Samantha looked over the devastation in the kitchen. “I’ve ruined their house.”

“Not ruined,” Bret rebuked her. “Damaged. But it can be fixed.”

Helplessly she stared at him.

Bret’s gut told him to get as far away as possible from the one woman he’d never been able to stop loving. He’d learned to live without her, but he had never felt the same way about anyone else. Yet the deep blue of her eyes chased away his good sense. “I know my way around a saw and hammer. And I can recruit some help.”

“But you have—”

Bret resisted the pull of old, unresolved feelings. He doubted he’d survive another desertion. And once she was well, he knew she would be gone again. “A friend who needs help.”

Samantha’s eyes, devoid of hope, flickered just a bit.

Friend… He had to keep it that way. Or he might not get over the pain this time.

BONNIE K. WINN

is a hopeless romantic who has written incessantly since the third grade. So it seemed only natural that she turned to romance writing. A seasoned author of historical and contemporary romance, Bonnie has won numerous awards for her bestselling books. Affaire de Coeur chose her as one of the Top Ten Romance Writers in America.

Bonnie loves writing contemporary romance because she can set her stories in the modern cities close to her heart and explore the endlessly fascinating strengths of today’s women.

Living in the foothills of the Rockies gives her plenty of inspiration and a touch of whimsy, as well. She shares her life with her husband, son and a spunky Norwich terrier who lends his characteristics to many pets in her stories. Bonnie’s keeping mum about anyone else’s characteristics she may have borrowed.

Return to Rosewood
Bonnie K. Winn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair. Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.

—II Corinthians 4: 8-9

For my love, Howard.

Always and forever.

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Ice! The ocean-sized sheet sucked her in, paralyzing, drowning her. Samantha shot up from her nightmare, drenched in sweat. Breathing so hard the gasps hurt her chest, she painfully lifted one leg, then the other over the side of the bed. She reached for her wheelchair. Still not accustomed to her damaged body, Samantha tried three times before she levered herself up from the bed.

Trembling, she wheeled slowly through her parents’ home to the kitchen, which was in the rear quarter of the old, large Victorian house. Accustomed to her streamlined New York apartment, she’d forgotten how many doodads her mother had everywhere. Between the little tea tables, plants and trinkets, it was hard to navigate the distance, especially in the aftermath of her nightmare.

Hands shaking, Samantha decided to have a cup of tea. She turned the knob on the stove, but it didn’t light. Ignitor switches were getting old, her mother had said months before. Samantha was lucky they’d decided to leave the utilities on in the empty house.

Muttering to herself, she searched through the lower shelves of the pantry and three drawers before she found a kitchen match. She returned to the stove. Hands not yet under control, it took her several tries to light the match.

Whoosh! Boom! With the knob set on high, gas had built up, causing it to explode.

Samantha rolled backward as the blast billowed out. Flames touched the crowded row of potholders on the cabinet directly beside the stove, then climbed to the curtain framing the large window. Silly, frilly doodads hanging on the adjoining wall erupted into flames. The heat grew, suddenly popping out the glass in the window. Air rushed in, feeding the fire.

Smoke alarms started shrieking, first in the kitchen, then in the hall as the smoke traveled. Trying not to panic, Samantha wheeled over to the small fire extinguisher that hung on the wall. She reached with all her might, but she couldn’t get a decent hold on the metal cannister. Frustrated, she tried to stand, but her leg muscles were ineffectual.

Panting from exertion, she slumped back in the chair. Tempted to give into her fate, Samantha waited a few precious seconds before she pivoted and wheeled into the living room, where she’d stowed her purse. Grabbing her cell phone, she dialed 911. She didn’t particularly care what happened to her, but she wasn’t going to destroy her parents’ house.

Fearfully watching fire eat through dry, native pine cabinets in the kitchen, Samantha gave the emergency operator the address. The house was more than a hundred years old, perfect kindling.

Samantha closed her eyes briefly, imagining the disappointment on her parents’ faces. Retired teachers, they’d gone to a remote country in Africa to run a school. But the house was her mother’s pride and joy, having been in her family for generations.

Coughing from the smoke, Samantha unlocked the front door for the firemen. She tried to reach the rear door in the kitchen, but the heat of the fire pressed her back.

The smoke made its way into the living room and more alarms shrieked. Her coughing intensified. She tried covering her mouth with her hands, but it didn’t do much good.

A siren split the air as the fire engine screeched to a stop in front of the house. The door burst open and volunteer firemen rushed inside. She pointed toward the hall. “It’s in the kitchen, in the back of the house,” she gulped out between coughs.

“Anywhere else?” one man asked.

“No….” She continued coughing, then managed to speak. “At least I don’t think so.”

Another man grasped the handles of her wheelchair, pushing her toward the porch as soon as the last fireman cleared the doorway. He had to lift the chair over the threshold. Outside in the fresh air, Samantha continued coughing. In between, she took deep breaths to clear her lungs.

Long hoses were uncoiled, then hooked up to the fire hydrant three houses down. Some of the men carried dispensers of foam fire retardant as well. Neighbors opened their doors and windows to see what was going on.

A paramedic rushed to her side, checking for injuries.

Samantha touched her hot cheeks. “I’m not hurt. Just scorched a little of my hair.”

The paramedic scanned her beneath the illumination of his flashlight, then reached for an oxygen mask. “Just want to be sure.”

She brushed back the singed ends of her bangs. “I’m fine.”

“You really need to get a threshold ramp in case you have to get out alone. It’s an easy adaptation.” The tall, muscular fireman who had wheeled her outside pulled off his mask and frowned, critically studying the front of the house. “You don’t have a porch ramp either.”

“Bret?” Samantha stared at the handsome man. They’d known each other since high school. And had loved each other enough to become engaged. The pain of their breakup had kept them apart for the last eight years.

He stared back, clearly startled when he recognized her.

“It’s been…what?” Samantha swallowed the unexpected rush of emotions. “Since graduation?” Their days at Texas A&M seemed a lifetime ago. Strange the pain didn’t.

Bret pushed back his helmet, revealing dark hair. His equally dark eyes hardened and she wondered if he was feeling the same rush of memories, the unexpected flare of attraction. “Samantha Shaw. Didn’t expect it to be you. Thought your parents must have rented out the place.” He glanced down at the chair. “Accident?”

“Yeah.” It was still hard to talk about, impossible to accept.

His surprise didn’t fade. “So, what are you doing in Rosewood?”

“Can’t a person come home for awhile?”

“You haven’t been real big on doing that.”

She craned her neck, looking back at the house, trying not to think about the shock of seeing Bret.

The paramedic placed the oxygen mask over her face.

When she could speak, Samantha looked again at Bret. “Do you think there’ll be much damage?”

“If it’s confined to the kitchen, probably not.” Bret’s voice was as hard as his eyes. “Once it’s clear, you can go inside for a quick look.”

Her relief disappeared. “More than a quick look. I’m living here now.”

“Can’t do that, Sam. Not tonight. Could be a live ember left we didn’t catch. It’s too dangerous. You have to wait ’til it’s completely cold.”

Overpowered by the now familiar sense of claustrophobia and panic, she could barely speak. Not that it mattered. Surrounding neighbors who had poured out of their houses, dressed in pajamas and robes, crowded around, offering sympathy and help.

“I appreciate your concern, but it looks worse than it is.” Polite but firm, Samantha declined their offers, knowing she couldn’t let them in on her secret or her life.

Albert and Ethel Carruthers, the older couple who lived next door, were slow but determined as they closed in.

“Samantha!” Mrs. Carruthers clucked in worry, unfolding a crocheted afghan she’d carried with her, then smoothing it over Sam’s lap. “Whatever happened?”

They were two of the very few people in Rosewood who knew she was home. Because her parents had entrusted them to watch over the house, Samantha had been forced to tell the Carrutherses that she was back, especially since she’d needed their help to get inside. “Just a tiny grease fire.” She tried to ignore Bret’s startled expression, certain he was wondering why she was covering up the truth. “Nothing to worry about.”

“But Samantha can’t go back in tonight,” Bret told them. He disregarded the warning in her eyes, instead talking directly to the older couple. “Could she stay at your place? Don’t want her toasted by a flare-up.”

“Well, of course she can!” Ethel Carruthers patted Samantha’s shoulder. “It’s difficult enough to be on your own, but when there’s a catastrophe—”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Samantha interrupted.

“Even so. What are neighbors for?”

Possibly to squeal on me. If my parents find out…

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Bret was saying. “Want to see how much damage there is.”

As he walked away, Albert Carruthers stared after him, then back at Samantha. “I thought it was just a small fire.”

Emotionally, Samantha felt as though she’d just run a hundred miles. The irony made her even wearier. She hated fibbing to these people—she’d known them literally her entire life. “You know how firemen are extra cautious. I don’t see why I can’t stay here tonight.”

“Don’t even think about it.” Ethel had moved on to her mother-hen mode. “We keep the guest room set up all the time. Never know when one of the grands or great-grands will stop over.”

Samantha softened at the longing in the older woman’s voice. Her grandchildren were grown and Ethel missed them.

“Maybe we should call your parents,” Ethel mused.

“No!”

Ethel’s eyes widened and Samantha tried to control her flustered response. “Why worry them? It’s a tiny fire. They gave up so much time flying to New York when…when I had my accident. It’d be just like them to hop on an airplane and come home.”

“Well…”

“Going to Africa’s been their dream since…well, before they retired. The kids in their school need them more than I do right now. We agreed we wouldn’t ruin that for them.”

Ethel sighed. “You’ve always been determined. Ever since you were a little thing. You could barely toddle, but you were relentless.”

Swallowing, Samantha tried not to think of those days, a time when she believed anything was possible. “My days of toddling are in the past.”

Bret came up behind them. “I’m going to open the windows, let the house air out tonight. That’ll help the kitchen cool down sooner, too.”

Samantha squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment, not wanting her emotions to spill over in front of him. But the lack of control, the inability to do things on her own anymore…. The pain was so intense she felt it pierce her chest. Instinctively, she pulled off the oxygen mask.

“I can come back in the morning for a few minutes before work,” Bret continued. “Check out the house and take you back.” He turned off the oxygen tank and placed the mask on top of it.

Not allowing Samantha to agree or refuse, he again took charge of her chair, wheeling her toward the house next door. Logically, she knew the elderly Carruthers would have a difficult time coping with her chair, but she hated when others simply took over as though her mind didn’t work any better than her legs.

The Carrutherses trailed a good distance behind. Bret chose the back door of their house, tipping and then lifting Samantha’s chair over the threshold in two efficient moves. “I’ll wait till tomorrow to ask why you’re back.” He pushed the chair through the kitchen and into the living room. “And why you lied.”

Startled, she stared up at him. Hearing the Carrutherses entering the house, Samantha didn’t try to explain. But she knew the reprieve wouldn’t last past the night.

The morning air still held the bitter aroma of charred wood. Inside Samantha’s house, though, the fire was completely banked, no live embers hiding beneath the wreckage.

Bret Conway knew Samantha so well it was clear she was hiding something. Even though he shouldn’t be, he was bothered by the defeat he’d glimpsed in her eyes. There’d never been an ounce of defeat in Samantha Shaw.

Just the opposite. She had been set on becoming a botanist and discovering new species. She’d traveled the globe, searching out varieties never before cataloged. Universities lined up, requesting her lectures. And as a plant pathologist, she was in constant demand. Even though Bret had gone after the same degree in school, he’d never had the same aspirations. There were wanderers and there were stayers. Samantha was a wanderer. But he needed his roots in Rosewood, to stay connected to what mattered.

So he’d used his horticulture degree to specialize in native species, in efforts to make them thrive again, to help his own corner of the planet. Or at least his corner of Texas.

And he’d known that when Samantha left Rosewood, it was for good.

Holding the newspaper he’d picked up on the lawn, Bret knocked on the Carrutherses’ front door. Hearing the slow shuffle of feet, he waited patiently.

Albert didn’t bother to check who was standing on the porch, pulling open the door as soon as he reached it. “That you, Bret?”

“Yes, sir. How’re you doing this morning?” He held out the paper.

“Same as every other day.” Albert accepted the newspaper, but didn’t glance at it. The biggest local news would be the fire next door. “Come have some coffee.”

Bret followed the older man into the kitchen. Ethel stood at the stove and Samantha was at the table. “Smells good.”

“If that means you want a waffle, pull up a chair,” Ethel replied. “I don’t guess young men cook for themselves.”

Amused, at the age of thirty, to be included in the young people category, he sat down across from Samantha. “If you don’t plan to stay here, I will. Last time I had a waffle for breakfast…well, I don’t know the last time I had one.”

“Your mother must make them,” Ethel chided.

He grinned. “I live in the apartment over the business, but I don’t go to their house for breakfast.”

Samantha fiddled nervously with her fork, but her plate was almost full. Looked like she’d only eaten a bite or two. The Samantha he knew ate with gusto, lived with even more. And she’d rarely been nervous. No, she followed her own path even when it meant breaking his heart.

Bret’s appetite vanished. He shoved back his chair. “Ethel, it pains me to say this, but I’ve already eaten. Sam, you ready to look at your place?”

Relief flooded the delicate features of Samantha’s face. “Yes.”

“But you’ve barely touched your breakfast,” Ethel fussed.

“It was delicious, really.” Samantha’s smile was strained. “But I need to see the house.”

Albert’s brow furrowed, his long, gray eyebrows pulling together. “There shouldn’t be much damage from a little grease fire.”

“No, no. Of course not,” Samantha’s words tumbled out too quickly. Then she took a breath. “But you know how my mother feels about her house.”

Ethel wiped her hands on a small terry towel. “Like any woman. Go on then. You probably won’t get a decent meal ’til you’ve seen the kitchen.”

Samantha wheeled back from the table. Bret stepped forward and opened the door. She tried to push herself over the threshold, but the chair stuck. He tipped it, lifting the wheels over the low barrier.

Bret waited until they were on the grass, heading away from the Carrutherses’. “I see you’re still trying to push past anything that gets in your way.”

Surprisingly, she didn’t pop back with a quick retort.

The front door to her house was the only one open, since the back entry was a mess. He pivoted her wheelchair around so that she faced away from the house. “Hang on.” Lifting the chair carefully up the steps, then over the threshold, he rolled her inside. They headed down the hall toward the kitchen.

As they got within viewing distance, Samantha gasped, hands flying to cover her mouth.

When she didn’t speak, he pushed the chair slowly toward the center of the carnage. The beautiful, hand-carved pine cabinets were charred beyond recognition. The tall ceiling, once graced by stamped tin tiles, was now scorched, the tiles barely hanging on. Limestone counters had fallen into the remains of the lower cabinets after they’d collapsed.

The damage was exacerbated by the steady supply of air that had coursed through the shattered window. With the exception of the appliances and counters, the kitchen had been ideal fuel.

Despite opening all the windows the previous evening, the acrid smell still permeated the house. But Samantha wasn’t coughing. Instead, her head was bent, face in hands.

“Sam?”

The unexpected sound of weeping startled him. She wasn’t one to cry. When they’d broken their engagement, she’d shown regret, but even that had been tempered by the excitement of her plans. And there hadn’t been a single tear.

“Sam?” He knelt down, then peeled her fingers back. “I know it looks bad, but it can be fixed up just fine.”

Her crying deepened, her words gulping out between the sobs. “How am I going to pay to fix this?”

“Is that all?” Exasperated, Bret searched for a handkerchief. “The insurance company will cover it. All but the deductible.”

She shook her head. “The house is supposed to be vacant. The insurance won’t pay.”

His frown deepened. “Just explain the situation. Your parents can—”

“No!” For the first time, her voice gained strength. “They can’t know!”

He sat back on his heels. “What?”

“They don’t know I’m here.” Spent, the spirit in her voice drained away.

“What’s going on?”

Samantha ran her fingers over the chair’s handles, finally lifting a fragile hand to push her long, dark hair back. “I’m supposed to be in a rehabilitation facility in New York.”

His eyes dropped to her legs.

“I was working on a project in upstate New York. We had a freak snowstorm in the middle of spring. I was on top of a roof. Didn’t see the ice until it was too late. Landed a story below.” Her words stumbled to a halt, but he didn’t try to fill the long silence. “I was in a coma at first and in the hospital for months—spinal injury. My parents rushed back from Africa. When it was obvious I wasn’t getting better, they started talking about bringing me back here—putting all their plans on hold. Or, I should say, canceling them. I convinced them to pack up my apartment, sublet it, then get me to a New York rehab.”

He didn’t understand. “Why can’t they know you decided to come home instead?”

“I came back because I couldn’t afford to stay in the rehab place.”

“But insurance—”

She sniffled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you took up selling insurance. Didn’t have any.”

His eyes widened.

Samantha was immediately defensive. “I was self-employed. I’m relatively young. I was healthy. Took all my savings to pay for the hospital.”

“What did the doctors say about your leaving?”

Her lips clamped into a firm line.

“So what was your prognosis?”

“That with therapy I could improve.”

Bret frowned again. “Then, why—”

“What doctor’s going to tell two hopeful parents that I’m stuck in this chair for life?” The defiance faded and silent tears slipped from her eyes.

Failing to find a handkerchief, Bret leaned closer, using his thumbs to ease the teardrops from her cheeks. “Your parents would have understood.”

“Exactly.” Her deep blue eyes searched his. “You know everything they’ve been through—losing Andy.” She bent her head at the mention of her deceased brother. He’d been killed in a small airplane crash five years earlier. “They finally managed to find enough sponsorship to start the school, to help kids the way he wanted to. And they’re supposed to give all that up to come back and nurse me?”

“It’s what parents do, Sam. Families.”

“Just get hurt over and over again?” She searched his eyes. “Aren’t they supposed to have dreams, too?”

Bret vividly remembered how she’d destroyed his dreams. “Family never was your first priority.”

The past reared up between them. When Samantha had been ready to pursue her far-flung career, Bret couldn’t leave Rosewood. His father was waiting for a heart transplant. While his mother took care of him, Bret stepped into his father’s shoes at the family nursery. His younger sister was still in high school at the time.

Bret had begged Sam to stay in Rosewood. She suggested that they hire someone to run his father’s business. She didn’t understand that it was more than just keeping the nursery going. There hadn’t been a certainty that his father would get the transplant in time. And Bret couldn’t abandon his family. At an impasse, their engagement ended.

Pain flashed in Samantha’s large eyes.

Although they hadn’t had any contact in eight years, he’d known about Andy’s death. Bret wondered now, as he had then, if the loss had brought home the importance of family.

Her wounded gaze lifted to the devastation in the kitchen. “Now I’ve ruined their house.”

“Not ruined,” he rebuked. “Damaged. But it can be fixed.”

Helplessly, she stared at him.

His gut told him to run. To get as far away as possible from the one woman he’d never been able to forget. He’d learned to live without her, but he’d never felt the same way about anyone else. Yet, as they always had, the deep blue of her eyes chased away his good sense. “I can recruit some help to work on the kitchen.”

“But you have—”

Bret resisted the pull of old, unresolved feelings. He doubted he’d survive another desertion. And once she was well, he knew she’d be gone again. “A friend who needs help.”

Samantha’s eyes, devoid of hope, flickered just a bit.

Friend… He had to keep it that way. Or he might not get over the pain this time.

Chapter Two

Birdsong floated through the open bedroom window, the curtain stirring in the morning breeze. Still unaccustomed to the small-town sounds of her youth, Samantha yawned. Arms stretched out elbow to elbow, hands rubbing still sleepy eyes, she halted at a new, unexpected sound.

Hammering. Or shooting?

Something was peppering the house. From the sound of it, nails or bullets must be hitting nearly the entire place.

Reaching toward the end of the bed, she grabbed a sweatshirt. She pulled it over her flannel pajama top and levered herself out of bed. Wheeling to the front door, she pulled it open. Still not oriented, she craned her head, looking for the source of the noise.

“Morning.” Bret spoke from her right, standing off on the grass.

“What are you doing?” She tried to see, but couldn’t push herself over the threshold.

“Porch ramp.”

She gestured behind into the house. “You offered to help with the kitchen. Why—?”

He looked pointedly at her stuck chair. “And if there’s another fire?”

“Institutionalize me.”

“You can’t afford it.” Bret’s somber face loosened for a moment and he flashed the same wide grin she remembered. He hadn’t changed that much since college. Sun-streaked brown hair, year-round tan, dark eyes that had always seemed full of laughter. If he’d aged, it was only to the good. No longer a youth; all the harder edges of manhood suited him.

“I’m putting the ramp over here so when you’re on your feet again, you can use the steps.” He shot more nails into the wood structure.

Samantha wasn’t a quitter, but she’d heard enough of the doctors talking when they consulted to know what her chances were. Amazing how candid they were when under the assumption the patient was asleep. It’d been the only way to find out anything. Asking questions hadn’t gotten her anywhere.

Bret jumped up on the side of the porch, his tall, muscled form scaling it easily. Before she guessed his intent, he grasped her arm rests, then pushed the chair back. “I ordered a threshold adapter—two, actually. Until we get your kitchen fixed, you’d better plan on breakfast at the café. Why don’t you get ready while I finish up?”

Shaking her head, Samantha grabbed the wheels and rolled backward. “No!”

Puzzled, he frowned. “What?”

“And announce to the entire town that I’m here?”

“How long do you think you can hide?” He gestured toward the houses flanking hers. “You’ve got relatives and friends in Rosewood. You plan on never leaving the house? Never answering the door? Or the phone?”

“My parents put the phone on suspend.” It was a weak defense, but the only one she had.

Bret tapped a booted foot on the porch.

“Okay. So I didn’t completely think the plan out.” Samantha glanced down at her lifeless legs. “But I’ll figure out something.”

“You’d have a better chance of folks not spilling your secret if you tell them first. People around here don’t appreciate being lied to.”

She swallowed. “I do know how Rosewood works.”

His eyes darkened further. “You sure about that?”

Between them, he’d always been the logical one, the most grounded. Certainly the one most connected to Rosewood. “Looks like you think I don’t have any claim to my hometown.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Few days.” It had been an excruciating trip, managing first the plane and then the bus ride on her own. She couldn’t even handle the small suitcase she’d brought along. Some strangers had taken pity on her, helping open doors occasionally. But she’d already wearied of pity while she was in the hospital. It wasn’t any more palatable because she needed help. And she’d hated having to enlist the Carruthers to pick her up at the bus station, then struggle to get her wheelchair through the back door. They’d been disapproving, believing she should contact her parents immediately. Ridiculously, she felt on the edge of tears again.

“How are you getting groceries? Supplies?”

She shrugged. Hunger wasn’t her problem. “Mrs. Carruthers keeps bringing over food. I told her not to.”

“Have you eaten breakfast?”

Sam shook her head.

“I didn’t think so.” He glanced at his watch, then pulled his eyebrows together in an annoyed crease. “Rosewood’s a hard place to keep a secret. Just having lights on in the house has probably gotten someone talking.”

Weary both physically and emotionally, she felt like a wound-down clock. Overwhelmed, under-equipped. Neither was her style. Now it was her fate.

A short time later, Bret pulled into the parking lot of Conway’s Nursery. All the lights were off; none of the displays were set out front. Peter, his assistant manager, hadn’t opened yet. And it was a good thirty minutes past opening time. Bret slid out of his Blazer and stomped across the lot.

As he singled out the building key, Bret noticed that the door didn’t look firmly closed. He stepped back a few inches. The sign indicating whether they were open was flipped to Closed. Pushing on the door lightly, it opened. “Peter?”

Silence.

Bret glanced back at the parking lot, which was empty. Peter always drove to work. Turning on the inside lights, Bret could see that the ledger was laid out on the main counter. Peter was supposed to have closed up the previous evening, which meant locking the ledger in the small office.

Heading to the back of the shop, Bret didn’t need long to see the office wasn’t locked, either. A too familiar anger grew. Peter had been slacking off more and more. And it was at the worst possible time.

The recession hadn’t spared Rosewood. People didn’t consider plants a vital necessity. As receipts shrunk, Bret had been forced to rethink his business plan. He’d offered retirement packages to his three oldest employees. That had left him with Peter, whose redeeming quality was superior horticulture knowledge, and two young women who had agreed to share one position.

However, as each woman found a full-time job elsewhere, they’d left. And, now it was just Bret and Peter. Unfortunately, Peter had taken the changes as a permanent job guarantee.

Grabbing the phone, he punched in Peter’s number. It rang and rang. Bret slammed the phone down hard enough to make the base rattle.

Just then he heard Peter’s old Camaro screech into the lot, the low underside scraping on the driveway as it did every day.

Bret gritted his teeth as Peter took his time dragging into the store.

Peter paused to flip the sign on the door to Open.

“Turn it back.”

Surprised, Peter frowned. “It’s time.”

“It’s past time.”

Shrugging, Peter yawned. “No customers.”

“If anyone had come when we’re supposed to be open, do you think they’d wait around until you decided to show up?”

Peter sighed, a long-suffering sound that told Bret that he wouldn’t listen. Certainly wouldn’t change.

“We’ve talked about this…I don’t know. What? More than a dozen times now?” Bret raised his voice. “You’re constantly late. Last night you didn’t bother to put the ledger in the office. Not that it would’ve mattered. You didn’t lock the office or the front door.”

Peter stared at the floor, clearly bored.

“Consider yourself on probation.”

“Probation?” Peter looked genuinely shocked, then amused. “You going to have the rest of the staff take over?”

“I’d do as well running the place by myself. At least I wouldn’t lead the wolf to the hen house.”

“Hen house?”

How such a dimwit could be so talented with plants mystified Bret. “Just worry about your probation. Ninety days. Clean up your act or you’re out.”

Anger flashed in the man’s muddy-colored eyes and he pinched his lips together.

Bret waited to see if Peter would save him the trouble and quit.

Instead, Peter picked up his scruffy backpack and stalked off toward the office.

Bret remembered his promise to Sam that he’d pick up breakfast at the café. “Just a minute.”

Peter slowed down, but didn’t come to a complete stop.

“I’m going out for awhile. Anything comes up, you can reach me on my cell.”

“Whatever.”

Regretting hiring the man for the thousandth time, Bret turned the sign on the door and headed to his apartment over the shop via the outside stairwell. Employing Peter had been a favor. One of his older customers, Val Gertenstal, had convinced Bret that although Peter wasn’t a people person, he was a genius with plants. When they’d been fully staffed, Peter’s odd ways hadn’t mattered, since he worked in the cultivating area. Now that he was expected to help on both sides of the business, every ugly thorn was showing. And sticking into Bret’s hide.

Once inside his apartment, Bret grabbed a cooler. Neighbors would eventually deluge Sam with casseroles and anything else she needed. Just as soon as the truth came out about the extent of the fire.

Frowning, he wondered if she really had changed that much. She’d always been as honest as they came. Even though it had ripped out his heart, Sam had been truthful about why she’d left years earlier. Their priorities hadn’t meshed. Words he would never forget.

By the time Bret got back to her house, Sam was staring out the large bay window in the living room. Always independent, she had to be chafing at all the constraints.

He moved the dining room chairs away from one side of the table so Sam would have easy access. “You’d better get over here if you don’t want cold eggs.”

She continued to stare out the window.

“Let me rephrase. I don’t want cold eggs, so get a move on.”

Startled, she pivoted, then stared.

“Chair isn’t going to roll over here on its own.” He set the Styrofoam cups of coffee on the table. “You still take sugar?”

“Uh, yeah. One.” She reached slowly to move the wheels.

“Eggs are all scrambled. Thought that was easier. Della put in bacon, sausage and I don’t know what all.”

“Della’s still at the café?”

“Yep. And still telling me to eat my vegetables.”

That edged out a smile as Samantha neared the table. “Guess she thought we ought to eat something besides French fries.”

“A potato is a vegetable.” Watching, he saw her glance at the food.

The arms of Samantha’s wheelchair fit easily beneath the century-old mahogany table. Although the house was Victorian, the furnishings were Edwardian and simpler in nature. They had been passed down along with the house. Samantha’s mother, Joyce, had added her own touches—particularly her love of collectibles, lots of collectibles. Still, the house hadn’t changed that much since it was built, aside from updates to the kitchen and bathrooms. But Bret suspected it was far different from Sam’s New York style.

The waitress had sent along a stack of real plates and silverware. “Della said we can return this stuff whenever.”

“So she knows?” Samantha asked in a small voice.

“Have to start somewhere. How ’bout calling your uncle later?”

Samantha ducked her head. “It would hurt his feelings if he heard from somebody else.” Her father’s brother, Uncle Don, and his family had always been close to hers. Joyce, an only child, didn’t have as many relatives. “I’ve made a real mess of things, haven’t I?”

“Not yet.”

The self-pity faded from her eyes. “Gee, don’t hold back. Say what you think.”

“You already know what I think.”

She sniffed the delicious aroma of fresh biscuits. “Hard to miss.”

He handed her a biscuit on a small plate. “We have enough condiments to open our own café.”

Her fragile hand shook as she picked up the biscuit and took a bite. Even though Sam had always been petite, she’d also been physically strong and active. It shocked him that she was so thin it looked like the breeze from a hand-held fan would blow her over. As she concentrated on her biscuit, Bret took the opportunity to scoop some eggs onto her plate.

“I’d forgotten how good these are.” Sam took a second tiny bite of the warm, buttery biscuit. “Almost as good as my mom’s.” She glanced down at the eggs on her plate. “I can’t eat all that.”

“Then how do you expect to get better?”

Sam lifted her chin. “I don’t.”

“Yeah.”

“I made my peace with it.”

“Right.”

She drew her eyebrows together. “Don’t trip over your empathy.”

“Don’t intend to. You have to want to get better.”

Her eyes suddenly blazed, something he remembered well. “You think I want to be in this chair?”

Bret reached for the bacon. “You’re not doing much to get out of it.”

She gulped back a deep breath. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You never used to be a quitter. The Samantha I knew would be doing everything she could to walk again.”

The blaze faded. “Yeah, well, maybe you don’t know me anymore.”

“So that’s it? You can’t afford rehab so you’re just giving up?”

“What do you suggest I do? Rob a bank? Might be a little problem with the getaway.”

The old Samantha was still there. She just didn’t know it.

Samantha twisted her hands together as she waited nervously for her Uncle Don. He’d been shocked to hear she was back in Rosewood, but he’d also sounded excited.

Bret had stayed to work on the ramp. He had told her flatly he wasn’t leaving until the ramp and a temporary threshold adjustment were finished. She’d almost forgotten how bossy he could be. Sam wished he would stay until her family came and give her a little moral support. Which was totally stupid, since he was clearly trying to leave as fast as he could. He’d been pounding in nails as if he had a tornado at his heels.

Not wanting to sit in front of the large bay window looking like a waif, she’d chosen to wait in the living room. Still, she could hear the rumble and lift of voices outside. Her uncle hadn’t come alone. Nor did he make it through the door first. Her cousin and best friend, Rachel, ran inside, not stopping until she was inches away. Her hug was as unexpected as Samantha’s tears. Get a grip.

Then she saw matching tears on Rachel’s face. An overwhelming need to give in to her own assailed Sam.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.” Hoarse with emotion, Rachel ignored her own tears as she brushed Samantha’s away.

There was no explanation she could offer.

Rachel’s mother, Trudy, came inside, her movements stiff. With her arthritic arms outstretched, she saw Sam and her face began to crumple.

Don, the last one inside, shook his head. “What’s this? A weeping convention?” A few long strides and he was next to her with a hug as well.

When the tears subsided, Samantha faced them all. “I didn’t mean to exclude you. I…just hadn’t thought out what it would mean coming back here.”

“This is your home.” Don, only two years older than her father, Ed, looked nearly enough like him to be his twin. “You never have to think out coming home. But we’d like to make things easier for you.”

Although he was wise enough to hide his pity, Samantha knew it was there. “But that’s just it. I don’t want anyone to take care of me…to worry.”

“It comes with the territory. Rachel contends she’s an adult who can live her own life. I suppose she’s right, but it doesn’t stop us worrying. That’s what family does.”

The years away from Rosewood had dimmed her sense of family, what the connections really meant. But ever since her brother, Andy, had died….

Sniffling, Rachel playfully punched her dad’s arm. “You’d think I was twelve years old.”

“Don’t believe otherwise,” Trudy advised, wiping her own face. “As far as your father’s concerned, you’ll always be twelve.”

Don glanced in the kitchen. “Looks like we’ve got some work to do.”

“But—”

He held up one hand. “Bret filled me in before he left. I’m no carpenter, but I’ll do what I can. You’ll get plenty of help from your friends and neighbors.”

Samantha felt she’d been gone too long to expect anything from them. But that was how Rosewood worked. People pitched in together. They might be a dying breed, but the small town’s citizens believed in neighbor helping neighbor.

“I thought your dad was being extravagant when he told me he planned to keep the utilities on,” Don continued. “Said a house slowly disintegrates when it’s left closed up.”

“He knows how much the house means to Mom.”

Don nodded in agreement. “Oh, and Miss Leeson comes in to clean twice a month. You’d have given her a heart attack.”

The complications were multiplying. “Uncle Don, you can’t tell Mom or Dad.”

He pursed his lips.

“Promise…please?”

Reluctance swamped his face, but he finally nodded. “As long as you’re okay. That changes and the promise is off.”

Samantha knew she was lucky he wasn’t already dialing the phone. “Thanks.” The emotional reunion was exhausting. Had it only been months since she could trek for hours on end hunting a new species? Traveling to South America, Asia, pushing through the rain forests and jungles as easily as walking from one room to another. Now she was exhausted from sitting and talking a few minutes.

Rachel noticed. “Mom, Dad, we’re wearing Sam out.”

“But we just got here!” Trudy protested.

Don took her arm. “Rachel’s right. Sam, we’ll leave for today, but we’ll be back. Often.”

Touched, again she felt the threat of tears. Not a crier, she hated the weakness. “Thanks, Uncle Don.”

He clasped her shoulder. “You’ve got a lot to deal with, Sam. Remember you don’t have to do it alone.”

Not sure whether her voice would warble, she nodded.

Her Aunt Trudy looked as though she was ready to start the waterworks again, so Samantha dredged up a smile.

Rachel leaned close. “Don’t worry, Sam. We’ll get those legs working again. And you’ve got my cell number. I don’t care if it’s three a.m., you need something—call.”

Samantha returned her cousin’s hug, and kept the smile on her face until they were gone. Then she stared at her legs. She couldn’t tell them. She couldn’t tell anyone. There was no hope. No chance. Not unless there was a miracle. And she’d stopped believing in those the day Andy died.

Chapter Three

By late afternoon, Bret had left the nursery in Peter’s less-than-capable hands. Not that he wanted to, but he needed to make his daily run to his parents’ home to check on his father.

Robert’s health had been delicate since his heart transplant. So much so that he’d retired when Bret graduated from Texas A&M. Over the years, Bret had transformed the old family nursery. Robert had approved of the changes, understanding the need to grow native species that didn’t require watering. Not that Robert wanted to stop selling traditional bedding plants, too.

And although he couldn’t work at the nursery any longer, Robert kept busy growing orchids, a process as delicate as his health.

Bret quickly walked up the weathered brick driveway, nearing the garage, which was actually an old carriage house. It went with the age of the house, which had been built around the turn of the last century. It wasn’t a fancy house, but one that always said home. Welcoming, warm, comforting. Thick ivy grew up the brick exterior, framing the front door, outlining the windows, wrapping the house in a protective green layer. Each flower bed was laid out with loving care so that something bloomed most all year.

Bret passed beneath heirloom roses that climbed the arched trellis leading to the backyard. The glass greenhouse where he was headed was nearly as old as the house. His parents said it had been a deciding factor when they’d purchased the house. The Victorian greenhouse had fallen into disrepair with the previous owners, but his parents, then young and healthy, had lovingly restored the building.

The arid conditions in the Hill Country weren’t a good match for Robert’s exotic orchids, but the greenhouse was equipped with steam-driven humidity. Back in the early 1900s, the lady of the house no doubt had kept her most treasured plants in the large, adjacent conservatory.

Bret paused, glancing at the huge old magnolia tree that shaded the back porch. Dinner-plate-sized blossoms nestled amidst glossy, deep-green leaves, perfuming the entire yard.

Hearing his father humming, Bret stepped into the moist air of the greenhouse. “Hey, Dad.”

“Bret!” Pleasure filled his father’s voice. Then he looked closely at his son. “Something wrong?”

“I must be completely transparent.” Bret dropped on a stool near his father.

“It’s a parent thing.” Robert laid down his pruning shears, then pulled off his gloves.

“Samantha’s back in town.”

Eyebrows lifted, Robert pursed his lips. “Been awhile.”

“Yeah.” Bret hooked one boot over the stool’s railing.

“Something special bring her home?”

“She had a bad accident. Her legs are paralyzed.”

Shocked, Robert stared at him. “Permanently?”

Bret shrugged. “She thinks so.”

“Her parents must be frantic.”

“They don’t know she’s here.” He explained Sam’s reasoning. “Sam knows they’ll find out. She’s just hoping to put it off for awhile.”

Robert scrunched his brow in concentration. “I saw something in the paper about a grease fire at the Shaw home. Nothing about Sam in the article, though.”

“That’s because she was already in the Carruthers house by the time the kid from the paper came to take pictures. And the neighbors repeated what Sam had said about it being a small fire.”

“Hmm.”

“She didn’t even have a ramp put in. Lucky she didn’t roast herself.”

Concern etched deeper lines in Robert’s face. “Is she all right?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing today, making sure…building a ramp, putting in threshold adapters.”

Robert waited.

“I’m going to talk to Matt Whitaker. See if he’ll build some new cabinets—try and replicate the originals. That, and round up some more volunteers.”

“Wish I were stronger. I’d help.”

Despite everything his dad had endured, he still reached out to help others. He donated his prized orchids to be auctioned off for charity, supplied cut flowers to the church for Sunday services. And he never felt sorry for himself. Something Sam needed to learn. “You help, Dad. Listening.” Exhaling, Bret flipped his keys.

“Something else, son?”

“Peter. Put him on probation today.”

Robert frowned. He hadn’t been happy that employees who had been with him since the start of the business had retired, but he’d understood. “That boy doesn’t belong in a position where he deals with people.”

“I know. Maybe I can find someone else. Budget’s still tighter than a bale of cotton.”

“I hadn’t wanted to say anything, with all you’ve got on your plate, but Herb got laid off.”

“When?”

“Last week. Your mother and sister insist on sounding positive all the time about how he’ll get another job. I guess they’re afraid I’ll wilt under the strain.”

Herb, Bret’s brother-in-law, had worked for an independent oil man, heading the local office. “How are they going to manage the office without Herb?”

“They’re not. Decided to close it, consolidate it with operations in East Texas.”

While Rosewood was a wonderful place to live, a mecca of new jobs it wasn’t. “Do you think Herb would want to work at the nursery? I know it’s not as high-tech as what he’s used to, but maybe it would help in the interim.”

“You just said the budget’s—”

“Herb’s family. How are Janie and the kids going to make it without his income? It’d be a cut in salary, but more than unemployment. And, maybe, if he’s around, it’ll light a fire under Peter.”

“A tanker full of gasoline wouldn’t do that.”

They both laughed.

“Or Peter might get mad enough to quit.” Bret shook his head. “Of course, knowing Peter, he’ll stay on just to get under my skin.”

Herb and Janie’s small house sat on the end of a quiet lane. His sister had the family green thumb and their yard was the prettiest on the street.

He rang the bell. The sounds of his niece and nephews running and shrieking poured out when Janie swung open the door.

“Wow. You never come at dinner time. What’s up?”

Sibling shorthand made it easy for them to get straight to the point.

“Don’t want to eat. Thanks anyway. Herb around?”

“He’s out back.” Janie frowned. “Something wrong?”

“Yep. You could have told me about his job.”

Her face fell. “We didn’t want to worry you.”

“First Dad, now me?”

She trailed him as far as the kitchen. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

The conciliatory gesture made him smile. Especially since Janie hated cooking.

Out back he found Herb trimming the already precisely edged shrubs lining the back fence.

“Hey.”

Seeing that it was Bret, Herb smiled. “Not like you to brave the rugrats during the week.”

“Actually came to see you.”

Herb gestured to the padded lawn chairs surrounding a wide, planked table. “What’s up?”

“Hoping you can help me out.” Bret outlined Peter’s behavior the last few months, ending with the disastrous morning. “So I’m wondering if you’re interested in working at the nursery.”

Herb’s expression was knowing. “A pity job to keep me employed?”

“Nope. I know it’s not ideal for you. And I’d expect you to keep on looking for something better—something like you’re used to. And no problems if you find a job and have to leave without notice. But I almost fired Peter today, which would leave me with no one. I probably shouldn’t have let him off with probation. I’m really hoping he’ll quit.”

Herb rubbed his forehead, pushing back short, light hair. “If it’s really not a pity offer, I’m grateful for the work.”

“Can you start tomorrow?”

“You are serious.”

“Peter’s good with the plants. But he treats people like they’re just another root vegetable. With the falloff in business, I need someone who’s good with the customers, especially to push our living Christmas trees. We’ve been setting them up for seniors—bringing them in, taking them out after the holidays. Now, I’m thinking we ought to make the same offer to any customers. It’s not just for business. You know how I feel about living Christmas trees.”

Herb grinned. “One less tree needlessly chopped down.”

“I’ll meet you there at eight.” Bret thought about the breakfast he needed to bring over to Sam. “Make that eight-thirty. Peter should have the nursery open by then, but I’m not counting on it.”

“Aren’t you staying for dinner?”

Bret grinned. “The way Janie was waving that spatula at the kids, I’m sure it’ll be a gourmet feast, but I’ll pass.”

“Coward.”

“You betcha.”

“Hey, Bret.” Herb’s gaze turned soberly sincere. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

The next morning Bret took a critical look at the crude porch ramp at Sam’s house. It wasn’t very attractive, but it was sturdy. The temporary threshold adapter he’d fashioned out of a few pieces of wood worked. And it would do until the one he’d ordered from the hardware store arrived.

He rang the bell, then tried the door. Since it was unlocked, he walked in. “Sam? I’ve got your breakfast.”

Dropping the breakfast on the dining room table, he headed into the kitchen. Wasn’t any easier to look at.

Charred black, the remains of the cabinets no longer resembled their original design. He could replace them with something easy that wasn’t nearly as beautiful, but he was fond of Sam’s parents. When he and Sam had dated, they’d treated him like a son. And they were always kind when he saw them at church, or anywhere in town. He sensed they felt guilty about the way Sam had ended the engagement.

Rolling toward the table, she looked at him tentatively when he walked back into the dining room.

“Do you know if your parents have any pictures taken in the kitchen?”

“Good morning to you, too.” Sam glanced at the ignored food. “I imagine there are some pictures. We always had lots of suppers at the kitchen table.”

“Where do you think the pictures are?”

“Um. Good question.” She turned toward the built-in bookcases flanking the tall, wide fireplace, craning her head to see. “Mom has some albums there.”

Knowing she couldn’t reach that high, Bret searched the shelves.

“The leather-bound album to your right,” Sam directed. “That one should be full of pictures.”

He pulled the volume down, then carried it to the dining room table. “Let’s take a look.”

Although Sam wasn’t accustomed to navigating her wheelchair, after a few tries she got in place at the table. Bret picked up one of the dining room chairs and placed it next to her. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”

As the pages of the book turned, the years fell away. Shots of Sam’s family were bittersweet memories. Many of the photos captured the closeness of brother and sister.

Sam gently touched a picture of Andy standing alone, proudly showing off his Eagle Scout award.

Bret swallowed. Andy had been an example to him as well. Three years older than he and Sam, Andy had been the golden boy, destined to do good. From early on, Andy knew he wanted to be a teacher so that he could improve the fates of underprivileged kids. While in high school, he’d volunteered for a summer in Africa. He fell in love with the land and its people. He decided to return, to build a school and make sure “his” kids had better lives. But five years earlier, a doomed flight during a monsoon had ended his life and his dreams. Until his parents stepped in to make them happen.

Glancing surreptitiously at Sam, he swallowed.

Head down, hands covering her cheeks, she was trying to hide her tears.

Remnants of feelings he’d long put aside stirred. Despite them, he couldn’t abandon her. Not until she recovered her once unstoppable tenacity. Then he could walk away, forget she’d returned.

Bret turned a page—to a photo of himself and Sam at college graduation with grins as wide as the state of Texas. The picture hit him like a fist to the gut. Back then, full of youthful optimism, he’d been sure she would reconsider leaving Rosewood. He’d believed it until she boarded the bus out of town.

“Were we ever that young?” she asked in a quiet voice.

Bret knew he couldn’t give in to his own emotions. “We’re not exactly approaching Methuselah time.”

Sam laughed, a humorless, brittle sound.

Silence blared between them. Feeling the tension in every muscle, Bret flipped another page in the album. The lone sound of it turning echoed. Unwilling to look at Sam, he studied the photos, then turned another page. And saw a picture taken in the kitchen. “Here’s one.” He tapped the photo. “We can get this enlarged for detail. It’s a good angle on the cabinets.”

She looked down. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. And you’re right. I can’t expect people I haven’t seen in years to help me. It’s a massive project and—”

“Did your parents have any renovations done since this picture?”

“I don’t think so.” Distracted, she shook her head. “Mom was always talking about upgrading, but she didn’t want to lose her cabinets.”

Sitting close to Sam, he felt the brush of her arm, the accidental graze of her hands as she reached for the album. Not moving, his gaze slid sideways. Her creamy ivory skin was just as he remembered. And the way her dark hair fell forward, just brushing her cheek. Wanting to sweep it back, to feel the softness of her cheek, he stood up abruptly.

As soon as possible, he’d hand over the responsibility for the kitchen to someone in her family. They could find the volunteers, get the renovations going. Without worrying what Sam’s presence would do to them.

Startled by his sudden movement, Sam looked up at him.

Bret paced the floor, deliberately not looking at her. “I’ve talked to Matt Whitaker. He’s agreed to work on the cabinets.” Matt was a local artisan who designed furniture and other works of wood so remarkable he had a national following.

“His work is beautiful,” she agreed. “But since he’s become famous—”

“Nobody in Rosewood gets so famous they can’t help a neighbor.”

She swallowed.

Making himself study the photo and not Sam, Bret held it up to the light. “So, what did your mother not want that’s in the kitchen now?”

“A fire.”

Her wit had always captivated him. Nearly as much as the way her blue eyes could deepen, then capture him and not let go.

“Bret?”

He brought himself back to the planet with a jerk. “Yeah. Um, she still want a table in there or something more modern like an island?”

Samantha pushed the midnight-colored hair from her forehead. “She said something about updating, modernizing the kitchen, but not losing the integrity of the house’s time period. I know she wants a refrigerator that doesn’t stick out any farther than the counters and a bigger stove in an alcove sort of thing.”

Bret glanced at the destroyed appliances. “I think we can work new ones into the plan.”

“Seems like she had some magazines set aside with pictures of what she likes…”

Resisting an urge to look through the entire photo album and find more pictures of himself and Sam together, he dropped the photo on the table. “I’ve got to get over to the nursery.”

She looked confused. “But your breakfast…”

He grabbed the container. “I’ve got a new employee starting today—my brother-in-law, Herb. Can’t keep him waiting.”

“Well—”

“I’ll try to get by this evening to wreck out some of the kitchen.”

“Okay, I’ll—”

Fleeing, Bret didn’t wait to hear her reply. From the disquieting trickle of sweat traveling down his back, he knew he didn’t dare.

Chapter Four

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

Herb tried to keep his expression neutral.

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

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

“Won’t take long,” Bret muttered.

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

“I’ll show you the outbuildings later.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Herb’s starting today.”

That got Peter’s attention.

Herb extended his hand. Peter ignored him.

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

Sullenly, Peter stared at Herb without replying.

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

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

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

“You friends?” Peter questioned.

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

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

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

“You taking back the probation?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinked. “You can do that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have something set up?”

“Not much point until she agrees to go.”

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

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

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

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

Yep, just perfect.

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

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

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

She joined him.

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

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

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

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

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

Her face fell. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“Good. We’re taking a drive.”

“A drive?”

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

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

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

“Where are we going?”

“Breathe, Sam.”

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

“Have I ever done anything to hurt you?”

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

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

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

“It’s not far,” he continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only the possibility of further humiliation made her move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Overwhelmed, she covered her eyes with one hand.

“So, what do you say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She whipped her head up. “Now?”

“Can’t think of a better time.”

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

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

Samantha stared. “What?”

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

She’d won. Back when everything was easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mortification filled her features.

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

“What do—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reluctantly, Samantha nodded. “I suppose so.”

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

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

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

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

Chapter Five

“You’ve got to tell your parents.” Rachel ladled out more of the homemade soup she’d brought over.

Samantha shook her head. “Your mother’s already making chicken soup for me. Imagine what my mom would do.”

Rachel sniffed the broth. “My mother does make good soup.”

“Which you prefer to a hamburger? Right.” Samantha accepted the mug and took a small sip.

“I’d hate to be you when they find out.”

Sam put the mug on the tabletop. “Too many people are already in on my secret. Someone’s bound to talk. And then they’ll be back here.” In Rosewood, where she couldn’t put them off or hide away in an apartment. She loved them more than she could say, but she couldn’t bear the pain in their eyes. More pain than one set of parents should have to endure. “I’m just not ready.”

Rachel’s expression softened. “Sam, I don’t know how you feel…how I’d feel in your place. But I’m sure you can conquer this.” She leaned forward. “You’re the most determined person I’ve ever known. You’ve always run the fastest, the farthest.”

Sam couldn’t contain a brittle laugh.

“Running isn’t just physical,” Rachel insisted. “Your mind has to be in sync…you have to believe.”

“Belief isn’t on the agenda anymore.”

“Do you remember when we were eight? You wanted to climb the Hyde Plateau?” She laughed at the memory. “Andy was older, stronger and you still talked him into racing to the top. None of us could believe you won, but you acted like there couldn’t have been any other outcome.”

“I’m not eight anymore.” Determined not to become a pity case, Sam left the rest of the difference unsaid.

“How many people insisted you’d never discover a new species? That everything had already been cataloged?”

“I…” Stumbling for a reply, her protest died away.

“Yes? This is different?” Rachel stood, pacing across the wooden floor. “Sure it is. And how much more is at stake?”

Sam found her voice. “Splashing around in aqua therapy’s going to change things?”

“Sitting in your chair will?” Rachel knelt next to the wheelchair, then squeezed Sam’s hand, her expression encouraging. “You know I’m not going to give up on this. Bret won’t either.”

Startled, Sam drew back. “Bret?”

“Don’t let the past get in the way. He isn’t.”

“No.” Samantha hadn’t seen a glimpse of the feelings she’d once shared with him. He acted as though they’d just been casual acquaintances. “He’s not.”

Rachel checked the contents of her gym bag, making sure she had everything they needed. “Have you made any progress with that broth?”

Samantha ignored the still full mug, looking for another way to distract her cousin. “You can’t keep taking off this much time from your job.”

“Bret and I have it worked out. For now, we’ll alternate taking you to the pool. After I’ve learned the aqua stuff well enough, I’ll get someone else to help us. Until we get reinforcements, we’ll split the regular therapy sessions, too. Mom wants to help, but I’m worried about her rheumatoid arthritis. The latest treatment hasn’t been all that successful—and she hates taking the shots. She could go with you to the water therapy class, but I’m not sure she’d be much help. At home, Dad helps her in and out of the hot tub.”

“But—”

“If you don’t cooperate, I have Bret standing by.”

He was outside, waiting to talk with Matt about the kitchen cabinets. Samantha didn’t want to go to therapy, but she wanted a confrontation with Bret less.

It was the futility of the therapy that disturbed her. Sure, she’d heard of people who overcame the odds—walking despite doctors’ predictions. But she hadn’t made an iota of progress. Something she couldn’t get across to anyone. And she hated being mollycoddled as though she were mentally incapacitated as well.

“Sam?”

Her energy faded, and along with it, her defiance. “Whatever.”

“That’s the spirit,” Rachel teased.

Between them, Sam may have been the tenacious one, but Rachel had always been the cheeriest. There were more giggles than grinches in her world. Maybe that’s why they’d always gotten on so well. No matter what Sam thought up, Rachel figured out a way to make it fun. But Samantha was convinced this stupid therapy was going to blotch her cousin’s pristine record.

Once Sam was outside, Bret lifted her into the car, noting the mutiny on her face, trying to ignore the effect of her soft limbs in his arms. “No apple for the teacher?”

She thinned her lips even more. “Isn’t it enough that I’m going?”

Seeing she was safely inside, he closed the door, then packed her chair in the back. One of the aides at the hospital would help Rachel with Sam, getting her in and out of the car.

It was an important day. J.C. had received many of Sam’s records from New York, and he also had results from the tests done locally. Based on the combination, he had assigned a physical therapist, Harold, to her case.

J.C. and Harold put together a comprehensive program of treatments and exercises meant to rebuild her body, concentrating on the atrophied leg muscles. Bret guessed Sam’s stubbornness was because she didn’t dare believe the program could work. If she didn’t believe, didn’t hope, she wouldn’t be devastated if the therapy failed.

As they drove off, he spotted his friend Matt Whitaker approaching in a Dodge Ram pickup. Matt designed all things wooden, including furniture—pieces so unique collectors around the country waited in line for his work. But true to his hometown roots, he donated both his time and some of his creations to Rosewood fundraisers. And he hadn’t hesitated when Bret had asked for help with the kitchen.

“That Samantha with Rachel?” Matt asked, stepping down from the tall truck. “Looks different.”

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