CHAPTER NINE

The sunlight filtered slowly into his vision, and he rose to the surface of consciousness with a satisfied, almost decadent leisure. A small puff of air chilled the hollow of his throat. Gotta fix that window leak, he thought dimly.

Then the puff of air came again, along with the contented drone of someone else's breathing, and he abruptly opened his eyes, remembering that he was not in the sleeper section of the rig. The top of a tousled blonde head partly obscured the half-lit motel room beyond. Emma had shifted to lie atop him during the night and had more or less fallen asleep in his arms, her cheek squashed against his shoulder and her body lying limp across him.

Killian didn't move for a while, reveling in both the physical pleasure of her warm body pressed against his, and the knowledge that he didn't have to leave the warm bed just yet. The thick curtains blocked most of the sunlight, but between them he could see a pale grey winter morning dawning, chilly and unfriendly. Emma wasn't snoring, precisely, but as the heater kicked off he could hear the soft snuffles as she exhaled, her long lashes fluttering against her pink cheeks with some kind of dream. She was perfectly adorable.

He glanced over at the bedside alarm clock: barely seven o'clock. The repair station wouldn't be calling for at least a couple of hours, so he would have plenty of time for a shower first. And maybe other, more pleasurable activities, his mind added slyly.

"Didn't we get enough of that last night?" he murmured, feeling his face burn.

Carefully, he shifted sideways, allowing Emma's head to drift down his arm—oh God, the whole thing was numb from the shoulder down—and guided her gently onto a pillow. She yawned, eyes cracking open a fraction to flash a glint of moss-green; but then she smacked her lips and sighed, relaxing once more.

"I'm going to go take a shower," he said softly. Hesitantly, he bent over and kissed the soft spot between her brows, right above the freckled bridge of her nose.

Emma made a tiny grunting noise in reply, pressing her face further into the pillow. Killian sat on the edge of the bed for a moment longer, watching her breathe, knowing that his own face was split in a big, dumb grin. He rubbed his arm, wishing the painful prickles would go away more quickly. Finally, he slid from the bed, snagged a pair of clean pants, and trudged toward the bathroom.

Fool, fool, fool, sneered an angry voice in the back of his mind. He ignored it, just as he had back in Bangor, and again in Worcester, and again in Scranton, and every time he'd looked at her since then.

Killian caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and sighed, frowning. The swelling under his eye had gone down, but the bruise was now even more noticeable, a large indigo half-moon, fading into a dull blue at the outside edges. Look like a right tit, you do, the angry voice added.

He couldn't disagree with that, especially not having shaved for several days. He pulled a fluffy white towel from the rod over the toilet and stepped onto the bath mat, reaching into the alcove to turn on the shower.

Last night had not been one of his prouder moments. The truck breaking down had been out of his control, but getting drunk? then getting in a fight? and throwing up on the side of the road? Killian shook his head, exasperated with himself.

"Used to be a time when you'd drink twice that much, and be the one walking the girl home," he muttered. Given, that had been half a lifetime ago, back when he was single and traveling the world with military mates. Still, he hadn't ever been in a bar fight quite like that: he felt a clench in his gut at the memory of Emma's face, frightened and pissed all at the same time, her green eyes flashing with fury. Then a moment later, wide with terror as he woozily blurted out that she was beautiful. God, he thought he'd scared her away for good with that idiotic phrase—meanwhile, it had had exactly the opposite effect.

It was bad enough, he thought, depressed, that he'd picked up a hitchhiker. Getting fired, he could handle: he'd find another job within a day, if he pitched his qualifications the right way. And taking said hitchhiker halfway across the country, that he could also wrap his mind around. He'd ridden with mates before, taken friends on road trips with him when given the chance.

No… whatever this was with Emma, it was far more than just companionship, or even casual friendship. He didn't even dare think the word 'love': the word was too loaded, and immediately made the gears in his brain grind and freeze to a halt, especially when he caught a glimpse of his own forearm. 'Lust,' obviously. 'Affection,' too. Even a tendresse, maybe? Liam had been fond of the word, had used it back in the day when one of his young soldiers developed a crush. But Killian Jones had been firmly telling himself for three days now that it was impossible to have a crush on a woman he'd just met. And besides, he was too old for that.

As the water began to heat up, steam creeping from behind the shower curtain, he quietly shut the door, then inspected his face in the bathroom mirror. Not terrible, he thought; a few lines here and there, and touches of grey starting to show at the temples and above his ears. Roguish, she'd said dryly. Killian grinned; he could live with that.

She obviously didn't mind the missing hand, either—and she wasn't weird about it. Not that he'd had many lovers since Milah, but most (especially the men) either uncomfortably offered awkward excuses about why it didn't matter, or went over the top and directly teased him. Not Emma: a single question about where he'd lost the hand, following up on his own poor explanation, and then she'd never mentioned it again.

And that alone would have been an unutterable relief. Killian shook his head and sighed, pulling back the shower curtain and stepping in. The water was nearly scalding, and he cursed under his breath as it touched the tender spot on the back of his head. But he felt a deep pleasure at the privacy of the bath, the clean white porcelain and half-transparent shower curtain leaving it warm and cheerfully bright.

No, it wasn't just Emma's sensitivity he appreciated: it was also how much he implicitly knew he could trust her. He couldn't put a finger on why he'd trusted her that first night. As he'd told her, picking her up from the side of the road made perfect sense: a young woman all alone on a snow-dusted onramp, one thumb hesitantly raised, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion? Yes, he could rationalize sympathy and pity, even if it meant putting a whole lot of faith in his own snap judgment.

But as she'd put it, the rig was his home, his bedroom and living room all at once. And he'd still simply turned the engine off and crawled into bed, leaving her to do as she pleased in his own private quarters.

Perhaps it had just been that he was exhausted from the long drive down from Nova Scotia; or maybe it had been the sadness in her eyes. Ducking his head under the stream of water and reaching down for one of the tiny shampoo bottles, Killian mused back upon that first evening. It had been dark inside the cab, too dim to see her features, and she had spent most of that first hour wordlessly staring out the window, patently too nervous and tired to carry a conversation. But he'd seen the sorrow, her eyes dull and miserable in the light of passing cars.

He snorted a laugh, rinsing the shampoo from his hair and picking up the soap. Well… if nothing else, their revels the night before (four pints! he'd only had four pints! that would have been a light round before dinner, in his youth) had brightened those eyes to brilliance, at least up until the point where he'd punched a bloody teenager for nothing more than rudeness. But even then, she'd been astonishingly patient with him.

"Little as I deserved it," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face and wondering if he felt like shaving. Probably not. Emma seems to like the scruff… right?

Emma, Emma, Emma. He couldn't think of anything else, could barely even worry about his own livelihood; had forgotten about the misery of the political landscape, the dead brakes on his rig, the rising price of diesel, the overdraft charges on his bank account, everything that had fretted at his mind for the last few weeks. That kiss—and what a kiss!—erased it all, the moment her lips touched his.

Yet the real question hadn't been answered yet. He tried pushing it away once more, to no avail.

What on earth happened now? Not only was she the first hitchhiker he'd picked up since leaving home ten years before, but she was also the first person for whom he'd really fancied in… well, ten years. Since Milah. Sex was sex, he liked it and took it where he could, but intimate encounters rarely led to more. He had very little experience with true affection.

Yet if this pit stop didn't muck up his schedule and they actually made it all the way across the country to Portland, he would have to leave Emma in some strange city to make her way on her own. He cleared his throat, astonished to find that the mere thought of it made him unsteady, not to mention anxious.

"That stupid shower was what did it," Killian said under his breath, glaring murderously up at the shower head again, as if it and all its kin were responsible for his besotted mistakes.

He'd walked into the rotunda of the truck stop, expecting to meet his companion much the same way he'd found her earlier: a tired young woman tucked into a military-style coat many sizes too large, clad in a grubby hooded sweatshirt and jeans and mud-stained boots, a beanie pulled low over suspicious eyes, stringy blonde hair trailing from beneath. Instead, he'd been hailed by an enthusiastic voice, and had been stunned to see a flush-faced beauty with glowing golden curls, her green eyes soft with a smile.

Now he felt a clench in his gut. He'd once loved another green-eyed woman; a mother who had left her son behind to seek a better life at Killian's side. And had died before being reunited with that son. Ever since Emma had mentioned her young lad, Killian had been troubled by the uneasy memories of that last day; by the paralyzing knowledge that even if Milah's estrangement from her husband and son hadn't been his fault… he had certainly contributed to the problem merely by being a selfish, arrogant young fool.

Killian sighed and turned off the water, dashing the droplets from his face and tearing open the shower curtain with a fierce jingle, trying to dispel his guilt and fear. Emma had put it well, last night. It was rare enough that one was able to spill their guts to a stranger, let alone feel like they understood. He'd told her very little of his life, but he knew he would, if they kept traveling together like this.

Well, and that's up to her, he said to himself firmly, as he picked up the towel and dried himself off. Despite the whirr of the overhead fan, the mirror was steam-covered, opaque with moisture. When he looked into it, his face was a vague round shape, lined by the black of his hair. My life is a straight line moving forward—if she wants me to make a detour with her, she'll tell me.

When he emerged from the bathroom, he was nearly blinded by the intensely bright sunshine blaring through the open front windows. For a moment he didn't notice Emma, sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to him.

She jumped as Killian closed the bathroom door, whirling around to face him with the sun behind her. "Morning, lass," he said, with a smile, squinting. He bent down to pick up his jeans, and pulled them on, but still carefully watching her.

"Hey," she said, and although he couldn't make out her features, he could tell she'd been crying from the thick sound of her voice. She appeared to be wearing nothing but a sweater and leggings, but he couldn't tell if it was out of modesty, or if she'd only gotten half-dressed.

He snagged an undershirt from his bag, anyway, and pulled it over his head before stepping closer. She was looking down at her phone, and he could faintly tell that her hands were shaking.

Killian knelt down in front of her. There were tears dripping down her face, and her nose was red. "What's happened, love?" he asked gently, his heart twisting at the mixed anxiety and joy in her features.

"Henry," she whispered, and a corner of her mouth curled up in a hesitant smile, even as a tear slipped down past her nose and into her mouth. "He… well, my friend David… just called. And then put Henry on the line."

She sniffled, wiping the tears from her face, and stood up abruptly, hand clenching around her phone. "I—I guess the coroner said Graham—the sheriff—his death was of natural causes," she explained haltingly, pacing. "And I don't know how, but David got hired as the new sheriff, and he's not arresting anyone. Including me. Which means I never had to leave, I can go back. Even if Regina's still there. I have to go back. Henry wants me there, he needs me. And—"

Her words had begun to run on together, and her hand was clenched in her hair as she broke off, breathing heavily. Killian, helpless to see her like this, carefully touched her shoulder, drawing his fingers down her arm.

The touch seemed to comfort her, the tension slowly fading from her muscles. The sunlight struck into the depths of her eyes, sparking back emeralds. "I have to go back," she said again, with a helpless shrug, and turned those remarkable eyes up into his face. Her lips trembled.

He didn't hesitate. "Of course you do, love," he said, in a reasonable tone, and smiled.

Emma let out a shuddering breath that was almost a sob, and bent to put her arms around him. Killian could feel her heart racing away, her face pressed against his shoulder. A slow knife of cold grief was beginning to slide its way through his bosom, and he closed his eyes, forcing his face to behave.

At last she drew away. "Okay," she said firmly, as if to steady herself, and broke into a wobbly smile. "Well. I'd better get moving. We're near the highway, right?"

In a flurry of motion she turned away, tossing her phone onto the bed and snatching up her clothes from the floor, stuffing them into the duffel without a moment's thought. Killian followed suit, but watched her warily. Near the highway? She wasn't thinking of…?

Her cleaning complete, Emma stood and looked around the room. All that remained was the bed, mussed from their nighttime activities, and the other furniture, laid bare under the merciless bright rays of the winter sun. Killian slowly straightened up, and watched, dumbfounded, as she whipped her coat from the chair and pulled it on, then plucked the omnipresent beanie from the pocket and snugged it over her hair.

Then she advanced on him; his lips froze as she slipped her arms around him and hugged him tightly, his own arms automatically reciprocating. "Thank you—thank you so much, Killian," she said, her rough voice muffled against his shoulder. "I'll never be able to thank you for getting me this far."

Then she stood on her tiptoes, kissed his lips, and dug into her pocket again, and pulled out a wad of cash. Hastily, she ripped half of the bills away and jammed them back into her pocket. Before he could stop her, she was pressing the remainder into his hand.

"This is for my half of the hotel room, and food, and—and everything," she said insistently. Her fingers were cold, but her eyes were fixed on his, warm and pleading, still half-brimming with tears of overwrought emotion.

And then she whirled. She plucked up her duffel, throwing it over her shoulder, and was out the door with a slam. Just like that.

The room was so horribly, terrifyingly silent in the moments afterwards that Killian continued to stand like a rock in the middle of the room, still breathing in her warm scent. Slowly, he raised his hand, staring without comprehension at the crumpled bills.

A crack and a loud whoosh sounded, and he jumped, a screech caught in his throat. It was just the heater kicking on. But with the shock, his own stupidity hit him. Sweeping the keycard from the dresser, he lurched forward, yanking the door handle open to follow her.

She was halfway across the parking lot already, her breath puffing in the cold air. "Wait, lass, wait," he yelled after her, the soles of his bare feet stinging as he ran across the freezing pavement.

Emma looked around reluctantly just as he reached her. "I don't want your bloody money," Killian said hotly, and unceremoniously thrust it at her.

She frowned, waving her hand, still walking away. "It's fine—I want you to have—"

"Swan—stop! Stop, please," he interrupted, instinctively reaching forward to snag her arm. But he hadn't put the hook on yet, and his bare arm just swiped empty air, filling him with an even stronger irritation. The bright sunlight bouncing off the pavement was making him squint, and he shivered as a brisk wind swooped through the parking lot, striking a chill in his bones.

Luckily, the pleading in his voice must have caught Emma's attention, and she did pause, facing him with furrowed brows. "What?" she demanded, frustrated, and gestured vaguely toward the road. "I have to go. Just—you can keep that, I'll be fine—"

He broke in again, trying not to sound angry. "Emma. Stop," he said, the lump in his throat almost catching at the words. "You can't possibly think of hitchhiking all the way back. It took us three days to get from Maine to Missouri, and that was under full sail, already set on this exact route. It might be a week before you get back." Or longer, he thought wildly, still bowled over by her insistence and courage.

"Well, I have to try!" she cried, and all but stamped her foot with determination, her slender hands fisted by her sides. "I've got to get back to Henry right now!"

Killian took a deep breath to try and calm himself, the icy air like knives in his lungs, and made a palliative gesture. "I know," he answered quietly. "You want to be with your son, and you should be. I don't want to stop you. Quite the contrary. But—" he waved his hand in the same direction she just had "—we're just outside the city, love. There's got to be a bus terminal, or a train station within half an hour. Let me call a taxi, and get you there."

Emma stared at him; to his astonishment, the wariness of that first day had crept into her eyes once more. His stomach convulsed in simultaneous rage and anguish. "If you can afford to throw away this kind of money on nothing more than a good roll in the hay," he added bitterly, holding out the bills again, "you can afford to take it and buy a bloody bus ticket instead, Swan."

She flinched, as if he had struck her. He felt a deep thrust of shame; he didn't have any right to use last night against her. Especially not in her situation, stuck in the middle of nowhere with over a thousand miles between her and her son.

But he was damned if he would take her money. Not when she was leaving him like this. And her face softened, the suspicion and irritation fading somewhat; she dropped her eyes.

"Oh, Killian, I'm—I'm sorry," she said, in such a tiny voice that he almost didn't hear it. A constant fine shiver was beginning to run through his body, and he gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. She looked up again and swallowed. "I didn't… that's not why I gave you…"

Emma had reached out her own hand, hesitantly, to take back the bills. But abruptly she started, glancing at his bare feet. "You don't have any shoes on!" she exclaimed in distress.

"Hang my shoes," Killian said, jaw clenched, glaring at her stubbornly; the feeling was practically gone in his feet and hand and face anyway. He folded his arms around himself, hunching. Then in a moment of inspiration, he added, "I'll go put them on if you let me call you a taxi."

She heaved a sigh, her face wrenched with the mixed emotions of vexation and worry, and began pushing at his arm, herding him back toward the motel room. "Fine. All right, a train might be faster, anyway," she admitted. Gritting his jaw again and squinting against the bright sunlight, he strode back to the room at her side, arms folded tightly against the chill.