CHAPTER TWO

      NIXON WRIGHT EASED himself onto the chair beside Emma’s bed, and, with his elbows on his knees, dropped his chin into the palms of his hands. The cyclist was in Theatre. He was done for the day. His own cycle at home beckoned but he’d told Emma he’d drop by before he left; hadn’t told her he needed to check on her for his own peace of mind.

      Watching Emma as she slept tugged him deep inside. Her short, light breaths lifted an errant curl from one cheek, let it fall on the outward sigh. Dark shadows resembling bruises darkened the pale skin beneath her eyes, her coppery hair striking against those cheeks. She looked small and defenceless under the covers, bringing all his protective mechanisms to the fore, making him want to crawl onto the bed and hold her close, keep the world at bay until she was ready to face it again.

      He’d never seen her so lost. Oh, sure, she’d deny that faster than a blink, but she was confused, dealing with emotions she knew and expected and didn’t want. She’d been brave today; so very, very brave. Not a hint of regret apparent, but there had to be a lot of tugging towards that baby going on inside.

      Emma was a loving soul. Since he’d learned she was pregnant, he’d seen how she’d loved that baby growing inside her. Yet not once, even on those bleak days when she’d felt wobbly about it all—and there had been some, though she’d only ever talked to him about her feelings once—had she said anything to suggest she wouldn’t give up Grace to her rightful mother.

      From what he’d seen, Emma and Abbie had a strong, unbreakable bond so that had never been going to happen. Apparently the two women had seen each other through some terrible times. Abbie’s husband had passed away from cancer, and from idle gossip in the department he knew Emma had been married to a violent man—which made him seethe with impotent fury just thinking about it. He shoved the anger aside. It had no place here, and if Emma had managed to walk away from that husband then he had no right resurrecting her history, if only in his head. She needed positive vibes.

      Nixon’s heart expanded. If ever there was an amazing gift, Emma had given it to her friend. Her generosity knew no bounds, but in the coming days she’d need someone to lean on and he was putting his hand up. As the friend he’d already been for her.

      Oh, really? some strange, illogical emotion deep inside asked.

      His phone pinged with an incoming text. Nixon read the message his uncle Henry had sent to all the family.

      Hope everyone has a lovely time at the birthday party in Wellington this weekend. I’ll be thinking of you. Sorry you can’t make it either, Nixon.

      Henry could be joining his children and grandchildren if he eased up on his belief he was doing his family more good leaving them a large inheritance than using some of his money to be with them for special occasions. Instead, he ignored the pleas to spend the money now when everyone could enjoy the benefits.

      Guilt snuck in. It was brought on because his uncle had taken him in when he was six and raised him with his cousins until he left school. Henry had never been generous with money and especially not with his heart, but Nixon had been fed, clothed in hand-me-downs and given shelter. He’d always be grateful, but he’d have been happy to go hungry if instead there’d been open and happy love such as he’d known in his six short years with his parents and brother before they died in a plane crash.

      ‘Nixon, your mum and dad and Davey are not coming home ever again.’

      The terrifying words had cut him off from his family, from love and happiness. From ever giving his heart unconditionally again.

      But had Henry giving him a roof over his head been his way of showing love? Fundamental perhaps, but that was his uncle’s approach.

      Well, he could do the same. Nixon texted back.

      Book flights and hotel. I’ll fix you up tonight.

      Henry would go for the most expensive flights and hotel room, but, hey, those were the breaks. If it made his uncle happy then what did it matter? It was only money and he wasn’t short of a few dollars. These people were his only family. They had cared about him as one of their own, looked out for him when he hadn’t been able to grasp what not ever coming home again meant. If only Henry had shown his love with hugs and games and laughter as his own parents had, then he mightn’t have felt quite so lost and alone.

      Nixon’s gaze drifted to Emma.

      He’d cried off going away with his cousins and their kids, using a bike endurance he’d entered as his reason. While it was true, he’d also been reluctant to be out of town when Emma had her baby. He’d wanted to be around when it happened in case that despair and fear she’d once sobbed out onto his shoulder returned, stronger and harder to move past. He might’ve made sure she was all right when her waters broke and retrieved her bag from her car for her yet he’d waited ’til well after the birth to visit her, suddenly afraid of where his feelings about Emma were taking him. They’d become such great friends that he’d even felt grateful she’d turned him down for a date because when he walked away at the end of it, which he surely would have done, he’d have missed out on so much. While she was pregnant, he’d felt restrained about furthering their friendship. She’d had enough issues to deal with. But now where did they stand? He believed he didn’t want involvement, couldn’t risk his heart only to lose her when she decided she didn’t need him, but...

      But ask him why he’d felt he should be here and he couldn’t find a satisfactory answer. Emma didn’t need him at her side. They got along fine, and sometimes she opened up to him, though lately he’d pulled back, afraid of where this was headed.

      Be honest. You like that she talks to you about things she can’t tell her best friend.

      Yeah, well, all very good, but all the more reason to pull away. That thinking could lead to deeper involvement, a place he wasn’t planning on going. If he ever chanced falling in love with a special woman—Emma?—he’d want to be able to leap in, boots and all, heart and all, be open, have fun, share the highs and lows. He wouldn’t want to be this uptight, afraid version.

      His phone received a text. Henry.

      Thanks, lad. Appreciate it.

      No problem.

      Had Henry shut down on his open loving side when his wife died in childbirth? Gone further into the deep when Nixon’s mother died? Did he hold the same fears?

      Oh, man.

      Occasionally Nixon had wondered about this but had always shaken it off as wrong. He wasn’t Henry’s child, he’d inherited different genes, and his mother, Henry’s sister, had been a happy, always laughing person. From what he knew and remembered. None of this had crossed Nixon’s mind before. He could very possibly be a chip off the old block. Might’ve learned from his uncle how to hold everything in. They both kept their feelings