The McRae Series 01 - Twelve Days Sam and Rachel

yet, and it was still up to him to protect her as best he could. Determined to do just that, Sam stalked into the house. The back door opened into the laundry room, a catchall area for winter coats and boots and shoes. He kicked his off, hung up his coat, and stepped into the kitchen, warily looking around for the children or his wife or her busybody aunt, Miriam.
    He found a little boy shoveling pumpkin bread into his mouth and gulping down a glass of milk that looked two times too big for the boy's hands. The boy was four or five, and he had dark hair that hung down into his eyes. He needed a haircut in the worst way, had on jeans that were frayed nearly all the way through at the knees, and worn sneakers that had to leave his feet wet and freezing in the snow. The boy had big, dark eyes and a mischievous grin. His mouth was sticky with cream and cake crumbs, and he was going at it as if he hadn't eaten in days.
    Sam had taken a two-by-four to the chest one time when somebody swung a board around unexpectedly and caught him unaware, and the sight of the hungry, ill-cared-for boy felt much like that. A two-by-four to the chest.
    The boy reached for another swig of milk and discovered Sam at the same time. Startled, he set the milk down, missing the counter. It hit the floor, milk and bits of glass going everywhere. The boy gave a startled cry, then looked at Sam as if he were some kind of monster that might attack at any second.
    "I'm sorry," he gulped.
    Sam frowned at the boy and then back at the mess. The boy went to scramble down off the stool, and Sam barely caught him in time and put him back up there. Sam let go of him as quickly as possible, refusing to think about what it felt like to have a little boy in his arms.
    "Sit there," he said. "There's glass, and you don't need to be down there in it."
    "I'm sorry," the boy said again, almost crying now.
    Rachel, Miriam, and a girl with a baby in her arms rushed into the kitchen. "What happened?" Rachel asked.
    "I broke it!" the boy wailed. "An' I made a mess."
    "It's all right, sweetheart." Miriam stroked the boy's hair.
    The girl gave the baby to Rachel. Sam looked away, not wanting to see Rachel with a baby in her arms. It had been hard enough to watch her with her nieces and nephews this weekend. Then the girl grabbed some paper towels and reached for the mess.
    "I'll get it," she said.
    "No," Sam said, maybe more sharply than he should have. "There's glass. I'll get it."
    "I can take care of him," the girl said, a little breathless and maybe scared herself.
    "You're just a child," he pointed out.
    "I'm almost twelve."
    "Which most people consider a child," he said, too harshly yet again. She looked as if she was about to cry, too.
    Rachel stepped in and said, "You know, this is my fault. I should have given him a plastic cup. Then we wouldn't have anything but milk to clean up."
    "I'm sorry," the boy said again.
    "It's okay," Rachel insisted. "Zach, this is my husband, Sam, and he's not mad at you. He's just worried you were going to get hurt. You, too, Emma."
    "Hi," Zach said tentatively, all big dark eyes and too much hair.
    "Hi," Sam said, doing his best to wipe the scowl off his face.
    "Emma, say hello to Sam," Rachel instructed.
    "Hi," she said, obviously hurt by the fact that he'd called her a child.
    "And this"—Rachel turned so the baby curled up against her shoulder was more or less facing him—"is Grace. Isn't she just an angel?"
    Sam turned away. He and Rachel had a baby girl once. She hadn't lived a day. They were cursed when it came to children. He'd accepted the fact that they weren't ever going to have any, and he didn't want to see this angel of a baby girl in his wife's arms.
    "Why don't you all clear out. I'll clean up the mess," Sam said, then turned to the boy. "Come here, Zach."
    He lifted the boy off the stool, carried him to the edge of the kitchen, and set him on his feet.
    "I'm really, really sorry," Zach said solemnly.
    "No big deal. We have more glasses than we need in this house. More milk, too."
    The boy turned and left. Rachel and the baby and Miriam left. The girl, Emma, lingered behind.
    "You don't want us here, do you?" she asked.
    Sam scowled at her. He couldn't quite help it.
    "You don't like kids?" she suggested.
    "I wouldn't know. I've never had kids."
    "Why not?"
    "It's a long story," he said. "One I'd appreciate you wouldn't discuss with my wife. She tends to get a little upset when she talks about it, and she's been