An Unchanged Soul Chapter Ten Disclaimer, etc. in Headers "Well, Da... what shall we have today? Pot roast or leg of lamb?" Emma groaned a bit as she climbed the steps to her father's house; the Sunday morning breakfast with Father Corkery at Rosey D's diner had been especially heavy on her stomach this morning. The pancakes smelled too delicious to pass up, and she'd had one or two with her eggs and bacon. "Of course, I'd sooner have a bit of soup. That breakfast is liable to stay with me for a while." "Whatever, darlin'," her father said, as he gestured her to precede him through the front door. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to have lunch with you today, or give you a hand with cleaning the pub. At least not until late this afternoon." Emma stopped in her tracks, half in and half out the door, her hands gripping the lapels of her coat. "And why not?" she asked, dread coming over her at the prospect of having to venture into the pub alone. Well, she wouldn't be alone, but even that scared her less than who she'd have to spend the afternoon with in its close confines. "I promised your Aunt Martha I'd come over today and take a look at a leaky faucet. She's cooking, so there's no need for you to go to any trouble on my account, Emma." She followed him into the kitchen, watching in disbelief as he pulled his tool box from under the sink. "Well, if she's cooking, then I'll just go along and give a hand. I always did like Aunt Martha's pumpkin pie." "I'll be sure and bring back a piece for you, Emma," her father replied with an indulgent grin. Amidst her open-mouthed stare, he closed his tool box and made for the washroom off the kitchen. She followed, this time with hands on hips. "Bring back a piece for me? You sound like I'm not invited." "You aren't." Mike took off his coat and tie, handing them to her before reaching for the ratty pair of coveralls on a peg by the back door. "You have to go show Sam what needs to be done in the pub today." She almost permanently wrinkled his good blue tie with her furious grip, then rolled it up and put it in her coat pocket. "What about Tommy and Jenny? Why can't they go?" "Tommy and Jenny haven't been to mass yet, darlin', neither has Jaime - you know that. And they all have school work to do this afternoon; when they heard I'd hired Sam, they asked for a day off from cleaning." Mike frowned as he zipped up the greasy coveralls. "What's the matter, girl? You goin' batty on me?" "Batty?" In a last minute remembrance of her father's best suit coat, she hung it carefully on a hangar above the ironing board before letting him have it. "Whatever happened to 'you're running yourself ragged, Emma', or 'you're looking a might tired, love'? What about *my* day off?" Mike sighed, shucking his dress shoes for his work boots. As if on automatic pilot, Emma picked them up, brushing at a scruff with the handkerchief from her pocket. "See?" he said, as if it were all crystal clear. "See what?" She was more confused than ever, practically stomping her foot with anger. "You haven't even taken off your coat. In the three minutes we've been home, you've hung up mine, folded up me tie, and taken a spot off me shoes." "What does that have to do with my day off?" "Emma, if I gave you the day off, you'd do nothing but clean every bit of this house and cook enough food to feed an army. Give it a rest, girl." "By cleaning the pub with Sam? How is *that* giving me a rest?" Her dad walked up to her, taking her by the shoulders as he planted a kiss to her green beret, missing her forehead by a mile. Her Da had never been accurate with his kisses; he was much too impatient to aim right. "Let the lad in, Emma. Show him where we keep the mop and bucket. I think he's got enough smarts to handle the rest. Unless you go on one of those cleaning tirades of yours, you should be out of there in fifteen minutes, tops. Then you can do whatever you want the rest of the day." "Cleaning tirades? I beg your pardon, Da. I do *not* have cleaning tirades." She punctuated her statement by tucking in his dress shirt at the collar. "You get grease on that, it'll take me forever to get it out." Her father lifted an eyebrow in silence. She hated when he got that 'told you so' look. "All right, all right," she said with exasperation, turning away to walk stiffly back into the kitchen. Retrieving her purse, she snatched her car keys from the pantry. "I'm only letting him in, you'll see. I'll be joining you at Aunt Martha's in under an hour." Still, he said nothing, only stood there with crossed arms, slowing nodding with complacency. Emma seethed, this time stomping her foot as she pointed a gloved finger his way. "Time me!" she bit out, flinging her scarf around her neck with defiance. His chuckles followed her out the front door, renewing her resolve to prove him wrong. ********** As she turned the corner on the almost deserted street, she saw a lump sitting on the stoop of her father's pub. Two lumps, actually. She groaned, slowing the car to a stop while she caught her breath. Sam and his suitcase. It was barely nine o'clock; had he been sitting there since dawn? She vaguely remembered hearing her dad tell him to show up at 9:30 - so what the devil was he doing there at nine? For that matter, she had no business arriving so early. If she hadn't created a grand exit for her father's sake, she might have noticed her watch. By the time she'd reversed out of the drive in a huff, she couldn't backtrack without losing face. No way was she letting her father know how much this mission riled her, though he probably had a pretty good idea of it, anyway. Well, there was no use for it. She had to face the man and his devastating smile. The sooner she had him set to cleaning, the better. She eased up on the clutch and took her car out of neutral, grimacing when she felt it lurch forward and stall. Her foot slipped onto the brake and she jerked to a stop right in front of Sam, who stood to watch. Lovely. Not only was he smiling, but she felt like a fool. She'd been driving since she was thirteen years old, and now she'd embarrassed herself in front of... wait a minute. They were friends, weren't they? She vowed then and there to keep telling herself that. Friends didn't get embarrassed in front of one another, especially over little things like stalling a car. Setting her chin with a cool look, she pulled the hand brake and got out, pocketing her keys. "Got a problem with the car?" Sam's smile had faded into a concerned stare as he met her in front of the vehicle. "I can take a look if you want; I used to be pretty handy about mechanical things." That was better; he'd not commented on her vehicular faux pas, like a good friend would. Instead, he'd offered help - if she'd done that in front of her brothers, they'd be rolling on the sidewalk with laughter. "I had a '36 SS Jaguar at one time," he went on with that look men get when discussing cars, as if nirvana lived in horsepower and leather seats. "Greatest car ever...." Of course he'd have owned a sports car, one he could zip around in, a convertible made especially for men with adorable windblown hair and sunlit smiles.... "Chicks loved that car." Oh, yes, she just bet they did. And he was willing to sully his race car hands on her big, black monstrosity? Ignoring his wistful reminiscing, she sidestepped him and headed straight for the stained glass door. As she inserted the key in the lock, she noted absently that the glass needed a vinegar wash. It was looking mighty streaky.... Stop it! she admonished herself. She was *not* getting involved in pub chores today. No sir. Immediately, she began rattling off his duties. "You can put your suitcase upstairs. Fresh linens in the bathroom closet. If you need more soap, just tell Da and we'll get it for you." Snapping on the lights, she waved an arm at the bare floors; they'd picked up the chairs and put them on the tables last night before closing up. They always passed a quick broom every night, and kept up with emptying ashtrays, saving the major cleaning for Sunday. "Sweep and mop, wipe down the tables and chairs with the O-Cedar, as well as the bar from top to bottom. There's Brasso for the bar railings, and ammonia or vinegar for the mirror. I find either works best. There's Pine Sol for the restrooms - don't forget to do the floors in there as well - and stock up the cabinets in them with tissue. Don't forget the windows in front and the door, and -" "Emma." "- change any light bulbs that need changing. All of those supplies are in the store room off the kitchen - " "Emma!" At his barked interruption, she turned, catching a breath. "What? Too much for you?" Sam shrugged out of his coat. "No," he lightly chastised with a grin. His faded Yale sweatshirt and denims were made for hard work. "Like 'em?" He spread his arms wide. "Got 'em at the Salvation Army mission next to St. Catherine's this morning. Traded my suit for 'em." "You did what?" She pictured one of the bums in front of the mission wearing that beautiful suit and practically groaned. "Just kidding," he chuckled. "Actually, Fox was holding back on me. He just *happened* to find a box of my old clothes in the attic this morning. I don't know whatever gave him the idea I would be comfortable in a suit. Never was before." He raised a finger, as if recalling something pleasant. "But you know, the chicks -" "Loved the suits," Emma muttered. "Yes, I imagine they did." She cleared her throat, turning to survey the room once again. "Now, there's a step ladder in the store room for reaching the lights if you need. Did I mention you're to wipe down the glass on those fixtures, too? And if - ooof!" Suddenly, she found herself seated on the bar, one black pump hitting the floor with a thud as her feet dangled helplessly. A pair of mischievous hazel eyes twinkled before her face; before she could give vent to her anger, one finger pressed against her mouth. "Enough already," Sam said. "I get the idea." He took a step back to retrieve her shoe. "I'm supposed to clean the place from top to bottom, no matter how long it takes or how hungry I get -" "There's roast beef in the kitchen cooler," she pointed out. "Or how tired I get doing this all alone -" "My father will be by later to lend a hand." "Or how I'll surely mess up and give too many drinks to the wrong person because *someone* said she was going to give me lessons -" "You remembered lesson number one, didn't you? About the old clothes? There's lots of time yet to learn the rest." "Or how lonely I get listening to myself grunt and groan -" "There's a switch on the juke box. You can set it to play for free. Just reset it when it cycles through all the records." The moping drop of his chin tugged at her heart, but she refused to give in. "My shoe, please. I have to meet Dad at Aunt Martha's for lunch." "Like hell you do," Sam growled. "Admit it." Oh, Lord, she thought. Here it comes. He can see right through me. He knows I'm afraid.... "You're just afraid of hard work. You kicked up a fuss last night when your dad hired me, but inside, you were whooping it up. I knew that 'good little girl' routine was just an act." Her heart beat again after its frightful stutter. Tilting her head to one side, she crossed her arms. "Oh it is, is it? I'll have you know, Sam Mulder, I can work twice as fast as you can. And with better results - no one will have to come behind *me* with another bucket of soap." He twirled her shoe in one hand, a sly look succeeding in raising her mettle, as did his steely dare. "Prove it." She'd have to call Aunt Martha's. Explain to her dad... what? Sink overflowed in the ladies' restroom? Nah, he'd have a plumber out there in no time. Or worse, he'd come himself. She could always tell him she had trouble with her car. Smoothly telling him that Sam was a whiz with automobiles, she'd promise to join him as soon as possible. All the while listening to his voice choke with superior laughter. So, she'd have to eat a bit of crow. It was either that or back down from Sam's challenge. And Emma Scully *never* backed down from a dare. "We'll have to divide the work," she said, "and set a time limit. With a fifteen minute break for lunch, of course." "I'll do the floors and the restrooms," he offered, "and you do all the glass and dusting, including the bar, tables and chairs. Fair enough?" "First one to finish owes the other -?" "A kiss?" "Be serious." "I am serious." At her frown, he relented with a smile. "Oh, I forgot - just friends. Right?" "Right." She was actually having fun; if she'd woken up this morning knowing she'd be enjoying herself like this with Sam, she'd have forgone the breakfast with Father Corkery. Or at the very least, limited herself to one pancake before making her excuses. "Now, what shall we wager?" "Dinner and a movie. Loser treats." "Sounds like a date to me," she warned. "No date. It's just been forever since I've seen a movie, feels like." A shadow crossed his face; as soon as it had come, it was gone, replaced by a nod. "Okay, that sound good to you?" She held out a hand, her lips parting in a simple wisp of a smile. "Okay. You're on." Instead of shaking her hand, Sam bent over it, making a production out of slipping her shoe back on her foot. "I can do that," she protested, feeling the leather pull on her nylons. "Watch it! Those are new." "Never put a girl's shoe back on before." He huffed, bending lower. "Really," she said, leaning over to see the problem as she chuckled. She was willing to bet he had lots of experience with ladies' shoes - especially in their removal. "Really. Guy at the shoe store yesterday said my hands were too big and clumsy. Said that I'd scare the women customers." She was scared, all right. The frisson of fear his touch created started in her toes and moved up her leg with swift encroachment, setting her whole body afire with treacherous desire. She licked her lips, watching the way his unruly hair fell forward over his forehead, the way he bit his lip with concentration. It would be so easy to reach out her hand and touch that lovely, dimpled cheek.... She squirmed, her skirt sliding up an inch or two as she wiggled her foot in an attempt to help things along. This had to stop, and stop now. "Stop that," Sam said, still struggling. "It's a bit stretched out, so I don't see why it won't go on -" Emma shivered at the brush of his lips over her knee. Playful eyes lifted to her own and he murmured, "Showed you - got my kiss, anyway." His fingers caressed the back of her ankle as the shoe slid on without even a sigh of protest. "Don't ever trust a man with your shoe, and a lazy streak a mile wide. *My* lesson number one." He stepped back laughing, and she realized she'd been had. Big time, as he practically raced to the kitchen. "Last one to the broom closet is a rotten egg." Sliding down from the bar, she doffed her coat and beret. She had to hand it to him - he sure knew how to get what he wanted. You just had to admire a man like that. ********** He liked the music from the juke box, but he was getting tired of the same tunes over and over. It was preoccupying Emma, who sometimes sang along in a rich, deep tone. She'd hardly said a handful of words to him since their quick lunch, and he blamed the juke box. Of course, anything that took her time away from him deserved a bit of hatred. Also in the course of the afternoon, he decided cleaning was actually fun. Mainly because Emma stretched and turned and climbed chairs to reach every nook and cranny, showing off those super straight seams in her nylons, the ones that he'd love to trace down her calves with his finger. And he liked the beret, but enough already. She hadn't taken it off yet, like she expected to fly out the door as soon as the pub was clean. Even when they'd stopped to eat a quick sandwich, she'd left the damned thing on. He should just reach over the bar when her back was turned and steal it. With it on, she looked all of sixteen, and he had a hard time justifying any romantic overtures. He'd never imagined she'd be the one to let him in today; it was a boon from the Gods he'd never expected. It was all he could do to hold himself apart from her - especially after he'd slipped up with the shoe thing. As soon as he'd touched that curvy leg, his mouth had gone dry. The implication he'd played footsie with her to get her to help him clean up was as good a recovery as he could get; she must have gone for it, because she'd stayed. Looking like she was ready to bolt at any second, but damn it, she'd stayed. Every now and then, she'd throw a frantic look his way and glance at her watch. Either she was timing their respective sprints for the finish line, or she's told her father on the phone to rescue her at a certain time. Sam didn't believe the latter, when he'd managed to overhear a snippet of their conversation earlier. Emma blasted Mike a couple of times for abandoning her to cleanup duty; apparently, she'd expected the day off and Aunt Martha's leaky faucet could wait, in her opinion. When she hung up with a huff, Sam knew she hadn't won the argument. He should feel guilty about the way she'd sacrificed her day off to help him, even if he'd manipulated her with the challenge he had no intention of winning. But he didn't. In fact, he was deliberately lagging behind her furious efforts to beat him, knowing she'd take great pleasure in staying a bit longer to help *him* finish, all the while sporting a superior grin. Yeah, he'd have to admit defeat. If she only knew how much that hurt, she just might get an inkling of the enormity of his feelings for her. Which were... hell, he didn't know. He wanted her, he knew that much. Wanted to kiss her and caress her and get her into bed something bad. But not at the expense of her tender heart. God, he was a mess, all because of one Emma Scully, a stubborn, passably pretty but not gorgeous, too-smart-for- her-own-good, woman who could have him kneeling before her with a snap of her fingers. "There!" That beret popped up from behind the bar; as expected, her smile was confident and almost cocky. "All done. And you?" "Umm..." Sam, temporarily blindsided by that brilliant smile, looked down at the pine-scented water he'd just slopped all over his shoes. "I'm making a mess?" he finished lamely, silently begging for help with a pair of eyes a puppy would envy, or so he hoped. And as he'd hoped, she wasted no time coming out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on the apron she'd taken from the kitchen. "You're supposed to wring out the mop before you put it to the floor, you know." She took it from his hands, giving it a firm squeeze as he admired the way her skirt tightened across her backside when she bent to the bucket. He rubbed a shaky hand over his face, turning away from temptation. With any other woman, in any other time, he'd have at the very least pinched that luscious bottom. What the hell was wrong with him? He jerked around at the subtle rush of sweet- smelling air that signaled her straightening. "You realize I won, don't you?" she asked, mopping up the mess he made. He swallowed down the urge to deny her by claiming the victory as his own. He'd done what he set out to do - spend the day with her and put her at ease. If they never went beyond friendship, he'd just have to live with it. "I guess I haven't had enough practice yet with the mop. What say we do it again next Sunday?" He held his breath while waiting for her answer. "Nope." Head down, she finished mopping the empty dance floor with a side-to-side flair. "No? Why not?" "Because you owe me, mister. Dinner and a movie, remember?" She plopped the mop down in front of him, her lips curled in a loose, jaunty smile. Aw, hell, he thought, condemning himself the instant he looked into those soft, pretty eyes. His hand trapped hers around the mop handle, his other going straight to.... "Hey!" Emma, her hair tumbling about her shoulders in a cascade of waves, reached for the beret on her tiptoes. The indignant flush of her cheeks matched her tone. "Give me back my hat!" "Nope." Sam, pleased at the picture she made - not to mention the way her body accidently brushed his in her agitation - grinned at his coup. Before this, he'd only seen her with the whole glorious mane pinned back or hidden under a hat. He'd known Emma was pretty, in a vivacious, kittenish way - he'd never guessed what a knockout she was until now, imagining those red locks spread out over a pillow. *His* pillow, naturally. "Not until you do something for me." Suspicion narrowed her gaze. "And what's that?" "Teach me to dance." All right, so that was one great big lie. He knew enough about dancing to make her head spin as he twirled her around the floor. He hadn't hung out in all those smoky bars without learning a thing or two about what women liked. "You already know how to dance. You danced with me last night, remember? Or have all those pine fumes gone to your head and created another hole?" She bit her lip over the last, and an attractive pink blossomed in her cheeks. "Sam, I didn't mean to -" "That's okay, Emma," he said quickly, though he seized the chance to play on her sympathy a bit. "I'm not going to faint away every time you mention the other holes in my head." "Still, I apologize. I should watch my manners, you know - and my tongue. It's my biggest fault, this big mouth of mine." And her most delectable asset, he decided then and there. One he would sample before the afternoon's end, he promised himself. Friends, be damned. He felt like he was strung on a yo-yo, with Emma wickedly directing his roll up and down. One minute, he was burning with lust, the next, playing the friend. Just when he'd hit the bottom of the string and resign himself to being her pal and nothing else, she'd jerk him back up with a simple phrase disguised as a snap of her wrist. He had to get a grip. "Apology accepted." He could afford to be magnanimous in the face of her dismay. "But only if you teach me to dance." The same Sinatra tune that lured him in last night began to play on the Wurlitzer and he practically groaned, knowing the last tune in the cycle by heart now. He had to work fast. "Da likes Frankie," Emma explained, seeing Sam's grimace. "Says he sings pretty good for an Italian lad." "Well, he's not my favorite, but he'll have to do." He was more of a Margaret Whiting or Jo Stafford man. Or The Andrews Sisters, or Peggy Lee. A guy trying to make it with a girl needed inspiration of the female sort, he'd always found. Then again, he needed no inspiration, inclination, or instigation to want to hold Emma close. Maybe just a little more fabrication, as she still looked at him with some - what else? - trepidation. "What if I have to dance with one of the customers? You saw how stiff I was last night." "We don't run an escort service, Sam." Waving the beret to get her attention back on it and not on more logical arguments, he said, "Want your hat back? Then teach me to dance." Like she'd go for that, but it was the only hope he had left. "I've got more like it at home." Christ. His temper flared; all he wanted was to wind down the day with a dance. "I've been working my ass off all day, Emma -" "Watch your language." "- and I'd like to have a bit of fun before you leave me here all alone. You're gonna go home and sit in front of the radio and visit with your dad, and I'm gonna go upstairs and stare at the ceiling. I've done good today - don't I deserve a dance?" "No touchy-feely stuff?" "Scout's honor." "You weren't a Boy Scout." "How do you know?" "Because of that whopper of a lie you just told. You've been dancing before. A lot, I'd wager." "True." He sighed, lowering his arm. Emma should be outlawed on behalf of all men with egos. "Here you go." With a slight pout, he let go of her hand, shoving her hand back on her head. "I've said it before and I'll say it again - you're a cruel woman, Emma Scully." He was thankful she didn't push her hair back up under the beret, though she did move away to lean the mop against the bar. "Sam?" "Yeah?" He picked up the bucket and made for the kitchen, wondering if he could find a good book tucked away in that bedroom upstairs. "Dance with me?" He froze, the bucket sloshing a bit of water at the sudden stop. "Shit," he muttered, setting it down to wipe at the water on his jeans. She leaned against the bar, the beret tilted at an angle, the one eye visible flashing with good humor. "What did you say?" "You know, I don't remember the last time I danced - *really* danced. I was wondering if myy friend Sam would dance with me." "Depends." "Depends on what?" "On if his friend Emma doesn't mind that he'll have to hold her kinda close... you know, to show her what he can do when he cuts a rug. He wouldn't want her to think he's putting the moves on her, or anything." But God, did he want to hold her in his arms... without fear of another kick to the shin. "Oh, she wouldn't think that." Emma walked toward him, hands behind her back. "He's too much of a gentleman to take advantage of her like that, isn't he?" "He is." Funny thing was, he was very much beginning to act like the gentleman he never had a chance to be. Next thing you know, he'd end up calling on Mike for permission to court his only daughter, when before he'd just sit outside and honk. "Emma, my friend?" "Yes?" "Will you dance with me?" Her hands came up to reach for him. "I'd like to very much, Sam." She felt like down in his arms, all soft and elusive. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder, and that damned beret obscured her face. But her hand in his was cool and a bit dry from the soap she'd used, and he squeezed it, feeling his warmth enclose her fingers. A small sigh escaped her lips after only a few moments. "This is not going to work." His heart sank to his toes. "What isn't?" "You're too tall." "You're too short." Before she could protest and pull away, he tightened his arm around her back and lifted. "Put your feet on mine." That one eye flashed up, but she did what he asked. "This is ridiculous. I feel like I'm dancing with Da." Oh she did, did she? "I can take care of that." With a smile, he swung her about the floor, the Astaire in him coming to the forefront. Her laughter joined his over Sinatra's crooning. Around and around they went, her hair flying out from under the beret like a river of red over his hand. The perfume that clung to her filled his head with dangerous thoughts, but he tamped them down, simply enjoying the way she fit to him like a glove. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had such fun. "Enough!" she cried, now breathless and totally pliant. "Gotta have the big finish," he said, hearing the tune wind down with sadness. He promised himself this would be one dance she'd never forget, as he slowly came to a stop. At the first hint of the dip to come, Emma stiffened. But Sam kept going, gently curving her back over his arm as his lips parted into a smile. "Don't worry, I won't drop you." "You'd better not." With a soft 'plop', her beret hit the floor. The music faded into silence as Sam held her inches from his heart. Her face, still high with color, was a sight to behold, those eyes as blue as a winter sky. He longed to close the distance, to put his lips to hers and end the dance the proper way. The *only* way, his mind screamed. He was an instant from doing just that when she started, her liquid gaze leaving his face to fly away. "Sam?" She was pulling back, he knew it. His arm beneath her moved to keep her there, his voice a mere whisper of its former strength. "What?" "We have company." She scrambled from his hold. Damn Mike and his bad timing, Sam seethed, levering up to face the certain amusement - or wrath - of Emma's father. He hadn't been around long enough to be sure of anything as far as Mike Scully was concerned. Fox obviously got along well with Mike, but Fox wasn't the one panting after the man's daughter. "Good day to you, sir," Emma said, her hand coming up to smooth her hair. "Sorry, but the bar's closed for cleaning." It wasn't Mike. It was a skinny, cotton-topped man in a coat too big for him - almost a boy, really. Standing practically on the wet mop still propped against the bar. Standing almost on top of them, actually. Emma smiled beside Sam, who didn't feel quite as comfortable about the intrusion as she did. Something about the wide, shifting eyes of the young man spoke of nervousness. Sam took a step forward, placing himself between the guy and Emma. "You heard her," he said warily, "bar's closed. You'll have to come back tomorrow." "Be nice," Emma said softly, putting a hand on his arm. "He's probably just looking for a bit of food. Isn't that right?" On second glance, Sam decided the visitor was definitely a man. Not a boy, as Emma had assumed. Though he looked young with that fair skin and light hair, he was at least twenty-one. Old enough to drink, and old enough to cause trouble, even if he looked like a scarecrow. "Emma, go in the kitchen." "What?" She sputtered a bit, searching for her next protest, when the guy piped up. "I don't mean nothin' by this, really I don't." Definitely a man, with a raspy voice that spoke of time spent outdoors in the cold. Or in much more sinister places. No boy would have that growl, even if he looked ready to pass out from fright. "Emma, go." But she stood still, looking from Sam to the other with confusion. "Sam, do you know this man?" Confusion, and the dawning of a real fear. He didn't think he did. He certainly didn't remember a face like that in the things he *could* recall. Sam took her arm to shove her away. "I'm so sorry," the guy said quickly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Get out," he heard himself answer, all the while pushing against Emma's refusal to budge. "There's no money in the cash register, if that's what you're after." The man blinked, his eyes shifting about the empty room before coming back to rest on Sam. "I got a wife and kid, you know. And I don't mean nothin' by this, really." Sam saw it all as if in slow motion. The man removing his hand from his pocket. Hearing the click of a switchblade, seeing the flash of metal. "I don't know why, but I gotta do this." The fellow was almost crying. "Just give me the money." Watching the guy lose his footing on the mop, seeing his arm flail about as he sought balance, his hand aimed straight for Sam's chest. Sam reached up, clamping his free hand around the bony wrist. Feeling the blade slide in with a dull numbness. Hearing Emma scream his name. A muffled, "shit!" as the guy withdrew, his hand covered in blood. The pale disbelief in his eyes as he jerked out of Sam's hold and back away. "I didn't mean to hurt nobody!" Using his other hand to shove Emma to the floor, far away from danger. Falling to his knees as his assailant ran through the front door. Emma. Emma. Seeing her lay so still, her eyes closed, just a few feet away. Boneless himself, sagging to the floor. The rich scent of blood, mixed with the sharp tang of pine. Closing his own eyes. Emma. End Chapter Ten