She asked a question she has no right to ask, but I’m staring at her lips, wondering if she’d shut up if I kissed her. Would she forget her question then? Her innocent face is sweet, and there’s genuine curiosity in her fresh features.

And the anger that filled me drains away.

Of course I’ve got a canned answer. The same one I give people who ask. It’s been rehearsed to death. I say it in my sleep, I say it to strangers who ask, I say it to teachers who think it’s the root of Olivia’s issues.

But it’s a god damned lie.

As Emma studies me, I find myself unable to feed her that same old lie. And I begin to wonder who she is and why she’s interested. There’s no reason for her to ask. She’s got no vested interest. No reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary.

But as the silence stretches out between us, becoming awkward, I see her lips twist like she’s considering how to fill the void. I feel no such compulsion, and I wait, wondering what she’s going to come up with.

“I’m sorry,” she says, the words popping out like she tried to hold them back. Her face flushes red and she looks toward Olivia who’s still riding well, talking to the horse as she goes in circles. But all I can do is stare at Emma.

I’m torn. Part of me is pissed she’s trying to get so personal. Part of me wants to know why, if she’s someone I need to worry about. I know Cami is looking for me. Is Emma a spy? But the loudest part of me wonders why there’s a sudden sheen of tears in her verdant eyes as she watches Olivia.

“She’s a natural,” Emma says, and I sense she’s trying to fill the silence and bury her mistake.

“It’s none of your business,” I say, needing her to know where she stands as far as my family goes. We’re here so Olivia can learn to ride. Not so Emma can find a way under our skin or into our hearts. She’s got no reason to get personal.

And I don’t want her to.

Emma glances over at me, her cat-like eyes wide and worried. “I know,” she says softly, the words soothing like a bandage on an open wound. “I’m sorry.” Her eyes dart back and forth between mine as the wind toys with a stray lock of her golden hair that’s found its way free and clings to her neck. I want to move it, to brush it back, but I know better than to touch her.

Everything in me feels magnetized to her right now. Her eyes are warm and kind, and I sense something there; not pity – empathy. It’s a refreshing change. Even Nikki looked at me with pity. Everyone does.

But not Emma. There’s something so pure and real; kind, even, in her eyes. It melts the deepest layer of ice around my heart and I instantly struggle to rebuild the protective shield.

As if she feels it too, her eyes dart to my lips, then back up to mine. Her body softens, as if her spine is slowly failing her. But when her pink lips part, just a little bit, I feel like I’ve been kicked in the balls.

She’s hoping I kiss her. I know the look, the longing, the excitement, the feeling that it’s all kinds of wrong that make it the best kind of right.

But I’m not going there. As much as I’d like to, Olivia isn’t out of eyesight, and I know better than to get her hopes up. To her young mind, a kiss is a declaration of love, and I’m sure as hell not going to bring anything like that into her world.

As if reading my thoughts, Emma looks away, and I sense she’s trying to gather herself. Her expression says she’s shouting at herself internally.

“Don’t hold back,” I tell her, and she looks at me in shock. “Neither of us benefit from bullshit. You hate me, so you shouldn’t care if you hurt my feelings. But be honest.”

She shakes her head, her eyes on mine. “If we were mortal enemies, I’d still treat you with compassion,” she says, her pretty lips curling up a little at the corners. “Dad taught me to be kind, for everyone is fighting a hard battle.”

Her words are an arrow to my heart and I shut down. “Kindness is a trait of the weak.”

Without missing a beat, she responds. “Kindness takes effort. Cruelty is the mark of a lazy or fearful man.”

I’d never tell her, but she’s an interesting person. Someone I wouldn’t mind sitting across a table from and talking out every facet of life. But I have to remind myself she’s not my friend. She’s not someone I can have feelings for. She’s not someone I can get close to. She has something I need. And I’m going to get it, come hell or high water.

“While we’re being honest,” she says, looking back at Olivia, who’s impervious to our mounting tensions, “she said she misses her mom. That’s why I’m curious.”

“It’s till none of your business,” I say, “and Olivia shouldn’t be talking to you about it.”

But Emma seems a million miles away as she watches my daughter while speaking to me. “Perhaps she sees something in me that she can trust.” Her voice lowers to a near whisper that I feel isn’t aimed at me anymore, but is perhaps simply for herself. “Or maybe she sees a kindred spirit.”

I sense she’s dealing with her own painful memories even as mine rise toward the surface. But I shove them back down. I’ll drown them. Nothing good comes from reliving moments we suffered in. My secrets never need to come to light. Some things need to stay buried. And maybe she understands that. After all, she’s not talking about whatever it is that’s bringing her to the edge of tears now.

Hasn’t anyone ever told this woman it’s better to let old secrets stay dust?