The McRae Series 01 - Twelve Days Sam and Rachel

Did you ever apologize to him and try to make him feel like he really was a part of this family?"
    "Maybe I do owe him an apology for that," her father admitted. "But I think you owe me an explanation. At least, one of you does."
    "What are you talking about?"
    "I think you do know, Rachel. I didn't want to bring it up earlier with you, especially not with you already being upset. Besides, I thought this was for me and Sam to settle, but I think something's going on here. Something between you and him—"
    Oh, no, Rachel thought. Her father knew. Somehow, he just knew. Maybe he was just guessing and maybe he wasn't. It was a very small town, and it was hard for anything to happen without everyone knowing sooner or later. "That would be between Sam and me," she said.
    "Rachel, I'm worried about you. I have a right to worry. I'm your daddy."
    "Then you can worry," she agreed, then insisted, "but that's it. And I want you to be nice to my husband."
    "All right, baby girl. I will. But I want you to promise me something. If you need anything, you come to me. And bring that little boy to see me. The girls, too. My house is too quiet these days. I need all the grandchildren I can get to liven the place up."
    "They're not your grandchildren, Daddy."
    "Not yet," he said. "But you can bring them by anyway. You could come see me yourself sometime. You still know where I live?"
    It was the same house she'd lived in her whole life until she'd moved in here with Sam. She knew.
    "I think I can find it," she said as he finally walked out the door and into the night.
    So, it seemed he knew and there was no telling who else did. She wouldn't be able to hide from it for much longer. She had to figure out what she was going to say to Sam, what she was going to do.
    Rachel stood there for a long time, heard Sam's footsteps on the stairs and then the back door open and shut. So, he'd gone out. She wasn't surprised. He was always going somewhere these days.
    She had just about given up on seeing him again that night. She was just making a final check of all the locks and turning out the lights when he came back inside. He had snow in his hair, and she remembered times before when they'd come in like this, and she'd brushed it away for him. When she'd taken his hands in hers to warm them and drawn him to the front of the fireplace, and how often on those nights they curled up here in front of the fire.
    Here he was on a cold night with snow in his hair, a fire in the fireplace.
    Oh, Sam, she thought, finally knowing what she was going to do.
    She reached up and brushed the snow away now, and he froze, just staring down at her, and then she let her hand linger there, in his damp hair, against his cool cheeks, his chin.
    Gathering her courage, she raised up on her toes and planted her hands against his chest and pressed her mouth to his. His lips were cold, and she felt his quickly indrawn breath, felt him brace himself, as if he had to before she touched him. He hardly seemed to do much more than breathe after that, and his breath, like his lips, was cold, too. She wondered if she left him cold, wondered again if there might be someone else, some woman he did want.
    Rachel pulled back instantly, shaking and hurting and staring up at him. Could it be that? Another woman? She felt so stupid for how long it had taken her to think of it in the first place, how little weight she'd given the possibility. She'd never have believed Sam would cheat on her, but why did men leave their wives? Wasn't there always someone else?
    He stared down at her, obviously puzzled, maybe a bit embarrassed, seeming as unsure of what to say or do next as she was. How incredibly awkward we've become, she thought bleakly.
    "I..." What could she say? She knew she'd made this mess, that it was mostly her doing. Didn't that mean it was up to her to fix it, if it could still be fixed. And then told him again, "I do miss you, Sam."
    Just in case he hadn't believed her the night before. Just in case he wondered if she missed touching him, holding him, making love to him.
    He seemed to draw himself up even more painfully erect, more distant, more closed off than before.
    "I do," she rushed on, worried that it didn't mean a thing to him, that it was too little, too late. "And I'm sorry."
    "For what, Rachel?"
    "Everything," she blurted out, meaning everything she'd done wrong. It seemed now that over the years she'd done everything wrong.
    And it was only later, once he'd