hug. "Seriously, I'm so glad to see you, Emerson! It's been, what, since the summer after high school? Of course you look fantastic."

"Oh! Um, thanks. You look great, too," Emerson said, a small smile finding its way to her lips. While the academic and extracurricular schedule set in stone by her parents had given her little choice but to keep her cla.s.smates at arm's length during most of high school, Daisy had been the closest thing she'd had to a true girlfriend. At least, Daisy had been the only girl at Millhaven High who hadn't whispered behind Emerson's back about her being too smart or too pretty or too stuck up for her own good.

Daisy's laugh jarred Emerson back to the here and now of the sun-strewn sidewalk. "I don't know about great," she said, running a hand first over her plain gray tank top, then her fraying cutoffs. "But I suppose I'm lucky enough to be getting by. I'd heard you were back in town and living out this way."

Just like that, Emerson's unease came winging back in all its glory. "Let me guess. Amber Ca.s.sidy?"

"She still has the market cornered on gossip," Daisy agreed with a sheepish nod. "I try not to buy into it too much, but she can be kind of hard to miss. Especially when the news is, um. A big deal."

Of course. G.o.d, she couldn't blend in any less. "Yeah. I definitely got that impression. Anyway, I'm sorry for nearly bowling you over." Emerson sent a covert gaze over the faded asphalt of the apartment complex's parking area, which blessedly held no signs of her mother's Mercedes. At least for the moment.

Daisy shook her head to cancel out the apology. "I was rus.h.i.+ng, too, so we're even. Preparing for this Watermelon Festival has been making me crazy, and it doesn't help that I'm cutting it really close on time."

"Oh, right. The Watermelon Festival." Between last night's exhaustion and this morning's evasive maneuvering, she'd forgotten all about today's festivities.

"Isn't that where you're headed?" Daisy asked, sending a pointed glance at the keys in Emerson's hand. As far as most folks in Millhaven were concerned, the only good excuse for not attending the start-of-summer festival was if your pulse went missing. Even then, it depended on for how long. But Emerson had left over a decade ago, and the chance that she'd fit back in as a local now was way more none than slim.

"No, actually, I . . ." Emerson's brain spun in search of a good answer, but screw it. Even though the truth stung, it was still the truth. "To be honest, I don't really have a destination in mind. I just wanted to get out of my apartment for a while. I'm kind of dodging my mother."

"Oh. Oh." Daisy's green eyes did the round-and-wide routine, but Emerson had to hand it to her. Despite the curiosity running rampant on her face, Daisy didn't press for more details. "Well, if you're looking for an escape, I sure could use some help at the festival since I'm already running late," Daisy said, smoothing over the conversational pothole with a kind smile. "I mean, I'm just selling my new handmade soaps and beauty products, so it might not be the most exciting thing going, but-"

"It's perfect. I'd love to be your a.s.sistant," Emerson said with an enthusiastic nod. Helping Daisy out sounded kind of fun, plus it would keep her busy and get her out of Bitsy's crosshairs. Talk about a win trifecta.

"Great." Daisy's smile slid into a grin. "These are my last two boxes. We can get them all loaded up and I'll give you a quick primer on the Fresh As A Daisy products on the way to town."

"Lead the way. I'm all yours."

Emerson wrapped her fingers around the bin on the top of the stack, taking care to use her leg muscles as she lifted so her back wouldn't squall in protest. Daisy's little red SUV was fewer than a dozen steps away, and between them, they made quick work of loading the bins next to the six identical ones and the pair of small card tables in the back. Fresh scents of lavender and lemongra.s.s filled the truck's interior, but rather than being overwhelming or too perfumey, they smelled comforting, like fresh-cut flowers and laundry on a line.

"So you make all of these products yourself?" Emerson asked, settling into the pa.s.senger seat and gesturing over her shoulder as Daisy pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward town.

"Soap, bubble bath, body scrub, and ma.s.sage oil. I'm also working on lotions and face masks, but the lotions in particular can be trickier, so I don't have too many different scents yet." Daisy paused for a self-deprecating laugh. "I bet homemade beauty products sound kind of silly to you, what with your being a big-time physical therapist and everything."

But Emerson shook her head, adamant. "Not at all. A lot of studies show that aromatherapy can be incredibly effective with patients doing physical rehab, especially when it's accompanied by ma.s.sage therapy. I actually took an intensive cla.s.s in alternative healing practices last year to explore the subject more in depth. The physiological effects are fascinating, and-"

Daisy blinked at her from the driver's seat, and Christ on a cracker, Emerson needed to get out more. Her first friend outing in who knew how long, and she was going to bore the poor woman straight to death.

"I'm sorry," Emerson said, sliding a hand over the back of her neck to try to disperse the warmth that had bloomed there. "I've been pretty focused on work lately."

"I never would have guessed." Daisy tacked just enough humor to the words to put Emerson right back at ease. "Still, that's really interesting. I mean, the aromatherapy part," she added with a little shudder. "I don't imagine the broken-bones or torn-ligaments part of your job is too much fun."

Girlfriend definitely had a point. "I've seen some pretty terrible injuries," Emerson agreed. "But even for the most devastating conditions, there are usually lots of therapy options to help people adjust and heal. Getting my clients as functional and healthy as possible is worth all the training and hard work."

"Do you think you could send me the links to some of those aromatherapy studies?" Daisy asked, her tone edging higher with excitement. "I just started Fresh As A Daisy a few months ago and I've been kind of lasered in on production, trying to get the recipes and formulas just right. But I'd love to learn more about the positive benefits people might get from the essential oils used in the products."

Emerson's laugh snuck up on her, but she let it out all the same. Daisy definitely didn't have to twist her arm to talk shop. "Of course. I've got a bunch of studies bookmarked on my laptop, along with all my course notes from last year. I'm happy to share them."

They filled the rest of the car ride and the following half hour of unloading and setup with back and forth about Daisy's new business and Emerson's knowledge of alternative medicine. Finally, after the last bar of orange blossom and shea b.u.t.ter soap had been set carefully beneath the shade of the cheery yellow canopy tent Daisy had brought from home, Emerson took a step back to survey their display.

"Wow. Everything looks great, Daisy," she said, taking a big inhale as she brushed her fingers over the slightly rough texture of the sea salt soap. "And it smells even better. I bet you'll do a ton of business today."

"I really hope so." Daisy sent a dubious glance at the milling, pre-festival crowd and the brightly colored tents now covering Town Street like confetti on New Year's Eve. "My husband"-she paused, pressing her lips together as she reset her words-"ex-husband, didn't really think starting my own business was a good idea, so thanks for helping me out today."

Emerson's gut squeezed, but she hung on tight to her smile. She hadn't recognized the last name Daisy had offered up earlier, so she knew the guy almost certainly wasn't local. Judging by the look on her friend's face right now, she wanted to drop the rest of the topic like a red-hot potato, so Emerson said, "Well, I think Fresh As A Daisy is a fantastic idea. In fact, if we can round up a few willing partic.i.p.ants later, I don't mind offering five-minute therapeutic hand ma.s.sages to go with your soothing lavender-chamomile lotion."

Daisy let out a soft laugh, and bingo, mission accomplished. "Okay, but only as long as I get the first one."

"Deal." Ignoring the snap, crackle, and pop in her knees, Emerson bent to grab two water bottles from the cooler they'd tucked under one of the card tables beneath their tent. If the sheen of moisture on her brow was any indicator, Mother Nature was h.e.l.l-bent on following through with the weather report's promise of a scorcher today. The symptoms of her MS didn't tend to play nicely with the heat. She'd have to be really careful to hydrate and stay off her feet so her legs didn't give out.

Don't think about it. Not even a little bit.

"So." Emerson handed over one water bottle, toasting Daisy with the other. "Now that we've got a few minutes to relax before the festival kicks off, why don't you catch me up on what's been happening in town?"

"I can," her friend said, although her expression remained clouded in doubt. "But you just spent the last few years jet-setting all over the US with a crazy-famous football team. Do you really want to talk about what everyone in Millhaven has been up to since high school?"

"I know Vegas is pretty far from here." Although Emerson wasn't about to say so, the lifestyle, both in Las Vegas and with the Lightning, was light-years away from Millhaven's sleepy, small-town vibe. "But, I promise, I was really just doing my job. Anyway," she continued with a shrug, "everyone in town knows all about me. It seems only fair that I get the dish on them in return."

Daisy gave her a look that read good point. "Okay, let's see. The Bar is still the best place to hang out around here"-at Emerson's brow lift, Daisy corrected herself-"okay, the only place to hang out, unless you're at a bonfire or you head into Camden Valley. Amber's working with Mollie Mae over at the Hair Lair now, and they're like two apples on a branch. Kelsey Whittaker rounds out the bunch, although she's Kelsey Lambert now."

Not surprising. Kelsey had staked her claim on Brad Lambert on the playground in the fifth grade, at about the same time she and Amber had become BFFs.

"What about the Baker's Dozen? Do they still come to the festival?" Emerson asked, trying to squelch the memory of her run-in with Amber. The group of thirteen ladies had been baking up a category-5 hurricane since Emerson had been in elementary school. G.o.d, she hoped they were still at it.

As if to second her chocolate-covered thoughts, Daisy gave her belly an appreciative rub over the gray cotton of her tank top. "A few of the members pa.s.sed the torch to their daughters, and the group decided to embrace gender equality when Edith Lewis's son turned out to have mad pastry skills, but they're going strong as ever. Still make oatmeal cookies as thick and soft as a pillow."

"Oh yum." Emerson grinned and made a mental note to find their tent and stuff herself silly before the day was over. "Those are my favorite."

"Girl. That's not even the half of it for killer food," Daisy said, casually waving a hand through the humid air. "Every Sat.u.r.day, Harley Martin still sets up shop over by the firehouse and serves the best barbecue in the Valley from that ancient old drum smoker of his."

Okay, someone needed to call Pavlov because now her mouth was just plain watering. "The one he welded together out of sc.r.a.p metal in the nineteen seventies?"

The thing could be part Studebaker for all Emerson cared. Harley's pulled-pork sandwiches were the stuff of legends.

"The very same," Daisy said. "And speaking of the same, even though old man Whittaker will argue otherwise, the hands-down best place to get fresh produce around here is still Cross Creek Farm."

Emerson's heart did an involuntary two-step against her breastbone, and whew, the weather was getting downright ridiculous already. "Good to know," she said, taking a long swig from her bottle of water.

Daisy continued, her tennis shoes scuffing softly against the curb as she leaned in closer and dropped her voice to a near whisper. "Yeah, that rivalry between the two farms is still alive and kicking harder than the Rockettes. It's mostly a lot of smack talk between Eli Cross and Greyson Whittaker. They like to duke it out for the t.i.tle of Baddest Boy in Millhaven, but to tell the truth, I'm pretty sure it's a dead heat. Owen's still serious enough to keep Eli in check and out of trouble, although every once in a blue moon Owen and Sheriff Atlee get a mind to throw back a few beers and close down The Bar."

Daisy's cheeks pinked at the mention of the sheriff, but Emerson had to slap a mental "File for Later" sign over her curiosity as she rewound. Processed. Dropped her jaw in shock.

"Wait. Lane Atlee is Millhaven's sheriff? Tall guy, body like a prizefighter, att.i.tude to match, Lane Atlee?" He and Owen had been the same year in high school, two ahead of her and Daisy, although admittedly, Lane's attendance was spa.r.s.e at best. She'd have been less surprised to hear he'd become a ballerina than Millhaven's top boy in blue.

"Mmhmm." Daisy cleared her throat, her flush downgrading to nearly normal. "Carl Barker retired six years ago, and Deputy Hutchinson was only two years behind him. Lane surprised everyone by deciding to go to the police academy in Camden Valley so he could run for sheriff."

"Huh," Emerson finally managed. "Can't say I saw that one coming."

Something she couldn't quite pin down s.h.i.+fted in Daisy's expression, her friend's smile growing too forced, too fast. "Funny you should say that. You have seen Hunter Cross since you've been back, right?"

"Yeeeeeah," Emerson said, half acknowledgment, half question. Talk about a weird segue. Plus, Daisy had to already know the answer since Amber had likely told everyone in the county by now. "Why?"

Daisy's smile didn't move a millimeter as she whispered through her teeth, "Because he's about eight feet to your left and coming in hot."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Hunter was less than a dozen steps away from Emerson before he realized this was a bad idea. He was at the Watermelon Festival to relax a little and work a lot, and the flash-bang going on in his rib cage right now wasn't going to help turn either of those into reality. But best he could tell, Emerson had slept, eaten, and breathed work all week, without so much as a baby toe off the caution path. To unexpectedly see her standing there, talking with Daisy Halstead in the middle of the Watermelon Festival and looking as casual and gorgeous as ever? Yeah, that lit him up like a Fourth of July firecracker.

Hopefully his knee-jerk curiosity wasn't about to blow up in his face.

"Hey," Eli said, confusion creasing his forehead into a V at Hunter's rapid swerve in direction. "What are you . . . oh s.h.i.+t. Is that-?"

"Yup."

Eli whistled under his breath, but G.o.d bless him, he kept up stride for stride. "Gotta hand it to you. You sure can pick 'em. Hey, ladies!" His brother's smile increased by about forty watts as the last of the asphalt between the two of them and Daisy's tent became history. "Great day for a Watermelon Festival, don't you think?"

"Oh, hey, Eli! Hey, Hunter. I sure do," Daisy said, fixing them both with a genuine smile that reminded Hunter why he'd always liked her. "It's my first time as a vendor, and Emerson was nice enough to say she'd be my a.s.sistant today."

"Really?" Hunter's surprise slipped out before he could trap it, the emotion going for broke as Emerson laughed in reply.

"Yes, really. I do leave work on occasion." She paused, clearly catching the doubt that had to be plastered to his face, then added, "Okay. I do now. But I ran into Daisy a little while ago in front of my apartment and helping her out seemed like a great chance for us to catch up."

"Well, it sure is good to see you back in town, Emerson," Eli said, and oh no. What the h.e.l.l was he doing, giving her that aw-shucks smile? "I didn't know you were renting a place at the Twin Pines."

At Emerson's puzzled expression, Daisy chimed in. "Eli lives on the other side of the building, over in 16B."

"Ah," she said with a nod. "4A."

Hunter borrowed the puzzled expression that Emerson had just gotten rid of. "You're not staying with your parents until something else opens up?" While the place wasn't a complete rattrap, the Twin Pines could hardly be what she was used to, and her parents had a private carriage house right on their property.

"Yeah, no." She shook her head hard for emphasis. "That definitely wouldn't work out."

The swift delivery combined with her adamant tone to create a whole lot of ooookay then, and Eli swooped in to smooth it over with another charming grin.

"Well, I for one don't mind having you as a neighbor, and I think it's right nice of you to help Daisy out with her business like that."

Emerson's smile in return was so pretty, Hunter's trademark calm threatened a complete labor strike. "It's been fun so far, and the products look amazing," she said. "I'm happy to do whatever I can."

"Actually"-Daisy brightened, splitting an excited gaze between him and Eli-"Emerson was just saying she'd offer up a therapeutic hand ma.s.sage to anyone willing to try my lavender-chamomile lotion. Either of you boys willing to find your softer side? This stuff isn't just for women, and it works great on smoothing out calluses."

She lifted a bottle emblazoned with the letters "LC" off the table beside her, and Emerson's ocean-blue eyes went as round as her mouth.

"Oh, I'm sure Eli and Hunter don't want to-"