From This Day Forward
Irene Hannon

To Tom

My very own heartland hero!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

“Sam, it’s Liz. I need to speak with you right away. Call me on my cell.”

A jolt of adrenaline shot through Sam Martin as he set his black medical bag on the kitchen counter and reached for the pad and pen next to the answering machine. He hadn’t seen Liz Warren, his wife’s best friend, since the night Cara left him, and he’d only spoken with her once after that. If she was calling, something was up. And a sick feeling of dread told him it wasn’t good.

Jotting down the number as she recited it, Sam checked his watch. If his house call deep in rural Missouri hadn’t taken two hours, he would have arrived back in Oak Hill early enough to return the call without guilt. But it was almost eleven on the east coast, and Liz hadn’t used the emergency cell phone number he provided on his home and office answering machines. Whatever she wanted to talk to him about couldn’t be urgent. But there was no way he could wait until tomorrow to find out the reason for her call. Better to risk waking her than spend a sleepless night counting the hours until morning.

As he punched in Liz’s number, it occurred to him that she might have gone out for the evening. It was Saturday, after all. But if she had, he’d leave a message to call him back when she returned, no matter the hour. He’d be awake anyway.

To his relief, a live voice answered. “Hello.”

“Liz, it’s Sam. I just got your message.”

There was a slight hesitation before she responded. “I’ve been having some second thoughts about calling you.”

Sam heard the coolness—and caution—in her voice. No surprise there. She’d been Cara’s best friend far longer than he’d known his wife. And she’d witnessed his ultimate betrayal. He understood—and respected—her loyalty. But he wasn’t about to hang up without finding out why she’d called. It was too late for that.

“I assume it concerns Cara.”

Another brief silence.

“Look, Sam, to be honest, you’re the last person I wanted to call,” Liz finally said. “If Cara’s parents weren’t on a missionary trip in Africa for a year, and if her sister wasn’t eight months pregnant and in the middle of preparing to move, I’d have called them. But they are and she is, so I didn’t know who else to contact.”

“About what, Liz?” Sam’s grip on the phone tightened. It took every ounce of his restraint to remain calm when his mind was racing with terrifying scenarios.

“I…I think Cara needs some help. I’ve tried to talk with her about it, but she shuts me out and says she’s fine. Except she isn’t. Not even close. And I don’t know what else to do.” Her voice broke on the last word.

“Okay, Liz, you’re going to have to back up. What’s wrong with Cara? Is she sick?” Sam couldn’t stop the quiver that ran through his voice. Liz was the most in-control woman he’d ever met. If she was upset enough to let her emotions show, there was a major problem.

“Not physically.” The sound of a deep breath being drawn came over the line. When she continued, she sounded more like herself. “A month ago, Cara and another chef named Tony were leaving the restaurant after hours, and they were accosted in the parking lot by a robber. When Tony tried to resist, the guy shot him. He died before the ambulance got there.”

A muscle in Sam’s jaw clenched. Cara had witnessed a murder—and possibly faced death herself. If he hadn’t made a mess of their marriage, he’d have been there for her through this trauma. Instead, she’d had to deal with it—and the aftermath—alone.

“Tell me…” He stopped and cleared his throat, then tried again. “Tell me about Cara.”

“She tried to go back to work a few days after the shooting, but when she had a panic attack in the kitchen the owner suggested she take a little time off. The thing is, though, she’s not getting any better. She rarely leaves her apartment, and never at night. She’s anxious in the dark and can’t sleep when she’s by herself. She has persistent nightmares. I found that out when she stayed with us at the beginning. But now she thinks she’s wearing out her welcome…as if that was possible! Anyway, I know she’s still not sleeping.”

Post-traumatic stress disorder. It was an easy diagnosis, but a difficult condition to treat. Sam had learned enough about it in the past couple of years to write a book. “Does her family know about any of this?”

“No. She said they all have enough on their plates, and since she wasn’t hurt there was no need to upset them.”

That sounded like Cara. She’d always put other people’s needs above her own. The best example of that was when she’d stood by him after his own trauma, despite the verbal abuse he’d heaped on her. Perhaps now he could return the favor by being there for her as she had been for him. If she’d let him.

“I’ll help in any way I can, Liz. What did you have in mind?” If he followed his instincts, he’d jump on the next plane to Philadelphia and show up at her door. Except she’d probably slam it in his face.

“I do have an idea. But it may not be convenient for you.”

Based on his history, Liz’s comment was fair. Sam knew he’d been selfish and self-absorbed and far too egotistical in the past. But things had changed. “That won’t be an issue.”

She mulled that over for a few seconds. “Okay. But it all hinges on whether or not you’re…involved…with anyone.”

The comment was like a slap. “I’m still married to Cara, Liz.”

“Yeah. I know.”

But that didn’t stop you before.

She didn’t have to say the words. Sam heard them anyway. His neck grew warm, and his mouth settled into a grim line. “There isn’t anyone else, Liz. There never really was.”

“Right.” Without giving him a chance to respond to her sarcasm, she continued. “So what kind of living arrangement do you have there?”

“What do you mean?”

“House, apartment, condo?”

“House.”

“Good. Okay, here’s what I’m thinking. Cara needs somewhere safe to stay for a while, far away from the city. If you have room for her—and I mean that literally, as in a private room of her own—I think a small-town atmosphere in the heartland would be a perfect place for her to recover. But the last thing she needs is for someone to make her feel that she’s imposing. Nor could she handle anger—for any reason. She needs understanding and security and safety.”

Turning toward the window, Sam stared out into the darkness. Twelve years ago, when he and Cara married, he’d planned to give her all those things. But the image of her white, shocked face and shattered expression on that fateful night sixteen months ago reminded him how badly he’d failed. It was seared into his brain, the memory still powerful enough to clench his gut. To leave the bitter tang of regret on his tongue. To compel him to find a way to fix the damage and start anew, just as his skilled hands had once given his patients new life through surgery.

Maybe this was his chance.

“I can give her those things, Liz. And more.”

His quiet, intense response seemed to surprise his wife’s best friend. “Okay. I’m already going to be in the doghouse for calling you. I can live with that if my idea helps her. But not if I end up sending her to a situation worse than the one she’s in.”

Although he knew Liz had a poor opinion of him, that comment rankled. “I’m not a monster. And despite what you might believe, I still love Cara. Yes, I made some mistakes. Bad ones—which I’ll regret as long as I live. But people do change. I promise you that while Cara is here, I’ll do everything I can to help her recover. No one wants that more than me. I have three bedrooms, and one of them is empty. She’s welcome to stay as long as she wants to.”

“If you can convince her to come. And that’s a big if.”

“I’ll find a way.”

His conviction seemed to impress Liz. A slight, almost imperceptible warmth crept into her voice. “I hope you do, Sam. Good luck.”

With a troubled expression, Sam hung up the phone and pushed through the screen door to his back porch. The warmth of the early June evening was pleasant, with none of the mugginess that characterized typical Missouri nights later in the summer. A clear sky promised a fair tomorrow, the stars bright overhead, the moon full. The scent of honeysuckle wafted through the still night air, sweet and fresh. At the back of the property, a slight breeze whispered in the woods, and the faint echo of a steady whistle sounded as a distant train moved purposefully toward its destination.

The peaceful setting did little to calm Sam’s roiling emotions, however. An hour ago, as he’d driven home through the dense night, he’d been no closer to a solution to his dilemma with Cara than he had been more than a year before, when she’d left him. Now an opportunity had been dropped in his lap.

But at Cara’s expense.

Closing his eyes, Sam forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath as he tried to sort out his feelings. He could identify anger in the volatile mix. Directed at the perpetrator of a crime that had cost one man his life and scarred his wife psychologically. Guilt was jumbled in there, too. If he hadn’t messed things up, he would have been there for Cara during this crisis. And there was also a healthy dose of compassion. No one understood the horror and trauma of the situation Cara had experienced better than him. He’d been there. He could empathize, and he wanted to help.

But the main reason he wanted her to come to Missouri was far simpler than that. He still loved her. As far as he was concerned, that alone justified her visit.

Yet Liz was right. Convincing Cara of that wasn’t going to be easy. They’d had almost no direct communication since the night she’d left him, nor had he seen her. The sale of their condo had been handled by a real estate firm, business and financial matters by lawyers. When he’d tried to call her, he’d always gotten her answering machine. The flowers and cards he’d sent in the first few months had gone unacknowledged. It was clear that she wanted no contact with him.

And Sam didn’t have a clue how to change her mind. His surgical skill had been almost intuitive. He was far less able when it came to matters of the heart. As the months had slipped by, his hopes for a reconciliation had dimmed. Yet he’d clung to them as fiercely as a drowning man clasps a life preserver, unable to accept that his marriage was over.

He’d been desperate enough to even consider asking God for help. But whatever tenuous connection he’d once felt with the Almighty had been severed by the tragic events that had robbed him of the career he prized and the woman he loved. In the end, turning to God for assistance hadn’t been an option.

But now that an unexpected opportunity had been dropped into his lap, he wasn’t going to let it slip away. If he couldn’t convince Cara by phone to come, he’d fly to Philadelphia and camp on her doorstep. According to Liz, she needed help. And he intended to give it to her.

Nevertheless, he acknowledged the validity of Liz’s final comment. He would need a lot of luck to pull this off. And maybe something more.

Maybe he needed God after all.

It had been years since Sam had prayed with any real conviction or sincerity. When he and Cara had married, his faith had been a matter of going through the motions. He’d been arrogant enough in the old days to think he didn’t need the Almighty. Given his past conceit and lack of piousness, he doubted he was even on the Lord’s radar screen anymore.

But this might be the only chance he got to reconnect with his wife, and he was going to need all the help he could get—not only to convince Cara to come to Oak Hill, but to help restore a sense of normalcy to her life. He couldn’t blow it. Raising his gaze to the star-studded sky, he sent a silent plea heavenward.

Lord, if You’re listening, I want You to know that I’m not asking for Your help for me, but for Cara. Please show me how to reach her. Open her heart to my invitation so that I can help her overcome her fear and regain her trust. Much as I want to rebuild our relationship, it’s more important right now for her to heal. And if that’s all I can accomplish, Lord, then please…help me put aside my own selfish needs and accept that it’s enough. But if You can see Your way to let me win back her love, I would be forever grateful.

Chapter Two

“Cara, if you’re there, please pick up. It’s important.”

Shocked, Cara stared at her answering machine. Although Sam hadn’t identified himself, nor had he called in quite a while, years could go by—decades, even—and she’d recognize his mellow, resonant voice. She’d always liked the way it sounded first thing in the morning, husky from sleep and oh-so-appealing.

And it was definitely first thing in the morning in Missouri, she confirmed, checking the clock on her kitchen counter. Six o’clock, in fact. He must have rung her as soon as he got up. Not that the early hour mattered. Sleeping at night was next to impossible. Every little sound seemed magnified—and threatening—in the dark.

“Cara, are you there?”

With a start, she realized that he was still on the line, waiting to see if she’d pick up. Well, he’d find out soon enough she wasn’t going to. Let him leave a message if it was that important.

“Okay, I’m hanging up. But I plan to keep calling until we connect.”

As the line went dead, his last word echoed in her mind. Connect. How ironic that he would use that term, Cara mused, her shoulders collapsing in a weary slump as she leaned back against the countertop. They hadn’t connected in years. Not since their careers had taken off and their lives had gone in different directions.

And she was as much to blame for their drifting apart as he was, she acknowledged. She’d been just as ambitious as Sam, just as driven to excel at her profession. She’d worked until late at night. He’d been gone when she got up in the morning. Weekends, when he had a few spare minutes, were her busiest days. So he filled them with more work. And little by little he’d become more distracted as the demands of his surgical career mushroomed and his prestige grew. Busy with her own career as a chef, Cara hadn’t noticed the widening gulf between them—until the year he’d forgotten their anniversary. Worse, he hadn’t seemed to care.

His indifference had hurt. And it had served as a wake-up call for her. After praying about it and considering a number of options, Cara had waited for a night when Sam came home early. Once she’d had his attention, she’d laid her proposal on the table: She would take a job with more reasonable hours in a lesser-known restaurant if he would reduce his patient caseload to allow them to spend more time together. While such a radical change would require sacrifices, she’d been convinced that it would be worth it to save their marriage.

Not only had he refused to consider her suggestion, he’d plunged more deeply into his work.

That was when she’d known they were in big trouble.

In time, perhaps she would have found another way to salvage their relationship, Cara reflected. But then tragedy had struck, leaving Sam crippled in both body and spirit. Told he would never operate again, he’d made her the target of his bitterness. Sustained by prayer, she could have endured even that, clinging to the hope that a brighter day would dawn. But when confronted by the evidence of his ultimate betrayal, that hope had died. Devastated, she’d tucked the fragments of love that remained for him deep in her heart and moved on with her life. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d coped.

Until a month ago.

Closing her eyes, Cara drew an unsteady breath. Thank God, she’d had Liz! Every time fear had started to choke her, Liz had helped her breathe. Every time the world began to crumble beneath her feet and she lost her balance, Liz had held out a steadying hand. Every time a panic attack gripped her, Liz had talked her through it. In the past month, her friend had changed her plans for Cara’s sake more often than prices fluctuated at the gas pump.

Yet despite Liz’s support, and much to Cara’s surprise, it was often Sam who crept uninvited—and unwanted—into her thoughts. For the past month, the memories of their early days together had been vivid in her mind, days when a mere touch of his hand or one of his warm smiles could chase away her problems. And despite her best efforts, she’d been unable to squelch a powerful yearning for the secure, sheltering haven of his arms.

How odd that he would call now, when she felt more fragile and vulnerable than ever before. It was also dangerous, she warned herself. Sam wasn’t the answer to her problems. He’d been the problem in the past. Rekindling the ashes of their long-dead relationship was not an option.

Pushing thoughts of the past aside, she reached for a mug from a hook above the counter. But as she grasped the cool ceramic handle, the sudden ringing of the phone startled her and her hand jerked. The mug slipped from her fingers, shattering on the unforgiving tile at her feet.

“Cara, it’s Sam again. I’m going to keep calling until you answer. I need to talk with you. Please pick up.”

Glancing from the jagged shards strewn across the floor to the clock, Cara struggled to regulate her breathing. He’d only waited ten minutes before calling back. Did he plan to keep this up all day? Please, God, no! Her nerves couldn’t take it.

When the line went dead at last, Cara knelt and began to pick up the remnants of her favorite mug. As she collected the pieces, sudden tears stung her eyes and she swiped at them angrily. She wasn’t going to cry about a stupid mug. She wasn’t! She’d never been a weepy person. Even during the final difficult months with Sam, she’d never cried. Yet for the past four weeks, the smallest thing could trigger a flood of tears—further evidence of her unsettled emotional state. And she was tired of it! Tired of jumping at the slightest noise. Tired of feeling out of control.

But she didn’t know how to break the cycle of fear. Even prayer, once such a steadying influence, hadn’t been able to calm her. Still, she clung to the belief that things would return to normal. That, at some point, she’d be able to deal with the aftereffects of the trauma, go back to work, move on with her life. She had to believe that. Because she couldn’t continue like this.

As she deposited the broken mug in the trash, the phone rang again. Once more Sam’s voice echoed in the silent, empty room, leaving the same message.

Though her curiosity was piqued by his persistence, Cara steeled herself to his words. Eventually he’d tire of the game and leave a message. She could wait.

An hour later, after turning up the radio while she took a long, hot shower and blow-dried her hair, Cara returned to the kitchen to find the message light on her answering machine blinking, the number eight illuminated on the digital display. Meaning he’d called six times in the past sixty minutes. She replayed the messages, but they were all the same. None contained a clue about the purpose of his call.

After hitting the delete button, Cara was starting to turn away when the phone rang again. She was prepared to ignore it until Liz spoke.

“Hi, Cara. Sorry to call this early, but I figured you’d be up and—”

Lunging for the phone, Cara snatched it out of the cradle. “Liz? Sorry. I thought you were…someone else.”

There was a momentary hesitation, and when Liz responded her tone was cautious. “Who?”

“You’re not going to believe this.” Cara perched on a stool by the counter. “Sam’s been calling. Every ten minutes, starting about an hour and a half ago.” When silence greeted her news, a puzzled frown creased Cara’s brow. “Liz? Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Have you talked to him?”

“Of course not!”

“Did he leave a message?”

“Just that he needs to talk to me. And that he’ll keep calling until I answer.”

Silence again.

A tingle of suspicion began to niggle at the edges of Cara’s consciousness, and her grip on the phone tightened. “Liz? Do you know something about this?”

The heavy sigh that came over the line gave Cara her answer even before Liz spoke. “Look, Cara, I’m sorry. I’ve been so worried about you…I didn’t know who else to call, since your family was off-limits.”

It took a few seconds for Liz’s meaning to register. But only a heartbeat more for Cara’s disbelief to morph into anger—and accusation. “You called Sam?”

“I thought he could help. You need to get away from here, Cara. Sam lives in a small town in the heartland. He has an extra room in his house. You’d be safe there.”

“I can’t believe this! What did you tell him?” Cara’s voice rose, shrill and bordering on hysteria, as she vaulted to her feet.

“Just the basics of what happened. Cara, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

There was a trace of tears in Liz’s words, but Cara ignored her friend’s distress, clamping her lips shut.

“You can’t go back to work, you don’t sleep, you have nightmares, you won’t go out at night.” Liz laid out her case in the stony silence that hung on the line. “I have to drag you out of the apartment even in the daylight. That’s not normal.”

The truth of Liz’s words did nothing to ease Cara’s anger. How could Liz do this to her? Of all people, Liz knew how Cara felt about her husband. Her friend had witnessed the incident that had delivered the fatal blow to their marriage. As far as Cara was concerned, the only difference between the two betrayals was that Liz’s intentions had been good. But as conventional wisdom was fond of pointing out, the road to a certain undesirable location was paved with those.

“I saw a murder.” Cara choked on the word, and her fingers clenched around the phone. “It takes time to recover from trauma like that.”

“Sometimes it also takes professional help. But you won’t consider that.”

That was true, Cara conceded. She’d always been a strong person, and she’d been convinced she could work through the aftermath of the attack on her own. But the depth and power of her trauma had overwhelmed her. Despite her best efforts, she wasn’t making any progress.

“Since you won’t get professional help, a change of scene might be a good thing,” Liz pressed, when Cara didn’t reply. “What better place than small-town America, where people don’t even feel a need to lock their doors? Sam has a spare bedroom in his house that he’s willing to let you use. I think you should consider it.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Yes, I am.”

“You want me to live under the same roof with the man who…” Cara stopped, too shocked by the absurdity of the suggestion to complete the thought.

“I know it’s kind of awkward, but…”

“Awkward? That doesn’t even come close to describing the scenario you’re proposing!” Once more, a touch of hysteria sharpened Cara’s voice.

“Okay, maybe this is weird. No, scratch that. It is weird,” Liz admitted. “But as far as I’m concerned, the situation is desperate. The thing is, Cara, Sam can offer you a safe place to stay until you feel stronger. Think of it this way. He owes you after all he put you through. No matter how you feel about him, at least he’ll be a warm body in the house at night so you can feel safe enough to sleep. And during the day, when he’s at work, you’ll have the place to yourself. It’s a good plan. And Sam is willing.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is he willing?”

“Who knows? Guilt, maybe?” In truth, Liz thought it was more than that. But she wasn’t about to share that intuition with Cara. Her friend would turn tail and run in the opposite direction if she suspected Sam had other—more personal—reasons for extending the invitation. “What does it matter? Just consider it a safe place to stay for a few weeks.”

Safe, Cara reflected. That depended on your definition of the word. In a physical sense, Liz might be right. But given her precarious emotional state, and the too-prominent role Sam had played in her wayward musings this past month, Cara wasn’t at all sure about the security of her heart. She’d have to constantly remind herself that she and Sam could never recapture the closeness they’d once shared. That there had been too many hurts, too much betrayal. If she went, she couldn’t harbor any illusions. Sam’s home would be a place to recuperate. Nothing more.

If she went.

A shock wave rippled through Cara. When had she started to even consider the trip an option? She groped for the counter and eased back onto the stool, suddenly shaky.

“Cara?” An uncertain note crept into Liz’s voice. “Hey, I had your best interest at heart. I’m sorry if I made a mistake. You know how much our friendship means to me, and I was aware of the risk when I called Sam. But I couldn’t figure out any other way to help you. Please don’t hate me, okay?”

For fifteen years—since the day they’d met at a contemporary art exhibit both had been dragged to by their respective dates, only to find themselves laughing together in the ladies’ room at the abstract, over-the-top junk that was being passed off as fine art—Liz had been like a second sister to Cara. Their friendship had been cemented long before either had married. How could she hold Liz’s actions against her when she knew that her friend had been motivated by love?

“It’s okay, Liz.” Cara closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath as she struggled to sort through her emotions. “This whole thing is just bizarre. Kind of like my life of late. I have to admit that I’m starting to feel a little like Job. But I’ve lost so much…I don’t want to lose you, too. You saved my life this past month.”

“Then you’ll at least think about my idea?”

Propping her elbow on the counter, Cara pushed her hair back from her face and cupped her chin in her palm. She blinked, her eyes gritty with fatigue, as a shaft of bright morning light slanted through the window. Maybe a good night’s sleep was reason enough to visit Sam.

“I’ll pray about it, Liz.”

“Sounds like a plan. And the sooner the better. I’ll do the same.”

As they hung up, Cara hoped Liz would honor her parting promise. Because this decision wouldn’t be easy. And she was going to need all the guidance she could get.

Sam hit redial and checked his watch. He’d been at this phone game for three hours now, and Cara still wasn’t answering. According to Liz, she rarely left her apartment, so he figured she was there—unless she’d gone to church. A good possibility, he realized, since regular worship was part of her routine. He could count on one hand the number of Sunday services she’d missed during their marriage.

The call went through, and Sam counted the rings. One. If she had gone to church, she should be home by now. Two. That meant she was ignoring him. Three. It looked like he might have to implement Plan B—get on a plane to Philadelphia and show up on her doorstep. Four.

Expecting the answering machine to kick in, he started to take a breath to leave a message when a live greeting came over the line. “Hello?”

The air whooshed out of his lungs.

“Hello?” Cara repeated when the silence lengthened.

He gulped in some oxygen. “Cara? It’s Sam.”

“I figured it might be.” Her voice was as taut as a rubber band about to snap.

“Sorry about all the messages. It finally dawned on me that you must be at church.”

“No.”

His eyebrows rose. “You never miss.”

“I’ve skipped the past few Sundays.”

He didn’t have to ask why. But if Cara was too nervous to go out even for services, Liz hadn’t exaggerated his wife’s trauma—or her need for help. Convincing her to let him provide it, however, was going to be a formidable challenge. He tried to think of some way to lead up to the purpose of his call, but in the end decided to plunge in. Why pretend that this was a normal conversation when they both knew it wasn’t?

“I talked to Liz,” he said without preamble.

“I know. She called me this morning.”

Unsure whether that was good or bad, Sam tested the waters. “She told you about our conversation?”

“Yes.”

When silence followed her single-word response, Sam realized that she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. “I’m sorry for all you’ve been through, Cara.”

Soft and caring, his comment took her off guard. It reminded her of the way he’d talked to her early in their marriage. Perhaps he’d learned a thing or two about empathy since their parting, Cara mused. She hoped so. For his sake.

“I survived.” Her response came out a bit more curt than she intended, but maybe that was good. She didn’t want Sam to think her feelings toward him had softened one iota during the months they’d been apart. Nor did she want to prolong this painful conversation.

He got the message. And got to the point. “Based on what Liz told me about your experience, I think her plan has merit. A change of scene, and a move to a safe environment, could speed the emotional healing process. I have a three-bedroom house, and one of the bedrooms is empty. You’re welcome to use it for as long as you like.”

Since her conversation with Liz, Cara had forced herself to consider the situation from a practical standpoint. And she’d done some intense praying. When she’d answered the phone, she’d been prepared to accept his offer.

But now that the moment had arrived, she hesitated. It had been one thing to decide on a course of action in the abstract, and another altogether to follow through when his warm, caring voice was already wreaking havoc with her unsettled emotions. If she reacted this way talking to him by phone, how in the world would she manage when she was living in his house?

Still, he’d be gone a great deal—working all day and well into the evening, if old patterns held. Their paths didn’t have to cross that much. She had plenty of books she’d been wanting to read, and that could occupy her at night until he returned and she could go to sleep. It should be fine. Just because their marriage had fallen apart didn’t mean they couldn’t be adult enough to treat each other with civility for a few weeks.

“Okay.”

Prepared to argue his case, Sam was taken aback by her easy acquiescence. “You’re coming?” he clarified.

“Yes.”

A surge of elation washed over him, but he did his best to maintain a steady tone as he responded. “Good. When?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll make the arrangements and let you know.”

“Will you be okay making the trip alone?”

“I’ll manage.”

Her reassurance didn’t assuage his worry. He knew how debilitating panic attacks could be—as could the other symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. But he also knew that if he got too protective, she might back off. Even cancel her trip. And he couldn’t risk that.

“Okay. I’ll look forward to seeing you, Cara.” Try as he might, he couldn’t keep a touch of warmth from creeping into his voice. And her warning note when she responded told him she hadn’t missed it.

“I’m only looking for a place to stay, Sam. Nothing more.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll be in touch.” Without waiting for him to reply, Cara hung up.

As she picked up a now-tepid cup of tea, it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t thanked him for his invitation. Perhaps because she wasn’t sure he was doing her any favors, she speculated. While her visit might be precisely what she needed to start her on the road to recovery, it could also turn out to be a disaster. Time would tell, she supposed. Until then, she’d just have to put the outcome in God’s hands.

And pray she hadn’t made the biggest mistake of her life.

Chapter Three

Wiping his hands on a damp rag, Sam reached for the can of soda balanced on the rungs of the ladder. As he took a long swallow, he gave the finished bedroom a satisfied survey. In the four days since Cara had agreed to come, he’d transformed the bland, beige room into an oasis. The walls were the exact shade of aquamarine his wife favored, and he’d given the dark woodwork three coats of semigloss white enamel to brighten up the space. Once he moved in the furniture, the bedroom would be a welcoming haven.

And he wanted his wife to feel welcome…even if he couldn’t say the words.

A headache began to throb in his temples, and he moved to the window to raise the sash higher, hoping to lessen the smell of paint fumes. As he took in a deep breath of fresh air scented with new-mown grass, he recalled a conversation he’d had with Cara on their second date, after she’d teased him about his quietness.

“I was a home-schooled only child,” he’d explained as they strolled to his car after attending a concert. He’d been tempted to take her hand, but fear that she’d reject his overture had held him back. Instead, he’d stuck his hands in his pockets. “It was a very solitary upbringing. Mom was great at teaching me math and English and science, but I never had much opportunity to learn social skills.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she’d responded, her deep green eyes sparking with mischief as she tucked her hand through his arm with a natural ease he could only envy. “You may not be the smoothest talker I’ve ever met, but you managed to get me to go out with you.”

“That was pure luck. Just like our meeting. If you hadn’t given me a megawatt smile when you came over to our table that night at the request of my date, I don’t think I would have had the guts to ask you out.”

“It took a lot more dinners before you did. How many nights in a row did you eat at the restaurant? Six?”

“Ten. And I have the credit card bill to prove it.”

“I’m sure your date rues the day she sent her compliments to the kitchen and insisted on meeting the chef.” Cara had grinned at him.

“It was just a blind date, anyway.”

“Are you serious?”

He’d felt her curious gaze and responded with a diffident shrug, hoping the lights from the shops they were passing weren’t strong enough to illuminate his face. “Yes. A well-meaning coworker was determined to beef up my lackluster social life.”

“You don’t date much?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean?” He’d been at a total loss about how to interpret her response. And in truth he hadn’t been sure he wanted to. But her next words had reassured him.

“It means I’m honored you asked me out. I like you, Sam Martin. And as for the communication thing, we can work on that together, don’t you think?”

He’d agreed, Sam recalled, as he downed the last of his soda and tapped the lid of the paint can back into place. He’d have agreed to almost anything Cara asked in those days, when the heady euphoria of new love had warmed his heart and added a dazzling brightness to his days.

But with thirteen years hindsight, he knew he hadn’t held up his end of the bargain. When things had gotten tough, he’d reverted to old habits and shut down, destroying the marriage that had been the best thing in his life.

Gathering up the drop cloth and painting supplies, Sam gave the empty room one more swift scan. Soon it would be occupied by the woman he loved. Soon she would eat in his kitchen, walk through his garden, watch his television. Soon she would be back in his life.

And he intended to do everything in his power to convince her that that was where she belonged.

For always.

Flicking a glance in the rearview mirror, Cara edged into the exit lane on I-44 at Cuba, Missouri. So far, the drive had gone without a hitch. Not that she was surprised, given the brief but precise directions Sam had e-mailed her shortly after their phone conversation seven days ago. He had always been a stickler for accuracy, an attribute that had served him well as a surgeon, Cara reflected. His spare communication style, on the other hand, hadn’t mattered a great deal in his medical specialty, given the limited interaction surgeons had with patients. But it wasn’t good for establishing—or maintaining—relationships.

Recognizing that, Sam had made a concerted effort to be more communicative in the early days of their marriage, sharing both the events of his day and his feelings with her, even though that had been difficult for him. But later, as they’d grown apart, he’d gone back to his old ways, withdrawing into himself and sharing little of his life…and less of his emotions.

Once, Cara had believed she held the key to unlock his heart, that she could help him release the deeper feelings she knew were trapped inside. She’d tapped into them often enough to nourish her soul, to remind her that this often silent, solitary man loved her with an intensity that could take her breath away. Had their lives followed a different path, she felt sure they could have laid the groundwork for a solid marriage that would have endured.

But long before that foundation was established, life had intervened. Careers, commitments and demands had left neither of them with enough spare time or energy for the task. In the months preceding Sam’s tragedy, they’d become less like loving spouses and more like strangers who lived under the same roof.

Fighting back a wave of melancholy, Cara forced herself to focus on the rural Missouri landscape around her on this mid-June Sunday. Rolling hills, green fields and forested knolls created a restful ambience that was a world removed from the hustle and bustle of Philadelphia—and from the stresses of her trip, which had been magnified a hundredfold by her unsettled emotions.

Oak Hill, and its quiet Main Street, offered yet another contrast to big-city life. A mere two blocks long, it reminded her of a Norman Rockwell painting, complete with soda fountain, feed store, single-screen movie theater and a homespun-looking café called Gus’s.

She slowed as she approached the cross street at the end of the compact business district. Glancing to the left, she noted an elementary school, church, city hall and a few businesses tucked among residential properties. Swiveling her head the other way, she spotted a police station, newspaper office, more houses, a tiny library—and Sam’s office.

This was it. He’d told her to turn here, pass his office, continue for another quarter mile, then make a left onto his street.

A sudden, familiar anxiety swept over her as she swung the wheel to the right, escalating with a rapidity that always frightened her. Since the robbery, she’d had these panic attacks far too often. In most cases, they struck for no reason. Today, however, she could pinpoint the cause: coming face-to-face with the man who had stolen her heart—and broken it.

Yet identifying the source of her alarm did nothing to stop her hands from shaking or to dispel the dizziness that swept over her. Gripping the wheel, she eased back on the gas pedal, willing herself to focus on the road as she traversed the short distance to Sam’s street.

When she made the final turn and the house he’d described came into view, however, the shaking became so severe that she was forced to pull to the side of the road or risk losing control. She sensed danger here as surely as she’d sensed it that night at the restaurant parking lot, when a prickle at the base of her spine had alerted her to trouble—seconds too late.

Well, it wasn’t too late now. She could still turn around. Go back to Philly.

But that would put her no closer to a solution to her problem than she’d been before, she acknowledged. Short of seeking professional counseling, this was the only option that seemed to offer even a remote chance of jump-starting her recovery. If things didn’t work out, she could always try therapy. But she’d disappoint both herself and Liz if she didn’t give this a chance.

As she struggled to get her breathing under control, Cara studied the modest bungalow that Sam now called home. In contrast to the condo they’d shared in the fashionable Society Hill area of Philadelphia, the house was simple and unpretentious. Constructed of redbrick and stone, with a generous front porch, it looked to date from the forties or fifties. Stately oak trees in the large yard sheltered the dwelling, and a climbing rosebush covered with profuse pink blossoms cascaded over a white lattice arbor on the side.

It looked homey, Cara reflected. The kind of place that would welcome you back after a long day. And it looked safe, just as Sam had promised. More than anything, that appealed to Cara. If she could feel secure here, maybe this would be the answer to her prayers after all.

Putting her trust in the Lord, Cara shifted the car back into gear and moved forward.

Not until the car started to roll again did Sam exhale.

He’d been standing at the edge of the large picture window in his living room for the past fifteen minutes, watching for Cara. Her plane had landed on schedule—he’d checked. He’d calculated the approximate time it would take her to claim luggage and pick up her rental car. He knew the precise duration of the drive from the airport to Oak Hill. She was right on schedule.

When the unfamiliar car had stopped at the end of his street, however, he’d panicked. Assuming it was Cara, he’d been prepared to bolt from the house and run after her if she got cold feet and turned around.

Much to his relief, that hadn’t happened.

Yet.

But it still could, he conceded. And if it did, he’d deal with it. In the meantime, he had other problems to worry about, the most pressing one being the worst case of nerves he’d had since the night he’d proposed.

Sam knew this was his last chance to repair the damage he’d inflicted on their marriage. He also knew he had to be prudent and careful in his approach. If Cara discovered his hidden agenda, she’d disappear as quickly as the deer he sometimes startled on the rural roads he often traversed. The operative words were patience, consideration and—most important of all, he reminded himself—communication. His weakness. He’d never been very good at expressing his feelings, but he was even willing to ask the Almighty for help in overcoming that impediment if that’s what it took to win back his wife.

The car slowed to a stop in front of his house, and he watched as Cara opened the door and exited, as eager for his first glimpse of her as a sea-weary sailor is for the sight of land.

She stood beside the car for a few seconds, giving Sam a chance to savor her shoulder-length, springy red curls. Burnished by the late-afternoon sun, the color was as glorious and full of life as he remembered. Then she reached for her handbag, slung it over her shoulder and moved around the front of the car.

When she started up the curving stone walkway toward his front door, Sam shifted back a bit into the shadows and continued to scrutinize her. Black slacks hugged her trim hips, and her soft, black-and-white-striped knit top hinted at her curves. A smile whispered at the corners of his mouth as he recalled the way he used to tease her about being a slender chef, suggesting that a slim figure wasn’t a good advertisement for her culinary skills. She’d always countered by saying that it demonstrated her remarkable discipline, yet never failed to lament that she could afford to lose a few pounds.

Well, she couldn’t afford to anymore, he realized, his smile fading as the setting sun backlit her, emphasizing her too-willowy five-foot-six silhouette. She’d lost more than a few pounds since he’d last seen her. Too many, in fact. And as she drew closer, he saw other indications of the toll the stress had taken on her. Her face, though a bit pale, was as beautiful as always, the smooth forehead, pert nose, soft, full lips, and strong, determined chin just as he remembered. And her startling green eyes were still fringed by those amazing long lashes. But the shadows beneath them, along with the tense line of her jaw and her taut lips, provided clear evidence of the lingering effects of her recent trauma.

Thanks to Oak Hill’s sheriff, Dale Lewis, Sam now had a better handle on the incident that had triggered Cara’s visit. After years on the police force in L.A., Dale had law enforcement contacts all over the country—including Philly. At Sam’s request, he’d been able to get a police report on the incident and recap it for Sam.

According to the investigating officer’s write-up, Cara and her coworker, Tony, had been the last to leave the restaurant that night. As they crossed the parking lot, a masked gunman had accosted them, demanding their money. While Cara had handed over her purse at once, Tony had balked. As a result, the perpetrator had grabbed Cara, put the gun to her head and told Tony to toss his wallet on the ground or she’d be history. Tony had complied, but as the robber pushed Cara aside and reached for the wallet, Tony had lunged at him. The man had shot Tony, then run off.

A passerby heard the gunfire and called the police, but by the time they arrived Tony was dead. No suspects had yet been arrested. Cara had been questioned but could remember few details of the shooting, and the assailant’s mask prevented her from making an ID. However, with her purse in hand, he could identify her.

Dale’s summary had left Sam with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. If the gunman had been high, or desperate for a fix, or worried about witnesses despite his mask, he could have shot Cara, too. Killed her. The very possibility caused Sam’s blood to run cold. And strengthened his resolve to do whatever it took to let her know how much he cherished her, and how sorry he was for the mess he’d made of things.

As Cara stepped up to the door, Sam rubbed his hands down his jeans. Even before the highest-stake surgeries, he’d never gotten sweaty palms. He’d been sure of his ability to save lives. But he wasn’t anywhere near as confident in his relationship skills as he was wielding a scalpel. Especially when his future was on the line.

Moving to the door, Sam took a steadying breath and pulled it wide, forcing his stiff lips to curve into the semblance of a smile. “Hello, Cara. Welcome.”

Her finger poised to ring the bell, Cara froze.

When the silence lengthened, Sam spoke again. “I’m glad you made it safe and sound. Come in.” He stepped aside.

“I left my things in the car, and I didn’t lock it.” She cast an uncertain look over her shoulder.

“They’ll be fine. You’re not in Philly anymore. I’ll get them in a few minutes.” Though she appeared unconvinced, she stepped over the threshold. “Did you have any problem finding your way?”

“No. You were always good at giving directions.”

But not other things. Sam almost voiced that thought, then restrained the impulse. It was too soon to get so personal. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No. I’d prefer to get settled in and unpack.”

“Of course. You’ve had a long day.” He’d worried how she would cope with the stresses of the trip, but aside from her slight pallor, she seemed okay. “Let me show you around, then I’ll get your things.”

He gave her a quick tour of the house—the sunny kitchen with attached breakfast room that overlooked a private backyard; the back porch, inviting but bare; an empty dining room; an underfurnished living room featuring a lone couch in front of the fireplace with a table, lamp and straight chair beside it; his uncluttered office. He identified a closed door as his bedroom when they passed, but didn’t pause until they reached the last room at the end of the hall. Stepping aside, he ushered her in. “I hope this will be okay.”

Based on the sparse furnishings in the rest of the house, Cara wasn’t expecting much. Certainly nothing like the exquisite room waiting for her when she stepped over the threshold.

The walls were washed in her favorite shade of aquamarine, the smell of fresh paint still in the air. A queen-size brass bed sported an ivory dust ruffle and a comforter in a Monet-like print in shades of blue, green and lavender. A matching valance hung over the large window. There was an overstuffed chair, a reading lamp, a small TV and an antique walnut dresser with a large oval mirror above it. A cut-crystal vase of old-fashioned pink roses graced the nightstand, their fragrance wafting through the room.

“There’s a private bath, too.” Sam followed her in and swung open a door to reveal a spacious, modern bath replete with granite countertops and fluffy towels.

Stunned, Cara could only gape at the lovely suite she knew he’d prepared just for her.

“If there’s anything else you need, I hope you’ll feel free to let me know.”

After living with Sam for ten years, Cara was familiar with every nuance of his voice. She heard the uncertainty now, sensed his tension and trepidation. This couldn’t be easy for him, either, she realized, whatever his motives might be. There was too much history between them to allow a comfortable co-existence. At the very least her presence would disrupt his life, alter his routine. Yet he’d gone out of his way to make her feel welcome.

She looked around again, troubled by something about the arrangement. Then it hit her. Considering the attached bath, this had to be the master suite.

Frowning, she turned to him. “Was this your room?”

A dismissive shrug preceded his words. “It was more space than I needed.”

“I can’t take your room.”

“It’s done, Cara. These aren’t my colors. I’m more an earth-tones kind of guy.” A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Just enjoy it.”

At his unexpected generosity, her throat tightened with an emotion so long absent from her life that it took her a moment to identify it.

Tenderness.

And that wasn’t good. Sam could be charming; he’d demonstrated that early in their relationship. But she knew about his other qualities, too. The self-absorbed preoccupation that had changed into bitterness after his life was turned upside down, and an anger so cold and hard, so close to violence, that it had frightened her and made living with him stressful and difficult. It would be wise to remember those aspects of his personality if she found her attitude toward him beginning to soften.

“I appreciate all you did. I didn’t expect you to go to any trouble on my behalf.” Her voice sounded stiff even to her own ears. But if Sam noticed her sudden aloofness, he let it pass.

“It was no trouble. I’ll get your bags.”

Before she had a chance to regroup, he was back, her carry-on and larger suitcase in tow. “Shall I leave these by the closet?” he asked.

“Yes. Thanks.”

Setting them down, he turned to her. “When I did rounds at the medical center in Rolla earlier I picked up some Chinese food for tonight. I hope that’s okay. Oak Hill has many attributes, but fine dining isn’t among them. There’s a Middle Eastern restaurant, but the food’s a bit spicy for my taste. And of course, there’s Gus’s. Okay for a turkey sandwich now and then, but I wouldn’t recommend it for much more. He only knows one way to cook—deep fried.” Once more, the whisper of a smile teased his lips.

“Chinese sounds good. Thank you. But I can take care of my own meals after today.”

“However you want to arrange things is fine with me, Cara.”

His gentle response to her defensive comment made her feel like an ingrate. She tried again. “It’s just that I don’t want to upset your routine any more than necessary. It might be easier if we each do our own thing.”

“Sure.” He headed back to the door, pausing on the threshold. “I’ll be in my office. Let me know when you’d like dinner. I’m in no hurry if you want to take a shower or a quick nap first.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and closed the door behind him.

For several minutes, Cara stood unmoving, overwhelmed by Sam’s efforts to welcome her—and more than a little nervous about his motives. He’d gone way above and beyond simple hospitality. You didn’t vacate, redecorate and furnish a master suite for a mere guest. When she’d agreed to come, all she’d been looking for was a simple room in a safe place where she could begin to put the nightmare of the murder behind her. She didn’t need—or want—any complications. And she’d been clear about that with Sam. He knew where she stood. If he was expecting anything more, that was his problem.

Suddenly weary, Cara slipped off her shoes and sat on the bed, tempted by Sam’s suggestion of a quick nap. It was amazing how the mere presence of another human being could provide the elusive peace of mind that had kept her awake through the long, dark, endless nights since the attack. If Sam offered her nothing else during this visit, that would be enough.

Scooting onto the bed, she stretched out and closed her eyes. She’d give herself twenty minutes, she decided. Then she’d be ready for dinner.

Sam stood outside Cara’s door, debating his next move. Three hours had passed. Dusk had descended, and the rumbles in his stomach were growing more persistent. While the hectic schedule in his old life had often dictated late dinners, since moving to Oak Hill he’d become accustomed to a six o’clock evening meal. He’d missed that by two and a half hours.

But he was far more worried about Cara than his protesting stomach. He’d stopped outside her door a couple of times, but he’d never heard a sound. No running water, no drawers being opened and closed, no muted background noise to suggest she’d turned on the TV.

Acutely aware that she wanted her space, he was loath to invade it already. But he was beginning to think that she might be ill. Earlier, he’d attributed her paleness to fatigue and stress from the trip. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Yet if she was sick, if she needed anything, he suspected that asking him for help would be the last option she’d pursue. She’d push him away, much as he’d pushed her away when he’d most needed help.

Torn, Sam wavered, realizing even as he vacillated how much he’d changed in the past couple of years. He’d once been decisive. Confident he had all the answers. In control. That sense of self-importance—of omnipotence, almost—had been honed by his professional success, he now realized. And it had spilled over into his personal life—to the detriment of his marriage. If nothing else, the violence that had been directed against him had destroyed that arrogance. The reining in of his ego might be the one good thing that had resulted from the nightmare, he reflected.

Making a decision at last, Sam reached up. But as he stood poised to knock, he paused to stare at the scars on the back of his hand. From just above his wrist to the tips of his fingers, there wasn’t a square inch untouched by the network of shiny white lines. Even now, almost two years after the attack, his hand remained slightly misshapen, the function improved but still impaired. Though he maintained the physical therapy regime prescribed by his doctors, and continued to note small improvements, his fingers would never regain the dexterity required to perform surgery. Bill West had achieved his goal.

A flash of terror from that dark night, along with a recollection of acute pain, swept over Sam. While he hadn’t been able to control the nightmares that had plagued him in the beginning, it had been months since he’d let himself think about the incident that had robbed him of his career.

And this wasn’t the time to start. He’d moved past that, gone on with his life. Thanks to the skill of the colleagues who had reconstructed his hand with painstaking care, he’d recovered far more function than anyone had dared hope for. Considering that his hand had been smashed beyond recognition, and factoring in the extensive nerve damage he’d suffered, the fact that he could use it at all was nothing short of a miracle—if one believed in such things.

Putting such reflections aside, Sam forced himself to knock on the door. Cara might not be pleased at the intrusion. But too often in his marriage he’d held back, pulled away and shut the window to his heart at the very time he should have thrown wide the door and invited her in. Only in retrospect had Sam recognized how hurtful that had been to his wife—and how damaging it had been to their relationship. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. This time, he was going to follow his heart.

No matter the risk that entailed.

Chapter Four

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.

Chapter Five

“Hi. You must be Cara. I’m Marge Sullivan. Welcome to Oak Hill. Glad to see you arrived safe and sound yesterday.”

Juggling a mug of coffee in one hand, Cara stared at the vision standing on the other side of Sam’s front door. Well past middle-age, her gray hair cut in a trendy, spiky style, the woman wore lime-green capri pants and a gauzy, green-and-orange print tunic top nipped in at her stout waist with a gold chain-link belt.

When the unexpected visitor thrust out her hand, Cara was left with no choice but to take it. “Yes, I’m Cara. Thank you for the welcome.”

“Oh, we’re real neighborly around here.” The woman gave Cara’s hand a vigorous pump before releasing it. “I was in to see Dr. Martin last week. Hurt my knee a few years back, and every now and then it decides to cause a little trouble. Guess I’m just getting old.” She paused long enough to let loose with a hearty chuckle. “Anyway, he mentioned you were coming and I thought it might be nice to bring a little welcome gift.” She held out a plastic-wrapped package of what appeared to be homemade cinnamon rolls. “I know I probably shouldn’t be giving food to a chef. But these are our specialty at the Oak Hill Inn. Seemed like the best thing to bring.”

“Thank you. This is very kind.” Cara accepted the rolls, feeling at a loss. During dinner last night, Sam had given her a rundown on the town, as well as some of the residents, and she had a vague recollection of someone named Marge. But she’d been so busy trying to come to grips with the bizarre scenario of dining with her estranged husband in his home that she hadn’t paid much attention. A lapse she now regretted.

“The Oak Hill Inn is…the B and B?”

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