Читать книгу From This Day Forward - Irene Hannon, Irene Hannon - Страница 8

A faint rapping penetrated Cara’s consciousness, tugging her back from a deep slumber she didn’t want to relinquish. Not when it was the most restful sleep she’d enjoyed in weeks. Turning on her side, she buried her head in the down pillow, drifting off in a matter of seconds when the room grew silent.

Unfortunately, the quiet didn’t last long. The rapping started again, more insistent this time. And too loud to ignore. But it was the muffled question, the words laced with apprehension, that pulled her back to reality.

“Cara? Are you okay?”

Struggling to shake off the heavy sleep, Cara opened her eyes. The dim room, illuminated only by the glow of a light somewhere beyond the large, unshuttered window, wasn’t familiar. But the voice was.

“Cara, please answer me!”

Where was she? And what was Sam doing here?

The dots still weren’t connecting in her sleep-fuzzy brain. With a triumph of mind over body, she forced her lethargic arms to respond and tried to push herself into a sitting position, hoping the fog would clear once she was upright.

Just as she managed to get vertical, the door cracked open. And as light from the hall spilled across the bottom of the bed, spotlighting the Monet-patterned comforter, the pieces fell into place. She was in Oak Hill. At Sam’s house. She’d lain down to take a twenty-minute nap.

Except that didn’t make sense, she realized, turning toward the window. It had been bright daylight when she’d stretched out. Now it was dusk.

“Sorry to intrude, but I’ve been knocking for a while. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

At the sound of Sam’s voice, she turned back. He was little more than a silhouette, his face unreadable in the shadows. Shoving her hair back, she peered at her watch in the dim light. “What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No. Is it all right if I turn on a light?”

“Sure.”

He felt along the wall, then flicked on the switch. The lamp on the dresser came on, bathing the room in a mellow glow.

Blinking, Cara tried to rub the sleep out of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I only planned to take a quick nap. And I can’t imagine why I didn’t hear your knock.” She slept so lightly these days that the slightest sound brought her instantly awake—and alert.

“When did you last have a block of uninterrupted sleep?”

“I don’t know.” More to the point, when had she last felt safe enough to indulge in a block of uninterrupted sleep?

“Considering what you went through, that’s not unusual. Stress can cause insomnia, and that, in turn, often leads to more stress. It can become a vicious cycle that results in a serious anxiety disorder.” He waited, as if giving her a chance to comment. To her relief, he didn’t push when she ignored the overture. “In any case, let’s hope you can break that cycle while you’re here. I think you made a good start tonight. Are you hungry?”

She was surprised to discover that she was. Her appetite had been another casualty of the trauma. “Yes. Give me a minute.”

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen.” He closed the door behind him.

In view of the late hour, she did no more than run a brush through her hair and touch up her lipstick. Nevertheless, by the time she joined him he’d already put plates and utensils on the oak table. When she paused in the doorway, he was removing a steaming plate of chicken and broccoli from the microwave.

He looked good, she thought, taking a moment to observe him before he noticed her. Sam hadn’t often worn jeans in Philadelphia, but she’d always liked the way they emphasized his long, lean legs. And his blue knit sport shirt not only matched his eyes, it accentuated the width of his shoulders and his broad chest. There were more glints of silver than she remembered in his short, sandy hair. But that just gave him a distinguished air. The cobalt blue of his eyes hadn’t changed, though the fine lines around them were new. As were the faint grooves at the corners of his mouth. It seemed the past thirteen months hadn’t been easy on him, either.

A smile warmed his face when he spotted her. “That was fast.” He set the plate next to a bowl of rice. “What would you like to drink?”

“Water will be fine.” He was still wearing his wedding ring, she realized, her gaze riveted to his hand. Just as she was. Somehow, she hadn’t expected that.

Returning to the counter, he slid a plate of what looked like Mongolian beef into the microwave, closed the door and punched some buttons. Then he retrieved a glass from the cabinet. “This will be ready in a couple of minutes. Have a seat.”

“I hope I didn’t delay your dinner too long.” She slid into her chair.

“Not a problem.”

“You always were a late eater.” She thought about the days when it hadn’t been uncommon for him to wolf down dinner at nine or ten o’clock at night, then head for his study to do a couple more hours of paperwork before turning in.

“Not anymore.” He deposited her glass on the table.

Surprised, she angled a look up at him. “Why not?”

“I ate late in those days because that was the only time I could fit it in. The pace here is quite a bit slower. Oak Hill isn’t Philly, and family practice isn’t surgery. Go ahead and help yourself.”

Cara watched as he retrieved the beef from the microwave and joined her at the table. His new life sounded quite a bit different from his old one, and she was curious about it. But if she wanted to keep things simple, it was best to avoid personal topics.

As he reached for the bowl of rice, Cara bowed her head. He paused, waiting until she finished her silent prayer of thanks before filling his plate.

“I’m surprised you continue to find comfort in that after all that’s happened,” he remarked.

Hearing none of the expected sarcasm, she gave him an honest reply. “Now more than ever.”

At her quiet response, he sent her a questioning look but remained silent.

“I take it you never got into the habit?” She scooped out some rice.

“I’m even less inclined now…after all that’s happened.”

“Times of trauma are often when we need Him the most,” Cara suggested, keeping her tone conversational as she dipped into the Mongolian beef.

“Maybe.”

Given his noncommittal reply, Cara decided a change of subject was in order. They never had meshed in their views of faith, and there was no reason to suppose they’d start now. In the beginning of their marriage, Sam had gone to church with Cara because he’d recognized the important role it played in her life. But it had never had the same meaning for him. And as their relationship faltered, she’d found herself attending church alone more and more often. Though it saddened her that he’d never connected with the Lord, his life was no longer her concern. She needed to remember that.

“Why don’t you tell me how you’ve positioned my visit to your friends here, so we can be sure our stories are straight.” She was curious to hear his answer in light of the fact that he was still wearing his ring.

Sam thought about her question. He didn’t have any friends in Oak Hill, not in the way she meant. Just patients and a few acquaintances. “I said you’d taken a leave after going far too long without a vacation, and that you needed a quiet place to relax and unwind,” he replied, choosing his words with care. “I mentioned that we’re separated but friendly. I know that’s stretching the truth a bit, but short of getting into a lot of history I doubt either of us wants to dredge up, that was the easiest way to explain it.”

“That works for me.”

Relieved, he ladled a spoonful of the chicken and broccoli onto his plate. “What did you tell your family?”

“That I’d be out of town for a bit. Everyone has my cell number, and that’s how they always call me. Besides, Mom and Dad are in Africa for a year on a mission trip, so all our communication is by e-mail anyway.”

“Liz mentioned that.”

Tilting her head, Cara looked at him, wondering what else Liz had told him. “Did she fill you in on Bev?”

“She just said your sister and her family are getting ready to move. And that Bev is pregnant. It was pretty clear that spending time with your family wasn’t an option.”

“No, it wasn’t. Besides, I didn’t see any reason to worry them with my problems. They all have enough on their minds as it is. What about your mom? What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. I always call her from the office. Every Friday morning, before the weekly bridge game she hosts. That’s about the only time I’m sure to connect with her. Since my aunt became a widow and they both moved into that retirement community in California, their social schedule is something to behold.”

A smile tugged at Cara’s mouth. She’d always liked Sam’s mother. Quiet, unassuming, introspective and brilliant—she was very much like her only child. It was nice to hear that she was cutting loose and enjoying an active social life in her golden years. Maybe Sam could learn a few more lessons from her, she mused.

“I’m glad your mom is enjoying herself. And it sounds like we’re covered.” Relieved, she reached for her glass of water.

“Until the locals start asking questions.”

Her hand froze and she shot him a startled look.

The hint of a smile teased his lips. “This is a small town, Cara. People talk. And there’s a very active grapevine. Almost as good as the Gazette—our local paper—when it comes to spreading news. Although I’ve laid the groundwork, you can expect to get a few discreet but leading questions.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” She set the glass back down. “I don’t plan to mingle much, anyway.”

Liz’s comment about Cara holing up in her apartment since the attack echoed in his mind. Considering that his wife had always been a social person, isolation couldn’t be healthy. “I don’t mean to give you the wrong impression. It’s a very nice town, and the people are genuine and caring. It might be fun to explore a bit. I guarantee you can’t get lost.”

Cara shrugged. “I’ll see. I brought along quite a few books, and I expect that will occupy most of my days.”

“Whatever you want, Cara.” Better to back off than turn her off, he decided. “This is your time.”

For the rest of the meal, Sam did his best to make small talk. But he’d never been very adept at it. Even in the good times of their marriage he’d been content to let Cara carry the bulk of the conversational burden. And that’s what it had always been to him—a burden. Cara, on the other hand, had been a master at drawing people out. For her, it was as natural as breathing.

Yet tonight their positions were reversed. She was subdued and reticent, giving brief answers, content to listen in silence as he told her about the town and some of the personalities. Yet another example of the profound effect the trauma had had on her, he realized. Her normal response would have been to pepper him with questions, her eyes alight with interest. Instead, she kept her gaze downcast, focused on her food, and responded only when asked a direct question. Though her body bore physical signs of her stress, it was her personality shift that most alarmed Sam. He was beginning to better understand—and appreciate—Liz’s concern.

When they finished the meal and he insisted on taking care of the dishes, Cara didn’t argue, as she once would have. Instead, she quietly thanked him and disappeared down the hall.

As Sam watched her go, he hoped that the Lord had listened to the earlier prayer of His wayward son. Because reaching the woman he loved was beginning to look like a far more difficult challenge than he’d even imagined. And he could sure use the extra help.

For the second time in a dozen hours, an intermittent, muffled noise penetrated Cara’s deep slumber.

Despite her three-hour nap, she’d once again drifted off to sleep with a speed that astounded her after her late dinner with Sam. And she knew why. She might not trust her heart to the man she’d married, but she felt safe in his presence. And that feeling of safety had chased away the fears that had kept her awake—and anxious—through the long nights she’d spent alone since the attack.

The sleep felt so good, so renewing, that she didn’t want to wake up. Yet there was something familiar about the sound that tugged her back to consciousness.

Staring up at the dark ceiling, she listened. But soon the house grew silent again. Could she have imagined the noise? Had it been some scrap of elusive dream deep in her subconscious?

When the silence lengthened, her eyelids once more grew heavy. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to worry about it. Sam was a few steps down the hall. If there was anything to be concerned about, he’d deal with it. It was his house, after all.

As she began to fall back sleep, however, the noise started again. Louder now.

Alarmed, Cara sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, adrenaline surging through her. Her hands shaking, she fumbled in the dark for the small canister of mace that hadn’t been more than an arm’s length away any night since the murder. Clutching it in trembling fingers, she rose and moved to her door, cracking it the tiniest bit.

The corridor, illuminated by the dim glow of a nightlight, was empty. But the sounds were louder. And they were coming from Sam’s room.

Now Cara knew why the noise had seemed familiar. She’d heard it often. After Sam had been released from the hospital, nightmares had often plagued him. He’d thrashed about with such force that Cara had limped for a week when he’d once kicked her in the calf in his sleep. After that he’d insisted on moving to the guest room. And he’d never returned.

But even then, she’d gone to him during the night whenever his agonized cries had awakened her, wanting to hold him, to comfort him, to let him know that she cared. Though he’d pushed her away, she’d kept trying. Until he’d lashed out once too often in bitterness and venomous anger, telling her that she couldn’t do anything to help him—that no one could—and she’d finally believed him. After that, she’d listened night after night, helpless to do anything more than pray, as he battled his demons alone.

The same ones he seemed to be battling still.

As she crept down the hall, stopping outside his door, Cara’s throat tightened with emotion. The fact that he continued to suffer from nightmares almost two years after the incident that had triggered them underscored the depth of his trauma. Her experience had been horrifying, true. But it hadn’t been a personal vendetta, carried out with calculating ruthlessness. Nor had it robbed her of the work she loved, changing her life forever.

The thrashing intensified and, fearing Sam would injure himself, she gave a sharp rap on the door.

“Sam? Sam, wake up!” When the thrashing persisted, along with the familiar cries that had always torn at her heart, she knocked louder and raised her volume. It always took a lot to wake him from these dreams. “Sam! Wake up, Sam!”

She kept at it, until all at once the sounds stopped and the house grew quiet. She waited, but when the silence continued, she spoke again—with less certainty. “Sam? Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I woke you.” The words came out hoarse and ragged.

“Can I…do you need anything?” She hadn’t planned to make that offer. But no matter her feelings about Sam, it went against her nature to turn away from anyone in need without attempting to help.

“No. I’m sorry for disturbing you. Go back to bed.”

Glancing at her watch, Cara noted the time. Three o’clock. A long way until morning, she realized with a sigh. And she had a feeling she wasn’t going to fall back to sleep with anywhere near the same ease she’d drifted off earlier in the evening.

On the other side of the door, Sam struggled to regain control. Forcing himself to take deep, even breaths, he managed to slow his pulse and respiration. But he couldn’t stop the tremors that racked his body.

What in the world was going on? It had been weeks since he’d had the nightmare that had plagued him for months after the attack. A dream so terrifying, so real, that he’d fought off sleep each night as long as he could. Yet time hadn’t diminished its horror.

Tonight, once again, he’d relived that late return to the parking garage below the condo. Felt the prickle of unease race along his spine as he’d left his car, sensing some ominous presence. Tasted fear as the dark-clothed figure emerged from the shadows, just out of sight of the security cameras, a gun pointed in his direction.

As his temples began to throb—another familiar consequence of the dream—Sam pulled himself upright in the bed. Drawing his legs up, he rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his pounding head in his hands. He tried to stem the tide of memories, tried to bury them, but it was impossible after the nightmare. They were too fresh, too vivid. The attack was as real as if it had happened yesterday. As were the incidents leading up to it.

In retrospect, Sam knew he hadn’t been in top form going into surgery on the fateful day that had set the tragic events in motion. But he’d attributed his slight nausea to a simple upset stomach. Though he could have asked a colleague to take over for him, he’d been convinced that no one could do the operation better than him—even if he wasn’t a hundred percent. Another example of his arrogance in those days.

But then things had started to go wrong. As the surgery progressed, and the simple upset stomach evolved into an acute pain, he’d begun to fumble. Make mistakes. When he’d finally acknowledged that he was too ill to continue, a colleague had to be rushed in to complete the job.

Sam had recovered from the surgery prompted by his appendicitis attack. But his patient—Claire West—had died. Consumed by anger and grief, the woman’s husband had demanded an investigation.

After Sam was cleared of any wrongdoing, everyone had thought that was the end of it. Until the night Bill West, his reasoning clouded by grief and anger, had confronted Sam in the condo’s basement parking garage. After forcing Sam into the shadows at gunpoint, then motioning for him to turn around, he’d spoken. Barely more than a dozen words. But they were forever etched in Sam’s brain.

“I can’t bring Claire back. But I’m going to make sure you never kill anyone again.”

Sam had assumed the man meant to shoot him. An assumption that seemed borne out when a sharp pain had ricocheted through his head, and the world had gone black.

As it turned out, though, Bill West had had another kind of punishment in store for his wife’s surgeon.

When Sam awakened, lying on the floor of the garage, he’d been aware of two things. A relentless throbbing in his head—and an excruciating pain in his right hand. He’d tried to move his fingers, but they hadn’t responded. When his vision cleared and he could finally shift his head enough to look toward his hand, the reason had become clear. Swollen and misshapen, his hand had been smashed almost beyond recognition. Through the haze of pain, he knew that multiple bones had been broken, and he suspected the man had inflicted extensive nerve damage as well.

Somehow he’d extracted his cell phone and called 911. And he’d managed to remain conscious long enough to identify the perpetrator for the police. Later he’d learned that they’d discovered the man at his home, a short note beside his body: “I did what I had to do. May Claire rest in peace.”

Through all of the pain and bitterness and despair that had followed, Sam had tried to hate the man who’d destroyed his life. Yet part of him feared the man’s accusation had merit. Sam had made mistakes in the operating room that day. He knew that, as did his team. However, he hadn’t considered any of them serious enough to contribute to the woman’s death. Neither had the review board. But he couldn’t help wondering if he was at fault. If Claire West—and her husband—were dead because of him. That burden continued to weigh him down, and he was still trying to find a way to deal with the guilt.

For the most part, he’d managed to confine the battle to daylight hours.

Until tonight.

Cara’s arrival couldn’t be coincidental, he realized. She’d stood by him through the whole ordeal, despite the fact that he’d given her nothing but abuse. Angry at the world, he’d lashed out at the closest available target. Meeting her encouragement with sarcasm, her suggestions of prayer with ridicule, her gestures of love with indifference, he’d driven her away bit by bit. And even when the nightmares began to recede, when his hand had begun to heal and they could once more have safely shared a bed, they remained in separate rooms by unspoken mutual consent.

It was then that Sam realized how much he missed her. How much he needed her. But just as his awkward hand no longer seemed to know how to touch an object without breaking it, neither did his heart know how to reach out and touch the woman he loved without hurting her more.

In time, his desperate loneliness had driven him to a local bar. Alcohol hadn’t helped much, but Amber’s interest had. The blond waitress had given the bar’s newest customer more than his fair share of attention. And that had led to the night he’d driven the final wedge in his marriage, splitting it in two.

Lifting his head, Sam stared into the darkness of his bedroom, his expression bleak. How could he ever hope to win Cara back after the way he’d treated her? Yet how could he go on if he didn’t? All these months, as he’d tried to build a new life for himself, the one thing that had kept him going was the hope that he would find a way to convince Cara to give their marriage another try. But now, despite her presence in his home, the obstacles seemed insurmountable.

And he wasn’t in any condition to deal with them tonight, he realized, as the throbbing in his head intensified. He needed aspirin. Several. Quickly.

Swinging his feet to the floor, he stood, bracing himself with one hand against the wall. When his legs steadied, he covered the short distance to the door, pulled it open—and stopped short.

Cara was still standing in the hall, dressed in one of those sleep shirts she’d always favored, a can of mace clutched in one hand, reminding him yet again that he wasn’t the only who lived with trauma. She gasped and took a step back at his sudden appearance.

“Cara…I’m sorry.” He reached out a hand, imploring, then let it drop to his side. “I thought you’d gone back to bed.” A shiver rippled through him, and he realized that his T-shirt was drenched with sweat.

“Headache?” Cara’s question came out in an unsteady whisper and her features softened in compassion.

“Yeah. Aspirin will take care of it. Look, I’m sorry about this. It hasn’t happened in weeks. This won’t be a habit.” Even as he made the promise, he hoped it was one he could keep.

As if sensing his thoughts, she spoke, her tone subdued. “Nightmares aren’t easy to control.”

Sam knew from Liz that Cara was speaking from personal experience. And he’d been prepared to comfort her if necessary, as she had once comforted him. Instead, he’d been the one plagued by bad dreams while she slept soundly.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

“I’ll do my best,” he responded.

Half-turning, she hesitated and looked over her shoulder. “Do you want me to get the aspirin for you?”

The trepidation in her eyes, the uncertainty, reminded him of the countless occasions when he’d snarled out an ungrateful response to such an offer. And filled him with gratitude that she’d been willing to risk reaching out once again.

Gentling his voice, he did his best to summon up a smile. “Thank you, but I can manage. You need your sleep. I’ll be okay by morning. Good night.”

Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the bathroom. Once there, he steadied himself on the edge of the sink, filled a glass with water and downed several aspirin in one gulp. Sitting on the edge of the tub, he drew steadying breaths until he felt able to make the trip back to his room.

When he stepped into the hall, the corridor was deserted. Yet glancing toward Cara’s room, he noted that the door was cracked a fraction of an inch. Had she forgotten to close it? Or had she left it that way on purpose, so she could hear if Sam had any further problems?

Sam assumed it was the former. She was tired, and it was the middle of the night, after all. No one thought clearly at this hour.

But for tonight, anyway, he was going to pretend it was the latter. Because if he allowed himself to believe she cared, he suspected that fantasy would do more than anything else to keep further nightmares at bay.