She began gathering up her papers into an unorganized pile. Hell. She felt like throwing the papers into her woodstove, then crawling in behind them. She hadn’t meant to hurt Ben.
The last paper to go on her pile was one Emma didn’t recognize. It was legal length and folded in fourths, and she knew it hadn’t been there ten minutes ago. She opened it up to read it, but didn’t get past the first line.
The silence that suddenly fell over the room was so absolute, Emma could hear the blood rushing through her veins. The pounding of her heart was deafening. The room around her receded into the recesses of her consciousness as she opened her mouth and closed it again.
She finally found her voice, which didn’t seem to be hers at all. “This is an application for a marriage license.”
“Yes,” came a solid, faraway voice from right beside her.
“It’s all filled out.”
“Only one line’s still blank,” Ben said.
Emma stared at the document. Every piece of information about her was there, from her birth date and birthplace to her parents’ names and her Social Security number. Everything was filled in for Benjamin Sinclair as well.
“Michael. Your middle name is Michael,” was all she could say, fixated by that one small fact.
“Kelly knew my middle name.”
Emma finally looked at him. “This is a marriage license application,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“And all I have to do is sign it, and we can get married.”
“You would also have to show up for the ceremony.”
“Are you … is this a proposal?”
“I believe I already proposed. This is the next step.”
Emma rubbed her forehead. “I don’t remember a proposal, exactly. I do remember you mentioning your plans for after we got married. You said something about running your business from Maine.”
He pulled her hand away from her forehead, holding it in his as he went down on one knee. “Sign it, Emma.”
“I … I have to think about this,” she whispered, tugging on her hand.
“You have thought about it.”
“I’ve had plenty of other things on my mind lately.”
“You’re going to sign it eventually, so why not take this load off your shoulders now? Sign the paper and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Just like you plan to take care of me?”
He shook his head. “I have no intention of taking over your life, Emma. You’ll be just as independent after we’re married as you are now. You just won’t be alone anymore.”
He was telling her to trust him.
Which she already did.
He was telling her they could spend the rest of their lives together.
Which she wanted to do very badly.
He was saying he respected her independence.
Which she needed to keep in order to survive.
But he wasn’t telling her that he loved her.
Emma’s eyes locked with his, and that was how Greta found them.
“Land sakes, that boy can fill a hamper with clothes!” her friend complained as she walked in from the great room. She came to a halt in midstride and stared. Her eyes widened when she spotted Beaker sitting next to the stove, eyeing her back.
Greta returned her gaze to the table. “It’s nice to see you again, Benjamin Sinclair.” She set her basket down and wiped her hands on her slacks before she reached out in greeting. “You might not remember me. I’m Greta LaVoie, a friend of Michael and Emma.”
Ben stood and accepted Greta’s hand, taking it between his as he smiled down at her warmly. “Miss LaVoie. I certainly remember you bake the best cakes this side of the Canadian border.”
Greta, who wasn’t charmed by the best of men, blushed like a peach. “So you finally came,” she said, clasping Ben’s hands within hers. “I’m so glad. Michael’s been wanting to meet you for a very long time.”
“I’m deeply glad to have discovered him,” he answered before pulling away.
“And now you’ll protect him and Emma from whoever’s trying to kill them?”
“What makes you think someone wants to kill them?”
Greta frowned up at him in disbelief. “They were shot at. Their plane crashed. They know too much.”
“Half the county knows as much as they do by now.”
Greta nodded. “You just keep that boy out of this logging war. And who’s this?” she asked, going over to the German shepherd.
“That’s Beaker. Emma’s new pet,” Ben told her.
Greta looked at Emma. “But you’re scared to death of any dog larger than a squirrel.” She looked at Ben. “Emma Jean was chased halfway across town by a Doberman when she was seven. I had to walk that child to the store for six months after that. She had terrible nightmares for years.”
“She likes Beaker.”
Greta began petting the dog, who welcomed the attention.
Emma looked down at the table, picked up the application for her marriage license, and quickly signed on the one remaining blank line. Then she folded it back into fourths and pushed it to the center of the table.
A large hand swooped down and grabbed it, and Emma watched it disappear into Ben’s shirt pocket. She lifted her gaze to find piercing gray eyes staring back at her with triumphant satisfaction.
By God, she’d done it now.
Chapter Seventeen
It was well into the small hours of the night—the time when the mind is drugged with sleep, when dreams and reality mesh. Emma came awake slowly, her senses rousing one by one. The now familiar warmth snuggled against her side comforted her, as did the peaceful shadows of her room and the feel of her own pillow under her head. Only her nose was at odds with her surroundings, nudging her further awake.
She was smelling springtime. Flowers. Specifically, roses.
A sound was her second clue all was not right within her realm of security. From the floor came the soft noise of Beaker contentedly gnawing on a piece of rawhide.
Which meant the warmth beside her was not her dog.
Adrenaline fired her awake into frozen awareness. The heavy warmth beside her rose to loom like
