He looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
“There was a stray cat at the visitor center, and I meant to bring it home.” Maybe she should go back after it.
“How long has it been there?”
“I don’t know. Tonight was the first time it came around. I gave it some beef from a leftover sandwich.”
“It should be okay until morning, then,” he said.
She started to argue with him, but did she want to make another trip to Mount Locust tonight? The cat might not even still be around. “I’ll want to leave by seven fifteen at the latest,” she said.
“I’ll be here at seven ten.” With a tip of his head, he walked out the door. Almost immediately, her doorbell rang. She opened the door.
“Yes?”
“I didn’t hear you dead-bolt the lock.”
“Sorry. I would have before I went to bed.”
“Do you mind dead-bolting it now?”
“Yes, Dad.”
His face flushed. “I want you to be safe.”
She palmed her hands. “And I appreciate it. I’ll lock the door as soon as I shut it.”
Which she did and then folded her arms across her chest as his footsteps clumped down the stairs. Emma didn’t remember Sam being so bossy. Or maybe overprotective was a better word. Bossy would fit Trey better. Not that he would ever admit to the description. Trey simply never thought he was wrong.
5
A quick glance at the clock told him it was near midnight. His fingers trembled as he laid the nine gerbera daisies on the table. Arranging flowers calmed him like nothing else. He definitely needed calming tonight.
Refocus. This arrangement was special. He’d chosen daisies because they were a symbol of purity and innocence. Nine because it was the number of forever love. Other than his mother, he’d only ever given three women this particular bouquet.
He arranged and rearranged the white flowers and still was not quite satisfied with the bouquet. Perhaps a different vase. After rummaging through his cabinets, he found the perfect container—an antique pitcher that had belonged to his mother. As the flower arrangement came together, he thought about the last daisies he’d given someone.
Kimberly Fisher.
He clenched his fist, and a bitter scent stung his nose. The delicate daisy lay crushed in his hand, ruined. No! He had to have nine white daisies for Emma. Unlike Kimberly, she would understand his message, that she would be his, now and forever. Grabbing his shears, he hurried to the greenhouse.
People who thought they knew him would be surprised to learn he was an avid plantsman, but he was close to so few people he needn’t worry anyone would discover his secret. With a flip of the switch, light flooded a small room filled with seven different species of daisies. His passion, fueled by his mother’s love of the flower. She’d been such a gentle soul. Innocent. Pure. Not once in the years since her death had he failed to take nine daisies to the cemetery on her birthday. He’d loved his mother and despised his father who still lived. It was his fault she was dead.
“The woman you marry must be like the daisy,” his mother had always told him. “Pure and innocent.”
He snipped a perfectly shaped gerbera. Emma wasn’t like the others. But what if she turned him down? He brushed that thought aside. She loved him. He could tell by the way she smiled at him. The way her gaze lingered in his when they talked and the desire that burned in those eyes that were the color of emeralds. And then there were the messages she sent him on her Facebook page. Secret messages he decoded, telling him how much she loved him, and how scared that made her. Poor Emma . . . too afraid of her own emotions to stay with any man long. Except him. He understood her. Understood her fear. Understood she couldn’t acknowledge her love for him just yet.
One day she would, though.
You believed that of the others.
But he hadn’t met the others on his mother’s birthday.
6
Five thirty a.m. came much too early after a restless night, and Emma hit the alarm off button. Why had she told Sam seven fifteen? Oh yeah, cat food. The cat was one reason she hadn’t slept well. If she hadn’t been worrying about it, she’d been trying to figure out who had shot at her. Maybe she would just lay here for a minute . . .
Her backup 6:00 a.m. alarm jerked her awake, and she stumbled out of bed. Should have gotten up the first time. An hour and ten minutes didn’t give her enough time for her usual run. After a quick bowl of cereal and a shower, she threw on her uniform and rushed out the door, almost stumbling over a white ceramic pitcher with gerbera daisies.
She gasped and glanced both ways, but the long hallway that separated her apartment and the one across from hers was empty. Who could have sent her favorite flower and why? Kneeling, she plucked the card that had her name printed in block letters.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it. Life is short. Enjoy each day. No signature, and the words were hand-printed like her name. A shiver rippled through Emma as she stared at the flowers, unsure what to do. No one had ever sent her daisies before. Trey had sent roses once, but he’d signed the card.
She glanced down the hallway at the other two apartments on the second floor; the one across the hall mirrored hers, the other was an efficiency at the end. Just then the door across the hall opened, and her neighbor Gregory Hart stepped out, dressed for his job at City Hall. “Good morning,” he said, barely pausing as he strode to the stairs. “Nice flowers.”
She had to look up to meet his gaze. Greg was a couple of years older than Emma, and at times she’d felt vibes that he had more than a passing interest in her.
“You didn’t happen to see who delivered them, did you?”
“No.” He shifted his briefcase to his other hand. His neck turned a blotchy red, but he was so shy the redness happened almost every time she spoke to him. “But I do know they weren’t there when I came back from my run at six.”
At least that narrowed the timeline. “Maybe I should call the sheriff.”
“I don’t understand.” His brows lowered into a frown. “You want to call the law because someone sent you flowers? It’s probably a secret admirer—someone who’s too shy to let you know.”
Emma didn’t realize she’d said that out loud. “I’m probably overreacting.”
“I think you are.” The redness crept from his neck to his face. “You are very pretty, after all. Just enjoy them.” He gave her a timid smile before checking his watch. “Well . . . have a good day,” he said and hurried down the stairs.
That was the most conversation she’d had with Gregory since he’d moved in five months ago, and he definitely thought she was overreacting. But what if the person who sent the flowers was the one who shot at her last night?
Not wanting to add her fingerprints to the vase, she grabbed a drying cloth from the kitchen and gingerly carried the flowers inside, the pungent scent tickling her nose. It probably meant nothing, but she would tell Sam about the flowers when he came to follow her to Mount Locust. And maybe she’d knock on the door to the one-bedroom apartment at the end of the hall. No. Not a good idea. The young woman who lived there—Taylor something or other—usually didn’t get home until the wee hours of the morning. Maybe Emma could catch her this evening.