"No." Emerson knew Hunter meant well, she did. But the rift between her and her parents couldn't be fixed any more than her body could miraculously heal overnight. She needed to face those facts and keeping moving on. "They want what they want, and it's their version of the best or nothing. That's not going to change, no matter what I tell them."

"Okay," Hunter said, and although his tone told her he disagreed, he thankfully didn't press the issue. They darted through the rain, moving over the porch boards and into the cozy warmth of the cottage.

"You hungry yet?" he asked, tipping his head toward the shadows of the kitchen.

But what she wanted wasn't in the fridge. "No. I'd really just like to go upstairs."

Nodding, he followed her over the honey-colored hardwoods, patiently keeping time with her slower-than-usual pace as she forced her feet over each achy, painful step. Emerson dragged herself through the motions of brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed, turning to reach for the oversized sleep shirt she'd hung on the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

"s.h.i.t." The hook was empty. Cursing her s.p.a.cy brain, she made her way back into Hunter's bedroom, and ugh, how could she have forgotten that she'd left her nightshirt draped across the foot of the bed this morning?

Scooping up the swath of light-pink cotton, she turned to hobble her way back to the bathroom to change. But the empty bedroom and the m.u.f.fled noises from down the hall told her Hunter had gone back downstairs for something, and truly, her energy was waning fast. Emerson peeled her long-sleeved T-shirt and capris from her body, reaching for the nightshirt she'd lowered back over the bed. A sound from the doorway sent her defenses into lockdown, but her body's clumsy movements made her a living embodiment of the adage too little, too late.

"I'm sorry," Hunter said, his blue-gray eyes glinting to back up the apology. "I ran downstairs for a gla.s.s of water. Didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't." Emerson winced inwardly at the lie. The tight knot of her arms offered a flimsy cover for her body, and her fingers itched like mad to grab the quilt folded at the foot of the bed so she could cover up more completely. But in order to do that, she'd have to drop her arms, which would expose her nearly naked and definitely traitorous body.

She couldn't make herself move.

Hunter came all the way into the room, placing the gla.s.s of water in his hand on the nightstand beside her. "Are you cold?" he asked, reaching out to run his palms from her shoulders to her elbows.

Oh G.o.d, how could such a benign touch feel so warm and sweet and good? "No."

His hands came to a stop, cupped around her upper arms. "Then why would you want to cover up?"

Emerson's glance moved first to the lamp on the bedside table, then to the light spilling in from the bathroom, and before she could come up with an answer, realization widened his gaze.

"I've seen you naked before," he said.

"I know." Her breath turned shallow, refusing to move smoothly. G.o.d, how could she explain this without pointing it out with a neon freaking sign?

"But you don't want me to see you now."

A primal part of her brain screamed at her to dodge the conversation, to cover up, to hide.

Only she didn't. "No," Emerson whispered. "My body hurts, and it isn't . . . it's . . ."

Hunter let go of her arm to slide one finger over her mouth, stopping the flow of her words. "Your body is beautiful."

She laughed, although there was no joy in the sound. "My body is not beautiful."

"Your body is f.u.c.king gorgeous." The unyielding intensity in both his voice and his eyes froze Emerson to her spot beside the bed. Reaching down, Hunter caught her wrist in his hand, sliding his thumb over her rapidly beating pulse point. "But as beautiful as you are on the outside, you're even more stunning underneath."

She stood in shock, completely unable to do anything other than listen as he continued. "You're kind. You don't hesitate to help people," he said, dusting a fingertip over her knuckles before letting his touch travel upward. Her stomach tightened when he reached the bandage from today's earlier blood draw and the bruise blooming beneath it, but Hunter didn't so much as pause.

"You're smart. The way you tackle problems and see what's in front of you is incredible." His hands moved through the fall of her hair, sweeping over the back of her neck in hypnotic circles, and oh G.o.d, the contact was enough to make her want to cry.

"But your spirit is the most beautiful thing about you," Hunter murmured, his hands moving to the center of her chest to press carefully over her heart. "You asked me on that first day in Doc Sanders's office why I hadn't settled down and married some local girl."

Emerson managed a shaky nod. "I did."

"The real answer is that I guess I was waiting."

"For what?" she asked, and again, Hunter didn't hesitate.

"To know it was right, right here." He slid one hand from her heart to splay his fingers wide over his own chest. "To not just want somebody, but to want to be with them, even when things got bad. To not just look at somebody, but to see them way down deep, and know they saw me, too. I don't think I realized it until now, but what I've been waiting for is you. It's always been you. And this time, I'm not letting you slip away."

And as he guided her into his bed and wrapped his arms around her aching body to hold her tight, Emerson realized that she didn't just trust him with her secrets.

She trusted him with her heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Emerson rolled over, surfacing from sleep in slow degrees. A cursory body scan yielded surprisingly little pain, and even though the day was still a newborn, she'd take the lack of debilitating discomfort as a win right now. She was alone in bed, which wasn't a shock-even on restricted duty, Hunter still headed to the main house at the crack of dawn, and the bright spears of sunlight pushing past the blinds told her he'd likely been gone for a while. But he'd known Emerson didn't have a client until Mrs. Ellersby's session at noon, so he'd clearly let her sleep in rather than resetting the alarm for her as usual, and G.o.d, the catch-up rest had done wonders to soothe yesterday's aches.

That's not all that's putting you in your happy place. Unable to help herself, Emerson laughed out loud at the thought. While the mess with her parents might still need to be sorted and yesterday had been a big, fat goose egg in terms of a body win, she still couldn't deny the feeling nestled way down deep in her chest.

She was falling in love with Hunter Cross, and this time, nothing was going to tear them apart.

Emerson gave herself one last stretch before tossing back the covers and testing her limbs with her body weight. A hot shower and an even hotter cup of coffee later, her muscles and her mood were as loose as they were getting, so she headed toward Cross Creek's main house. She still had a couple of hours to kill before her appointment with Mrs. Ellersby, and Doc Sanders wouldn't hesitate to call Emerson's cell phone if she needed a consult. Squeezing in a little recon on how to build Cross Creek's newsletter list would keep her nice and busy.

She parked beside the homey two-story farmhouse, making her way up the natural stone path toward the porch. Mother Nature had rebounded quickly from yesterday's rain, and the humidity and the already-relentless heat joined forces to send a trickle of perspiration between Emerson's shoulder blades. Her legs threatened to ache as she climbed the trio of steps in front of her-heat always seemed to amplify the symptoms of her MS-but at least she'd managed to get two pieces of toast down the hatch with her coffee.

"h.e.l.lo? Anyone here?" Poking her head past the front door, Emerson called into the house. Letting herself in had felt so awkward that the first few times Mr. Cross had told her to do it, she'd knocked, anyway. But the main house was barely ever occupied during the day, so after she'd realized that if she didn't let herself in, chances were high that no one else would do the job, either, she'd reluctantly thrown in the towel.

Emerson put her car keys on the front table and started to move through the house, making sure her phone was set to vibrate as she slid it into the pocket of her bright-blue dress pants. Lucy padded into the living room to greet her, the dog's nails clicking softly over the hardwoods, and Emerson leaned down to give her a scratch behind the ears.

"Hey, pretty girl. How come you're in the house today?" Ninety-nine times out of one hundred, Lucy didn't leave Mr. Cross's side. Emerson's answer came by way of a masculine throat being cleared from the entryway to the kitchen, and she shot to her feet as fast as her body would allow.

"Oh, Mr. Cross! I'm sorry, I wouldn't have barged in if I'd known you were here."

He waved her off with a quick lift of his hand, brushing the brim of his Stetson in greeting before he lowered his arm to his side. "No worries, darlin'. I just came back in from the greenhouse for a quick spell. Been right busy this morning, what with the weather bouncing back and Hunter headed into Camden Valley to see the doc."

Of course. How could she have forgotten that Hunter's follow-up appointment with Dr. Norris was this morning? "You must be glad to get him all the way back in action tomorrow."

"Thanks in no small part to you," Mr. Cross said, and Emerson took a turn with a wave of her own.

"Ah, he did the hard part. I just bossed him around."

Mr. Cross shook his head. "Somehow, I suspect there was a bit more to it than that." He paused to pull a bandana from his back pocket to mop his neck and brow, measuring her with a long glance before adding, "You're good for him. If you don't mind me sayin' so."

"Thank you," Emerson managed past her shock and the smile taking over her face without her brain's permission. "It's mutual, though. I think he's good for me, too."

"A little funny how that works, isn't it?"

Mr. Cross's gaze flickered to the small side table next to the living room sofa, coming to rest on a silver-framed photograph of a woman with long, dark hair. She was surrounded by a field of bright flowers, her smile radiating happiness and showing off a dimple that looked oddly familiar, and realization hit Emerson like a sucker punch.

"Is that Mrs. Cross?"

Hunter's father stepped into the living room, the faded blue-and-cream area rug m.u.f.fling the thump of his work-bruised boots as he crossed the floor to pick up the frame with both hands. "It is, although she's probably havin' a heavenly fit at the formality," he said over a wink. "She always insisted on Rosemary. 'Miss' if folks got insistent."

"Miss Rosemary," Emerson repeated, her heart giving up a hard tug behind her breastbone. "She's beautiful."

"I think so, too."

Emerson knew very little about Hunter's mother, other than the fact that she'd died of breast cancer when he'd been only six, and while she didn't want to pry, she also didn't want to disrespect the woman's memory by shying away from the subject. "You must all miss her very much."

"Every day," he confirmed, his eyes still on the photograph. "The boys were awful young when she pa.s.sed, except for Owen. Truth be told, I don't know how much they remember her."

The odd memory of sitting in her father's office popped back into her brain unbidden, so strongly that she could smell the leather-bound medical textbook he'd pulled from his bookshelf to help her learn the skeletal anatomy. "Your family is so warm and open, I'm sure they have wonderful memories of her. And you."

Mr. Cross smiled, although the gesture didn't touch his tired eyes. "Kind of you to say."

Whether it was the sadness on his face or the unspoken way she felt so easy around the man, Emerson couldn't be sure, but she heard herself reply, "I'm a bit envious, actually. I'm not on such great terms with my mom. And definitely not with my father," she added.

"That's a bit of a shame," Mr. Cross said, giving her just enough room to keep talking.

To her surprise, she answered with the unvarnished truth. "Sometimes I think so, and I wish we were closer. But my family isn't like yours. Even when the four of you have your differences, you still know each other. There aren't any pretenses, and you accept each other at face value. I've never really had that with my parents."

"Oh, darlin'. It's true that the boys and I are closer than most." Mr. Cross lowered the photo in his hands, but he didn't put the frame back in its resting place on the lace doily centered just so on the side table. "But I promise you, each of us has got things he's hidin' behind, and even though we've got family bonds holdin' us together, ain't none of the four of us perfect."

Pain flickered over the old man's face, there and then gone. The shadows that had made themselves comfortable beneath his eyes this week stood out in stark contrast to his suddenly pale skin, and something unspoken and not-quite-right pinched in Emerson's gut.

"Mr. Cross? Are you feeling alright?"

"Right as rain," he grated, his voice far too hoa.r.s.e, but before she could launch a full protest, her phone buzzed to life in her pocket, sending her d.a.m.n near out of her skin.

"Oh jeez!" She retrieved the thing with a sweep of one hand. "I apologize, but I need to check this, just in case Doc Sanders needs me at the PT center."

She took a lightning-fast glance at the display. But the text message glaring over the screen wasn't from the doc.

Emerson, Your mother has left several voice messages for you, as well as trying unsuccessfully to speak with you at your apartment. We clearly have unfinished business, which your mother and I would like to address. Please call at your earliest convenience.

Emerson's stomach took a straight trip to her suddenly throbbing knees. G.o.d, her parents were relentless. But the acorn didn't fall far from the oak as far as that particular trait was concerned, and dammit, she was going to put an end to this once and for all.

"Please excuse me, Mr. Cross. I've got to make an important-"

The rest of her words crashed to a halt in her windpipe as she lifted her head to look at Hunter's father. Now sheet white, he swayed unsteadily in his boots, a heavy sheen of sweat beading over his temples and dampening the underarms of his T-shirt.

Adrenaline spurted in Emerson's veins. "Mr. Cross?"

His chin lifted in her direction, but his gaze barely connected. "I'm . . . feelin' a little . . . tired all of a sudden," he said, and s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t.

She forced her legs to close the s.p.a.ce between them in two quick strides. "Okay. Let's sit down for a minute."

Moving to Mr. Cross's side, Emerson wrapped her arm around his side, her throat going desert dry as she realized he was shaking like the last leaf in a winter windstorm. She needed to get him in a stable position so she could get a better look, not to mention some freaking help. But before she could ask him if he could make it to the nearby couch, he wobbled in place, his balance teetering.

"I don't . . . my arm . . ."

Her hold tightened around him just as his knees buckled completely. Emerson's heart ricocheted against her ribs and her joints screamed in protest at having to suddenly support his body weight, but she barely registered either as she managed to get Mr. Cross clumsily to the carpet.

"Mr. Cross," she said, wrenching her voice into calmness she didn't come close to feeling. "Can you hear me?"

He slumped like dead weight in her arms, completely unmoving, and panic sliced through her with scalpel-sharp teeth.

No. This wasn't happening. Not on her watch.

Emerson guided him all the way back over the carpet, the move sending his sweat-soaked Stetson rolling over the floor and his body limp beneath her hands. "Mr. Cross," she barked with all the authority she could muster, and just as she slid her fingers into the crook of his neck to check for a pulse, his eyelids fluttered.

Breathing. Thank G.o.d. "Mr. Cross, can you hear me?"

Although his eyes didn't open, he grunted in response. "Unh. Uh-huh."

"Good. I want you to lie still, okay?"

"My arm . . . hurts somethin' fierce . . ."

He made a weak grab for his left side, and dammit, she needed paramedics. Now. "I'm going to help you out with that. But you've got to stay with me, nice and easy."

"I'm just . . . gonna get under the covers . . . right here in bed . . ."

Fear crawled up Emerson's spine, but she mashed down on it with all her power. "Not quite yet, okay? I need you to stay awake just a few minutes longer."

Fumbling for her phone, she jabbed her finger over the emergency icon, shoving the device between her ear and shoulder as the call connected.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

A hard shot of relief filled her lungs at the fact that the call went through. "I need an ambulance at the main house at Cross Creek Farm. It's"-she scrambled to pluck the street address from her Tilt-a-Whirl of a brain-"ah! Fourteen fifty-six Spring Street, Millhaven. I've got an adult male in distress."

"Is the injured party breathing, ma'am?" came the operator's voice, and Emerson dropped her own so as not to make Mr. Cross panic.

"Yes. He's breathing, but he lost consciousness briefly and now he's disoriented and complaining of dizziness and left arm pain." She dropped her hand to capture his wrist for a pulse check, hating the corkscrew in her gut as she added, "Pulse is tachy at one-oh-six."

"Ma'am, are you a medical professional?"

"I'm a physical therapist." She had basic emergency training, but for cripes' sake, she'd never had to use it.

"Okay," the operator said, her voice crackling over a sea of static. "Do you know CPR?"

No! No, no, no, she wasn't going to need CPR. "Yes," Emerson croaked.

"Good." More static, and dammit, she was going to lose the connection. "Do your best to keep the injured party calm and alert, ma'am. Paramedics have been dispatched and will be there very shortly."