Читать книгу Return to Rosewood - Bonnie Winn K. - Страница 11

Bret parked in the nursery lot, immediately seeing Herb’s small truck, but not Peter’s car. Fuming under his breath, he met his brother-in-law at the front. “See what I mean about Peter?” He unlocked the door. “I have a key for you in the office. Looks like you’ll use one more than Peter does.”

Herb tried to keep his expression neutral.

“It’s okay.” Bret flipped on the lights. “You can say what you think.”

“Nope. Too soon for me to have an opinion.”

“Won’t take long,” Bret muttered.

And it didn’t take long, either, for a tour of all the nooks and crannies of the old main building.

“I’ll show you the outbuildings later.”

“Funny how you don’t notice everything when you’re just browsing.” Herb studied the rows and rows of herbs that stretched out in one screened area. “Looks like I’ve got a lot to learn.”

“After I show you the cash register, we’d better do your paperwork—W-4 and the lot the government requires.”

The bell jangled on the front door and Peter strolled inside.

Glancing at his watch, Bret noted the time. He intended to keep track of it so he didn’t have any issues about Peter’s probation and its likely outcome.

Giving Herb time to finish the forms, Bret made a pot of coffee. By the time it brewed, Peter emerged from the back.

“Peter, you’ve probably seen Herb here before.”

His assistant manager shrugged. “Lot of people come in here.”

“Herb’s starting today.”

That got Peter’s attention.

Herb extended his hand. Peter ignored him.

Bret counted silently to ten. “Herb will be working more on the inside. But he needs to learn everything.”

Sullenly, Peter stared at Herb without replying.

Pulling the spare key from his pocket, Bret handed it to Herb.

“Hey.” Peter’s face mottled into an ugly shade of red. “You didn’t give me a key until everybody else left.”

“I can trust Herb,” Bret replied briefly, not feeling any need for explanations.

“You friends?” Peter questioned.

“Not that it’s your concern, but Herb’s my brother-in-law.”

A sarcastically knowing expression flooded Peter’s harsh features. “Oh. Great. I’m on probation and all of a sudden, your brother-in-law’s working here?” He snorted. “And you making out like it was ’cause I was late yesterday when all the time you were planning on hiring him.”

“Your work record speaks for itself. And for what it’s worth, you pushed me over the edge yesterday. I was more inclined to fire you than give you a warning.”

“You taking back the probation?”

Bret frowned. “No. You either shape up or you’re out.”

“Like it’s going to be a fair test. Keep me on or your relative!” Slinking away, Peter muttered something unintelligible.

“That went well,” Herb commented. “I’d forgotten how fun orientation day is.”

“He’d have found out soon enough you’re family.”

Herb clapped one hand on Bret’s shoulder. “Well, brother, any more benefits like that and I’ll be spoiled for any other job.”

Despite himself, Bret grinned. “It’s going to be good having you around.”

“Remember that when I mix up the petunias and the pansies.”

If that was the worst he had to worry about, Bret would consider himself a lucky man.

It was late by the time Bret managed to get back to Sam’s. Herb was intelligent, filled with initiative, but still, a full day of training was tiring. Not to mention all the hostility from Peter.

So he wasn’t in a very talkative mood. “Let’s split the work. You look for the magazines with the stuff your mother likes. I’ll wreck out the old kitchen.”

“Oh, that sounds fair.” Before starting the search, Sam trailed him down the hall toward the kitchen, flinching when she looked at the scorched remains. “The counter was so beautiful.”

“Old as the house is, the limestone was probably quarried close by. And the counters might have been redone when they modernized the kitchen. Means we can try and get a close match. I can borrow a tile saw and we’ll cut off a piece for comparison.”

She blinked. “You can do that?”

“Most of us can do a lot more than we think we can.”

Her eyes, still wounded, met his. “I used to believe that.”

Wishing she didn’t have the ability to pull him in with a single look, he pushed aside old feelings. “It’s time you started believing again.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sam muttered, pivoting back toward the living room.

She’d barely started down the hall when the doorbell rang.

Bret listened. When Sam didn’t open the door, he laid down his tools and went to the entry hall.

Rachel stood on the porch, peering into the living room. “I was beginning to think Sam wasn’t home.”

“Which is impossible since she won’t leave the house,” Bret replied wryly.

Rachel rolled her eyes. “I’ve been trying to drag her to see the doctor and she won’t budge.”

“You have something set up?”

“Not much point until she agrees to go.”

Bret pursed his lips. “Maybe we need to do it the other way around.”

“You willing to help me on this?” Rachel asked hopefully.

He was going to find some duct tape and seal his mouth closed. “I could talk to J.C.” J. C. Mueller was Rosewood’s only neurologist and a friend of Bret’s.

Impulsively Rachel hugged him. “That would be perfect!”

Yep, just perfect.

Samantha finished brushing her hair, then looked in the mirror. She’d never put much value on looks, but it was startling to see her near-skeletal reflection. Bret had always claimed she was beautiful. Sam peered closer. If that had been true, it certainly wasn’t anymore. The unflattering clothes didn’t help. Her wardrobe these days was sweats, the only thing she could struggle into on her own.

Bret would probably be by soon. She hadn’t wanted to accept his help these last few weeks, but the truth was she couldn’t have gotten by on her own much longer. Without asking, he’d installed grab bars in the bathroom and bought a shower chair so she could bathe. Rachel had taken over, adding vanilla shampoo and green-tea-scented bath gel, along with loads of thick, soft towels. Her cousin had also taken care of the laundry.

Between goodies from Ethel Carruthers and childhood favorites Rachel brought over, Samantha had more than enough food. But she still shared breakfast from the café with Bret. He told her it was the only way he could be sure she really ate at least one meal a day. She heard him knock on the front door that she’d left unlocked for him. As had become his habit, he walked directly to the dining room table. “Change of pace today. Breakfast sandwiches.”

She joined him.

He unfolded the paper from his own. “Less mess.”

“Good idea.” Her appetite was still nonexistent and she ate only a few bites. Bret finished his sandwich almost as quickly, surprising her. She glanced up. “You must be in a hurry.”

“You could say that.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

She noticed that he hadn’t brought any coffee. He rarely went anywhere without a cup. He liked the brew so strong it was almost espresso. “I can’t believe you forgot your coffee.”

“Have my thermos in the Blazer, along with some cups.” His chair scraped over the wooden floor as he pushed it back. “We have to get on the road.”

Her face fell. “What?”

“You haven’t been out of the house enough. You need fresh air.”

Feeling panicked, Samantha shook her head. “I get plenty of air through the windows.”

Bret grasped the handles of her chair. “Nope.”

Before she could protest more, he pushed her out the door over the newly installed threshold adapter that had arrived the previous day. “Bret, wait! I don’t want to go around the neighborhood.”

“Good. We’re taking a drive.”

“A drive?”

“You know.” He opened the passenger door of his SUV. “That thing when you get in the car and go somewhere.”

Shaking her head, she reached for the wheels to reverse. But he was faster, lifting her up and into the vehicle. “Bret!”

Closing her door, he stowed her wheelchair in the back, then got inside.

“Where are we going?”

“Breathe, Sam.”

She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath in a death grip that nearly matched the one she had on the door handle.

“Have I ever done anything to hurt you?”

Never. “You used to be the master of practical jokes.”

He turned the key, starting the car. “And you weren’t?”

Sam felt like a bat pulled out of its cave, blinking in the sunlight, wanting desperately to be back in the safety of her parents’ home.

“It’s not far,” he continued.

Nothing was very far in the small Hill Country town. Established in the mid-eighteen-hundreds, Rosewood had never outgrown its practical roots. Resisting the urge to become a tourist destination, instead it was a community that thrived on small businesses and individuality.

When Samantha had arrived, she hadn’t paid attention to the cozy warmth of Main Street with its Victorian buildings and shops. Nor had she noticed the signs of summer in the large elm trees that lined the sidewalks. When she was a kid, super-stores had tried to establish a foothold, but the town hadn’t wanted to give up its rural lifestyle or run entrepreneurs out of business. Since the land outside town was owned by ranchers whose places had been in their families for generations, developers got nowhere with them either.

The town had invested in state-of-the-art hospital facilities, though. One that Bret was turning into. Dread assailed her. “What are you doing?”

Bret didn’t reply until he found a parking spot near the physicians’ building. “This is Rosewood, not Deadwood. We have doctors, indoor bathrooms, most everything.”

Samantha bristled at his tone. She might have left eight years ago, but she didn’t dislike her hometown. “Really?”

“And you have to keep up your medical care.”

Sam hated that her emotions were now so close to the surface that she felt like crying nearly all the time. “I told you I can’t afford it.”

Bret turned off the car, then faced her. “Sam, do you remember anybody in Rosewood going without care?”

It was the way they did things. When someone didn’t have enough money, people donated services and whatever else they could to make certain no one was denied help. But she’d been away from that kind of thinking for a lot of years. Straining desperately not to cry, she leaned back, scrunching into her door. “I’m not going to be a charity case.”

“That’s okay by me.” He retrieved the wheelchair, and rolled it to the passenger side. “You’d better lean in if you don’t want to land on the ground.”

Only the possibility of further humiliation made her move.

His hands were strong as he again lifted her. For a moment she wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and hang on. But she knew he wouldn’t want her to. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with her since their last and ultimate fight over the future.

Bret eased her into the chair, then took control of the handles. “The good part about going to therapy is once you get out of this chair, no one can push you around.”

Yeah. That was going to happen. She was silent as they entered the building, then traveled through the corridors.

“You remember J. C. Mueller?” Bret asked. “Three years ahead of us in school?”

J.C. had been in Andy’s class. “So he made it to medical school?”

“He’s a neurologist. Gave up several offers to practice in New York, Chicago, Dallas.” Bret slowed down at the elevators, backing her into an open one.

Samantha remained quiet as they reached the doctor’s office and Bret signed her in. The consultation was pointless since she couldn’t afford to follow through on anything J.C. suggested. But Bret wasn’t listening.

It wasn’t long before the nurse ushered them into an examination room. Before Sam could think of a way to escape, J.C. entered. His grin was as friendly as she remembered. “Samantha!”

She also remembered her manners. “J.C.”

Instead of reaching for the chart hanging on the back of the door, he eased into the chair next to her, meeting Samantha at eye level. “So. Bret’s dragged you here and you’re wishing he hadn’t.”

Briefly glancing up at Bret, she swallowed. “Looks like you have the picture.”

“I’d know more about the picture if you’ll agree to let me send for your records.”

Twisting her hands together, she looked down, uncomfortable beneath the two masculine gazes.

“Sam, if I’d gone into medicine to make money, I wouldn’t have come back to Rosewood.”

Embarrassment colored her pale cheeks. “So Bret told you.”

“Glad he did. I never have understood why people will accept friendship, gifts, help with things out of their scope of experience, but they balk when it comes to money. I don’t have a lot of money to give, but I can offer my expertise.”

Overwhelmed, she covered her eyes with one hand.

“So, what do you say?”

Reluctantly, she uncovered her eyes. “It won’t do any good, J.C. I tried to tell Bret. There’s not any hope.”

“Hope’s a funny thing. The Lord surprises us when we least expect it.” He reached for the chart. “One thing is certain—we can’t know until we explore all the options.” He extended a clipboard that held a request for transfer of medical records.

Bret leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. “You don’t have to do this alone. Your family knows.”

Shakily, she accepted the clipboard and pen, scribbling her name on the bottom of the paper. Drained, she slumped back.

“This is a good start,” J.C. assured her.

Samantha didn’t believe him. Maybe he’d had offers from New York, but she’d seen city doctors. She’d heard their opinions.

“My nurse will call in the request today. Shouldn’t be long until we get the records. In the meantime, I’m recommending both aqua and physical therapy.”

“It won’t do any good.” What physical therapy she’d tried in New York had failed.

“It won’t hurt. In cases like yours, muscles atrophy. Even if the spine heals, the muscles can’t respond after months of disuse. That’s where therapy comes in.” He patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Bret knows where the pool is, so you can get started.”

She whipped her head up. “Now?”

“Can’t think of a better time.”

Bret held out his hand. “Thanks, J.C.”

The doctor stood, accepting Bret’s handshake. “Don’t let her buffalo you into leaving.”

Samantha stared. “What?”

“I know how intimidating you can be. I ran against you for student council, remember?”

She’d won. Back when everything was easy.

Bret wheeled Samantha to the physical therapy area despite her nonstop protests.

“This is ridiculous. I can’t do any kind of water therapy wearing sweats.”

He drew his eyebrows together in a frown. “Excellent point. Good thing Rachel’s here with your stuff to change into.”

Samantha twisted her head and Rachel rushed over with a tremulous smile. “Hey.”

“Et tu?” Sam rubbed her forehead. “Plotting with Bret?”

“And J.C.,” Rachel admitted. “You know we can’t stand by and do nothing.”

Hands folded in her lap, Samantha lifted her face. “I appreciate all the concern…I know it’s because you care. But it really, really is a waste of time to try and make this work.”

“It’s our time,” Rachel rebuked gently.

Outnumbered and weary, Sam gave in. “I didn’t pack a swimsuit.”

Rachel took Bret’s place behind the chair. “We do have stores in Rosewood.”

As they headed to the women’s dressing room, Bret retrieved his gym bag from the men’s lockers. He’d left it there after he and J.C. had come up with a plan. Rachel had figured out all the details for clothes, along with a time that worked for both of them.

Changing into his own knee-length swim shorts, he glanced at his watch. He should be at the nursery, but Herb would do his best.

With J.C.’s blessing, Bret and Rachel intended to learn how to do the water exercises. The aqua therapy teacher, Wanda, was willing to teach them so Sam could have daily sessions. And there wasn’t any charge to use the facilities. Once Rachel was comfortable with the exercises, he could turn the entire task over to her. It wasn’t just the fact that he needed to be both at work and checking on his dad—this much proximity to Sam was a bad plan.

Guessing it would take the women longer to change, he stowed his clothes in the locker, then looped a towel around his neck. In time, they emerged, wearing matching T-shirts and shorts to cover their swimsuits, like many of the other patients. Sam looked like a well-covered but trapped animal.

He took the towel from his neck and tossed it on a bench. “Reminds me of the time you tried to push me in the pool, missed and fell in yourself.”

Startled, Sam stopped fussing with her exposed calves. She was thin, but her legs were still knockouts. “I’m not even wet yet.”

“Only a matter of minutes. There’s a special PVC wheelchair and ramp to get you in.”

Mortification filled her features.

He stepped closer. “Or we could just hop in ourselves.” Not giving her time to process his words, he scooped her up, cradling her in his arms.

“What do—”

“We don’t really need the special chair.” She was so slight now, it was like carrying feathers. Feathers covered in silky skin. Skin that grazed his arms, teased his senses.

Instinctively she wrapped her arms around his neck to hold on. And he remembered how they’d felt in that same position years ago when they dated in college. He’d never expected to feel them there again. Nor to experience a rush of awareness now that they were.

Warm water enveloped them both as he walked deeper, stopping at one of the built-in ledges that Sam could sit on. Rachel followed, taking a spot directly across the pool.

The teacher wasn’t far behind. “Hi. Samantha? I’m Wanda, the aqua therapy teacher. I hope you’ll relax, let the water soothe you. We’ll learn some exercises to rebuild your strength, but part of the therapy is to ease muscle tension.”

Samantha averted her face. “That’s not really a problem with my muscles.”

“Dr. Mueller briefed me. You have a spinal injury and your legs aren’t responding. Those muscles may be in a state of atrophy—I understand we’ll know more after the doctor runs some tests. Naturally, the shock of injury causes tension in the rest of your body. Your neck, shoulders—the usual suspects.”

Reluctantly, Samantha nodded. “I suppose so.”

“Without an injury, I get stressed.” Good at her job, Wanda had understanding in her voice without resorting to pity. “The warm water helps. Try to think of it as an oversize tub.”

In just over waist-deep, Sam tentatively touched the surface of the water. It was a tiny step, but Bret expected most of them would be. J.C. had been candid when Bret had talked with him alone. It was possible Sam might never regain the use of her legs. Then again, she hadn’t had the intensive program he thought she needed. After a long coma, her muscles hadn’t worked properly. Not having a positive attitude about the therapy could have made a huge difference as well. And she hadn’t been surrounded by friends, or the power of prayer.

Not letting the past intrude, Bret had placed Sam’s name in the prayer circle a day after the fire. Now the entire church was praying for her. Sam didn’t know it, but she was being circled herself—neighbors and friends wanting to shore her up, to help in any way they could. Despite the untenable break in their relationship, Bret hated that Sam had been injured, that she’d lost hope.

Listening closely, he followed as Wanda took them through some relaxation motions. Warm water slipped between them, pushing them apart, pulling them back together. The entire time his hand remained at Sam’s waist, to support her, he told himself. Even though his heart echoed a time he believed they’d never be separated.