New York Times bestselling author Sherryl Woods brings readers a beloved tale of hope and second chances

When a tragic fire landed Frank in the hospital, all he wanted was to be left alone. His hands were injured, the very way he made his living destroyed. How could he face life—or his sprawling, well-meaning family—again?

Then Jenny Michaels waltzed into his room and claimed she was going to bully and badger him until he got on the road to recovery. The pretty, pert occupational therapist claimed she, too, had faced adversity—and won! And though Frank said he didn’t want her pity, he knew deep down that Jenny was a dream come true…and perhaps in more ways than one.

Praise for New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Sherryl Woods

“Sherryl Woods writes emotionally satisfying novels about family, friendship and home. Truly feel-great reads!”

—#1 New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“Sweetly satisfying, clever characters and snappy, realistic dialogue…a delightful read.”

—Publishers Weekly on About That Man

“Woods is a master heartstring puller.”

—Publishers Weekly on Seaview Inn

Praise for bestselling author Allison Leigh

“Allison Leigh’s honest, beautifully rendered story doesn’t depend on any tried-and-true plot devices, and it’s a joy to read.”

—RT Book Reviews on All He Ever Wanted

“A love story packed with emotion…Ms. Leigh gracefully moves her richly textured characters through a plethora of emotions.”

—RT Book Reviews on Stay…

SHERRYL WOODS

With her roots firmly planted in the South, Sherryl Woods has written many of her more than 100 books in that distinctive setting, whether her home state of Virginia, her adopted state, Florida, or her much adored South Carolina. She’s also especially partial to small towns, wherever they may be. Dream Mender is a rare foray into a West Coast setting, but Woods’s distinctive heartfelt emotions are still very much at the core of the story.

A member of Novelists Inc., Sisters in Crime and Romance Writers of America, Sherryl divides her time between her childhood summer home overlooking the Potomac River in Colonial Beach, Virginia, and her oceanfront home, with its lighthouse view, in Key Biscayne, Florida. “Wherever I am, if there’s no water in sight, I get a little antsy,” she says. Sherryl also loves hearing from readers. You can join her at her blog, www.JustBetweenFriendsBlog.com, visit her Web site at www.SherrylWoods.com or contact her directly at Sherryl703@gmail.com.

Dream Mender

Sherryl Woods

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Karon Gorham, with thanks for her insights and technical expertise and for sensitive burn-unit experts everywhere

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Copyright

Chapter One

Frank Chambers prowled the narrow hospital room, feeling like a foul-tempered bear awakening from hibernation with a thorn in its paw. He stared at his own bandaged hands and muttered an oath that would have curled his mother’s hair and earned him a sharp rap across his already-injured knuckles. He wanted to smash something, but settled for violently kicking a chair halfway across the hospital room. It skidded into the pale blue wall with a satisfying crash, but did nothing to improve his overall mood. His mother, a wise woman with little sympathy for self-pity, would have said it would have served him right if he’d broken his toe.

The door opened a cautious crack and yet another nurse peered in, an expression of alarm on her face. “You okay?”

“Just dandy,” he growled.

When he didn’t throw anything, she visibly gathered her courage and stepped inside, marching over to his bed and folding her arms across her chest, assuming a stern posture clearly meant to intimidate. Considering her tiny size, it wouldn’t have been an effective stance even if he hadn’t been feeling surly.

“You ought to be in bed,” she announced. She pulled back the sheet and gestured in the right direction just to make her point.

He glared at her and ignored the invitation. “I ought to be at home. I’m not sick.”

“That’s not what your chart says.”

“I don’t give a—”

She never even took a breath at the interruption. She just kept on going, talking over his swearing. “Less than twenty-four hours ago you were in a serious fire. When they brought you in, you were suffering from smoke inhalation. Your blood gases still don’t look all that good. You have second-degree burns on both hands. You need rest and therapy.”

It was not the first time he had heard the same detailed recitation of his medical condition. “I need to go home,” he repeated stubbornly. He tried another fierce scowl to emphasize the point. Grown men had cowered at that scowl. He was certain of its effectiveness.

Clearly unintimidated, the nurse rolled her eyes and left. He doubted she’d gone to get his release papers. None of the others had, either. Hell, his own mother hadn’t sided with him when he’d insisted he didn’t need to be admitted in the first place. He’d been whisked up to his room and hooked up to oxygen so fast it had left his head spinning. He’d tried bribing each of his brothers to spring him, but they’d ignored his pleas. Not even his softhearted baby sister had taken pity on him. She’d patted his arm and suggested to the afternoon-shift nurse that they tie him down if they had to.

“Et tu, Brute,” he’d muttered as Karyn had winked at him over her shoulder. Then she’d linked arms with her new husband and sashayed off to dinner.

The attitude of the whole Chambers clan rankled. That good-natured defiance was the thanks he got for all those years when he’d put his own life on hold to help his mother raise his five brothers and his sister. When his father had died, he’d reluctantly stepped into the role of parenting and discovered that it fit, even at seventeen. Maturity and responsibility had been thrust on him, but he’d somehow liked being needed, liked being the backbone of a large and loving family. In a curious sort of way he’d even suffered through the empty-nest trauma, watching as his siblings had matured and struck off on their own.

Karyn’s recent marriage to race-car driver Brad Willis might have been the first wedding in the tight-knit family, but it was hardly the first sign he’d had that it was time to get on with his own life. He’d been told to butt out so often in recent years he’d had no choice but to start focusing on himself instead of his siblings. He’d been doing just that—most of the time, anyway—until yesterday afternoon. Now, suddenly, at forty he was discovering what it was like to have the tables turned on him, to have to depend on others for his most basic needs. And, he didn’t like it, not one bit. What man would? No wonder his brothers chafed at all his well-intended meddling. Now they were giving it back to him in spades.

Left alone with his unpleasant thoughts through the long night, Frank tried to face facts. He told himself he could live with the pain the doctors were warning him to expect as the nerves in his hands healed. Hell, he could even live with the long-term scars. He’d seen burn scars, and while they weren’t pretty, his big, work-roughened hands hadn’t been much to write home about anyway. What was killing him, though, what was creating this gut-wrenching fury, was the absolute, utter helplessness of it all.

He couldn’t do the simplest things for himself with these layers of gauze wrapped around his fingers, turning them into fat, clumsy, useless appendages. Forget holding a fork. Forget turning on the shower or washing himself. Forget pushing a button on the damned TV remote or holding a book. He couldn’t even go to the bathroom on his own. Nothing, ever, had left him feeling quite so humiliated. They might as well have lopped the damned things off at the wrist.

And all because of a stupid accident. One careless instant, a still-smoldering cigarette butt tossed into a trash barrel by one of his unthinking co-workers, and the next thing he’d known the entire woodworking shop had been in flames. He’d grabbed for a fire extinguisher, but the metal had already been a blistering red-hot temperature. He’d done the best he could, but with all the flammable material around, it had been like battling a towering inferno with a garden hose. He’d managed to get a few things out of the workroom before the blaze and smoke had gotten out of control, eventually destroying everything. He’d gone back in one last time to rescue one of his co-workers who’d panicked and found himself trapped in a workroom with no exit except through the fire. Only when he was outside, gulping oxygen and coughing his head off had he noticed the blistered, raw layers of skin on his hands. The adrenaline high had given way to shocked horror as paramedics rushed him to the hospital. His co-worker had been treated for smoke inhalation at the scene.

The injuries could have been worse, they’d told Frank in the emergency room. Third-degree burns, with the possibility of damaging tendons and bone, could have been devastating for a man who worked with his hands. His career, most likely, would have been over. He would have lost the woodworking skills that had turned his imaginative, finely crafted cabinetry into an art that was making its way into some of the finest homes in San Francisco. With second-degree injuries, he had a chance.

The recovery, though, would be slow, tedious and painful. Frank had never been out sick a day in his life. Now it appeared he was headed for a long vacation, courtesy of workmen’s comp. The concept didn’t sit well. Worse was the faint, terrifying possibility that he might never again be able to do the delicate, intricate carving that made his work unique and gave him such a sense of accomplishment.

By morning, after hours of focusing on the “what ifs,” panic had bubbled up deep inside him. He dragged air into his injured lungs. Each breath hurt and did nothing to calm him, nothing to wipe away the bleak images of a future without the work that he loved.

Determined to get out of the hospital, even if he had to escape on his own, he used his foot to lever open the closet door. The task was easier than he’d expected, and his confidence soared. Hope crashed just as quickly with the realization that the only clothing hanging in the closet was his robe. His sooty shirt and jeans were no doubt ditched in some trash receptacle. He’d never get past the nurses’ station, much less out of this place, wearing just an indecent hospital gown and a robe that still had a price tag hanging from the sleeve.

On the nightstand beside the bed the phone rang. Grateful for the interruption, Frank lunged for it, knocking it to the floor with his inept hands. Another stream of profanity turned the air blue. How the hell was he supposed to answer a phone with fingers that stuck straight out like prongs on a damned pitchfork?

“Nurse!” he bellowed, rather than bothering with the call button. “Nurse!”

He glared at the door, waiting for it to open, fuming because he couldn’t even manage that simple task. This time, however, rather than inching open bit by cautious bit, the door was suddenly flung wide. Instead of a nurse, therapist Jennifer Michaels stepped into the room with all the confidence of a woman whose head hadn’t yet been bitten off by the fuming, foul-tempered patient in Room 407.

Frank recognized her at once. He had still been dopey from medication when she’d poked her head into the room the previous afternoon, but he hadn’t forgotten that perky, wide smile and that mop of shining Little Orphan Annie curls. Nor had he forgotten the cheerful promise that she would be back in the morning to begin his therapy.

“What do you want?” he asked, regarding her suspiciously.

Ignoring his challenging tone, she stepped briskly into the room, took in the situation at a glance and, with one graceful move, retrieved the phone from under the bed. “I was at the nurses’ station when we heard your dulcet tones echoing down the hall,” she told him.

“And you drew the short straw?”

“And I was on my way to see you anyway. How’d the phone land under the bed?” she inquired, as if it weren’t obvious.

He stared at her incredulously, then glanced pointedly at his bandaged hands.

If he’d expected pity or understanding, he didn’t get either. She shrugged and hung up the receiver. “I suppose some people would consider that an excuse.”

Frank glared at her just as the phone started to ring again. He stared at it, cursing it for the helplessness it stirred in him again. He took all of his frustration out on the therapist. “Get out!”

As skinny as she was, he was surprised his bellow alone hadn’t blown her from the room. She didn’t budge, every puny inch of her radiating mule-headed stubbornness.A tiny little bit of respect found its way into his perception of Ms. Jenny Michaels.

“I thought you wanted someone to answer the phone,” she said, all sweet innocence over a core of what was clearly solid steel.

“I’ll manage.”

“How?” she said, voicing his own disgruntled thought.

“What the hell difference does it make to you?”

“I’ll consider it the first step in your therapy.”

She waited. He glowered, his muscles tensing with each damnable ring of the phone. Finally, thankfully, it stopped.

“It’s probably just as well,” she said. “It is time for your therapy. I usually like to start with something less complicated.”

“Push-ups perhaps,” he suggested sarcastically.

“Maybe tomorrow,” she said without missing a beat. “In the meantime, why don’t I just show you how to start exercising those fingers? You can repeat the exercises every hour, about ten minutes at a time.”

“I’m not interested in therapy. I just want to be left alone.”

Ignoring that, she ordered, “Sit,” and waved him toward the bed.

“Forget it,” he said, bracing himself for a fight. He’d been itching for one all morning. Everyone else had sensed that and run for their lives. Jennifer Michaels wasn’t scaring so easily.

“Okay, stand,” she replied, not batting an eye at his surliness. “Hold out your hand. I’ll show you what I want you to do.”

He backed up until he was out of reach. “What about me? What about what I want?” he thundered. “Don’t you get it, lady? I’m not doing any ‘exercises.’”

“You’d prefer to have your hands heal the way they are now?”

Her voice never even wavered. Frank decided in that instant that his initial impression had been right on target: Jennifer Michaels was one tough little cookie. He took another look and saw the spark of determination in her eyes. He tried again to get through that thick, do-gooder skull of hers.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he said with deliberate condescension. “I know you have a job to do. I know you probably think you can accomplish miracles, but I’m not interested. The only thing I want out of life right this second is to be left alone, followed in very short order by my discharge papers.”

She winced once during the tirade, but recovered quickly. After that her expression remained absolutely calm. Not stoic. Not smug. Calm. It infuriated him. The only people he’d ever seen that serene before had been drugged out or chanting. Around San Francisco it was possible to see plenty of both.

“I could leave you here to stew,” she said as if honestly considering the possibility. “Of course, it would make me a lousy therapist if I let you get away with your bullying tactics.”

“I’ll write you an excuse you can put in your personnel file. The patient was uncooperative and unresponsive. That ought to cover it, don’t you think?”

She nodded agreeably. “It’s certainly accurate enough. Unfortunately you won’t be able to hold the pen unless you do the exercises.”

“Dammit, don’t you ever give up?” he said, advancing until he was towering over her. She swallowed hard, but stood her ground as he continued to rant. “I’ll type it. I ought to be able to hunt and peck, even with my fingers like this.” He waved them under her nose for emphasis.

She leveled her green eyes at him and tried to stare him down. When he didn’t back off she shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

She headed for the door and suddenly, perversely, Frank felt uncertain. At least she was company. And as long as they were hurling insults, he wouldn’t be alone with his own lousy thoughts. “You’re leaving?”

“That is what you said you wanted. I have patients who are interested in getting better. I don’t have time to waste on one who’s feeling sorry for himself. Think about it and we’ll talk again.”

She pinned him with an unflinching green-eyed gaze until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He turned away. A sigh shuddered through him as he heard the door shut softly behind her.

Well, Chambers, you definitely made a horse’s ass out of yourself that time, he told himself. Not that Jennifer Michaels couldn’t take it. There had been that unmistakable glint of steely determination in her eyes and an absolute lack of sympathy in her voice. At almost any other moment in his life that combination might have impressed him. He admired spunk and dedication. He was not in the habit of dishing out garbage the way he had just now, but on the occasions when his temper got the best of him, he appreciated knowing that the target had the audacity to throw it right back in his face. Jennifer Michaels had audacity to spare.

In her case, the unexpectedness of that tart, unyielding response had caught him off guard. He doubted she’d learned that particular bedside technique in therapist school. But he had to admit it was mildly effective. He felt guilty for a full five minutes before reminding himself that, like it or not, he was the patient here. Nobody was exactly coddling him.

Not that he wanted them to, he amended quickly. The papers might be calling him a hero for rescuing his co-worker, and his family might think he was behaving like a pain in the butt, but either label irked. He didn’t feel particularly heroic. Nor was he ready to don a hair shirt just because his attitude sucked. He figured he had a right. With his hands burned and his livelihood in jeopardy, it was little wonder that his stomach was knotted in fear. If he wanted to sulk, then, by God, he was going to sulk, and no pint-size therapist with freckles, saucer eyes and bright red curls was going to cheer him up or lay a guilt trip on him.

But to his amazement, the memory of her sunny disposition and sweet smile began to taunt him. It couldn’t be easy dealing with angry patients, some of them injured a whole lot worse than he was. How did she do it day after day? How much of the abuse did she take before lashing back? How much would she withstand before truly giving up? Somewhere deep inside he knew that she hadn’t given up on him after this one brief skirmish. She’d only staged a tactical retreat, leaving him with a whole lot to think about.

Frank spent the rest of the day intermittently pacing, staring at the door, waiting. Every time it opened, his muscles tensed and his breathing seemed to go still. Each time, when it was just a nurse or a doctor, disappointment warred with relief.

Finally, exhausted and aware that, like it or not, he wasn’t going anywhere today, he crawled back into bed. He was stretched out on his back, counting the tiny pinpoint holes in the water-stained ceiling tiles, when the door opened yet again. This time he didn’t even bother turning his head.

“Hey, big brother,” Tim said from the foot of the bed. “How come you’re not out chasing nurses up and down the corridors? There are some fine-looking women around here.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

His youngest brother stepped closer, a worried expression on his face. He placed a hand against Frank’s forehead. “Nope. You’re not dead. Must be the smoke. It’s addled your senses.”

“My senses are just fine.” He paused. “Except maybe for touch.”

Tim chuckled. “That’s better. A little humor is good for healing. I’ll go tell Ma it’s safe to come in now.”

“She’s here?”

“They all are. They’re just waiting for me to wave the white flag.”

Frank groaned. “All of them?”

“Everyone. You’re the one who taught us to travel in packs in times of crisis. We’re here to cheer you up. Feed you your dinner. Help with a shower. Of course, if it were me, I’d invite one of those gorgeous nurses to give me a sponge bath.”

Frank’s lips twitched with a rueful smile. “I’m sure you would.”

“I know you’re much too saintly to think in such terms. I’m a mere mortal, however, and I don’t believe in wasting opportunities that come my way. If life hands you lemons, make—”

“I know. Make lemonade. If you ask me, too damned many opportunities have come your way,” Frank grumbled, treading on familiar, comfortable turf. “You’re like a bee in a field of wildflowers. It’s a wonder you don’t collapse from overexertion.”

“Do you realize how many women get on a bus every single day?” his brother countered. “You want me to make an informed choice, don’t you?”

“I knew I should have insisted that you work your way through law school by cutting lawns for little old ladies instead of driving a MUNI bus.”

Tim stared at him thoughtfully. “I wonder if I could get them to bandage your mouth shut for a couple of weeks.”

Frank sighed. “You and most of the staff around here.”

“Yeah, that’s what your therapist said.”

Immediately interested, he searched Tim’s face for some indication of his reaction to the conversation. “You talked to Jennifer Michaels?” he prodded.

“Listened is more like it. That woman can talk a mile a minute. She had plenty to say, too. I’d say you got under her skin, Brother. What did you do? Try to steal a kiss? Ma’s out there trying to calm her down and convince her that at heart you’re a good-natured beast worthy of saving.”

“She’s just frustrated because I won’t do her damned exercises.”

“I wouldn’t mind doing a little exercising with her. She’s a fox.”

The observation, coming from an admitted connoisseur of the fair sex, irritated the daylights out of Frank for some reason. “Stay away from her, Timmy.”

A slow, crooked grin spread across his brother’s face. “I knew it. You’re not dead after all. Just choosy. Actually, I think you’ve made an excellent choice.”

“I didn’t make any damned choice.”

Tim went on as if he’d never uttered the denial. “Redheads are passionate. Did you know that? Fiery tempers and all that.”

Frank thought about the therapist’s absolute calm. “I think our Ms. Michaels may be the exception that proves the rule. She’s unflappable.”

“Are we talking about the same woman? Not five minutes ago she told Ma if you didn’t get your butt out of this bed and down to therapy in the morning, she was going to haul you down there herself. I think she has plans for you.”

The first faint stirrings of excitement sent Frank’s blood rushing. “I’d like to see her try to drag me out of here,” he said, a hint of menace in his tone. The truth of the matter, he suddenly realized, was that he really would like to see her do just that. If nothing else, going another round with Ms. Miracle Worker would relieve the boredom. Maybe if he tried her patience long enough, he’d witness a sampling of that fiery temper Tim claimed to have seen.

Before he could spend too much time analyzing just why that prospect appealed to him, the rest of the family crowded into the room and filled it with cheerful, good-natured teasing and boisterous arguments. Once he’d finished the tedious task of eating tasteless chicken and cold mashed potatoes with the help of his nagging sister, Frank leaned back against the pillow and let the welcome, familiar sounds lull him to sleep.

Tonight, instead of the horrible, frightening roar of a raging fire, he dreamed of a fiery redhead turning passionate in his embrace.

* * *

Jennifer Michaels could feel the tension spreading across the back of her neck and shoulders as Frank Chambers’s chart came up for review at interdisciplinary rounds. The doctors and nurses on the burn unit had their say. Then it was her turn. It was a short report. In a perfectly bland voice she recited his status and his refusal to accept therapy. At least she thought she was keeping her tone neutral. Apparently she was more transparent than she’d realized.

“You sound as if that’s something new,” Carolanne said when rounds had ended and the others had left the therapy room. “Almost every patient balks at first, either because of the pain, because they’re depressed or because they refuse to accept the seriousness of the injuries and the importance of the therapy.”

Jenny sighed. She’d delivered the same lecture herself dozens of times. “I know. My brain tells me it’s not my responsibility if the patient won’t begin treatment, but inside it never feels right. It feels like failure.”

“Must be that Catholic boarding school upbringing again. You haven’t developed a full-fledged case of guilt in months now. You were overdue.”

“Maybe.”

The other therapist watched her closely. “Or maybe something specific about Frank Chambers gets to you.”

Jenny thought of the anger in his voice, the strength in his shoulders, the coiled intensity she had sensed just beneath the surface. Then she thought of his eyes and the wounded, bemused look in them that he fought so hard to hide. He was getting to her all right. Like no patient—or no man—had in a very long time.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Carolanne persisted. “Want me to see him tomorrow? I can take over the case.”

Jenny hesitated. That would be the smart thing to do, run while she had the chance. Then she thought of the lost, sorrowful expression in those compelling blue eyes.

Because she understood that sadness and fear far better than he or even Carolanne could imagine, she slowly shook her head. “No,” she said finally. “Thanks, but I’ll see him.”

How could she possibly abandon a man who so clearly needed her—even if he couldn’t admit it yet?

Chapter Two

“When am I getting out?” Frank demanded as his doctor bent over his bandages first thing in the morning. Nathan Wilding was one of the top burn specialists in the nation. In his fifties, he was compulsively dedicated, returning to the hospital at a moment’s notice at the slightest sign of change in any of his patients. Occasionally gruff, and always demanding, he insisted on excellence from his staff. Because he accepted no less from himself, his staff respected him, and his patients elevated him to godlike stature. He’d been featured in almost as many San Francisco newspaper stories as any 49ers quarterback, and treated with much the same reverence. Frank considered himself lucky to be the patient of a true expert, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hang around this place any longer than necessary.

“When I say so,” Wilding mumbled distractedly as he carefully snipped away another layer of gauze. When the nasty wounds were fully exposed, he nodded approvingly. Personally Frank thought they looked like hell. He stared with a sort of repulsed fascination.

“Am I going to be able to work again?” he asked, furious because his voice sounded choked with fear.

“Too soon to say,” Wilding replied. “Have you been doing your therapy?”

Frank evaded the doctor’s penetrating gaze. He sensed the doctor already knew the answer. “Not exactly.”

“I see,” he said slowly, allowing the silence to go on and on until Frank met his eyes. Then he added, “I thought you wanted to get full use of your hands back.”

“I do.”

“Then stop giving Ms. Michaels so much grief and get to work. She’s one of the best. She can help you, but only if you’ll work with her.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I can’t promise you’ll have any significant recovery of dexterity.” He pulled up a chair and sat down. “Let me spell it out for you, Mr. Chambers. Your injuries are severe, but not irreversible. Maybe even without therapy, given time, you’d be able to hold a glass again or grasp a fork, if the handle is wide enough.”

He waited for that to sink in. Certain that he had Frank’s full attention, he went on, “It is my understanding, however, that you are a craftsman. In fact, my wife bought one of your cabinets for our den. The workmanship is extraordinary in this day of fake wood and assembly-line furniture production. The detail is exquisite. If you ever hope to do that sort of delicate carving again, there’s not a minute to waste. You’ll do Ms. Michaels’s exercises and follow her instructions without argument. She’s a damned fine therapist. Cares about her patients. She doesn’t deserve any more of your abuse.”

Frank could feel an embarrassed flush creep up his neck. “She complained that I behaved like a jerk, right?”

“She didn’t tell me a thing.”

“Then she wrote it in the chart.”

“The chart mentioned that you were uncooperative and unresponsive.” Amusement suddenly danced in the doctor’s eyes, chasing away the stern demeanor. “It also mentioned that you told her to write that.”

As the doctor rewrapped each finger in solution-soaked gauze, he said, “Listen, I know you’re frustrated and angry. It’s understandable. I’d hate like hell being in your position. A doctor’s not much use without his hands, either. But the fact of the matter is that you’re the only thing standing in the way of your own recovery. If you think it’s bad now, just wait a couple more days until the pain starts full force. You’re going to hate the bunch of us, when that happens. There’s not one of us you won’t think is trying to torture you. You’re going to be downright nasty. You’d better hope you’ve made a few friends around here by then. We can walk you through it. We can remind you that the pain will pass. And Ms. Michaels can see to it that you don’t let the pain make you give up and decide to find a new career that doesn’t demand so much of your hands.”

“In other words, it’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get to work.”

“That’s about it.”

The last time Frank had had a straight, no-nonsense lecture like that he’d been a teenager similarly hell-bent on self-destruction. Angry over his father’s death, terrified of the sudden, overwhelming responsibilities, he’d gone a little wild. He’d been creeping into the house after three in the morning, staggering drunk, when his mother had stepped out of the shadows and smacked him square on the jaw. For a little woman, she had packed a hell of a wallop.

Having convinced him just who was in charge, she had marched him into the kitchen and poured enough coffee to float a cruise ship. While he’d longed for the oblivion of sleep, she’d told him in no uncertain terms that it was time to shape up and act like a man. He’d sat at that table, miserable, unable to meet her eyes, filled with regret for the additional pain he’d inflicted on her.

And then she had hugged him and reminded him that the only things that counted in life were family and love and support in times of trouble. She’d taught him by example just what that meant. She was the most giving soul he’d ever met. Some instinct told him that deep down Jennifer Michaels might be just like her.

If he’d learned the meaning of love and responsibility from his mother, Frank had learned the meaning of strength and character from his father. Until the day he’d died of cancer, his body racked with pain, the old man had been a fighter. Reflecting on his own behavior of the past couple of days, Frank felt a faint stirring of shame. He resolved to change his tune, to cooperate with that pesky little therapist when she finally showed up again.

“She’ll have no more problems with me,” Frank assured the doctor. “I’ll be a model patient.”

Unfortunately that spirit of cooperation died the minute she walked into the room pushing a wheelchair, her expression grimly determined. He didn’t even have time to reflect on how pretty she looked in the bright emerald green dress that matched her eyes. He was too busy girding himself for another totally unexpected battle.

“What’s that for?” He waved his hand at the offensive contraption.

“Time for therapy,” she announced cheerfully, edging the chair to the side of the bed. “Hop in, Mr. Chambers. We’re going for a ride.”

“Are you nuts? I’m not riding in that with some puny little wisp of a thing pushing me through the halls. My legs are just fine.”

She backed the chair up a foot or so to give him room. “Let’s see you move it, then. The therapy room is down the hall. I’ll give you five minutes to get there.” She spun on her heel and headed for the door, taking the wheelchair with her.

“Something tells me I’m not the one with the attitude problem today,” he observed, still not budging from the bed, arms folded across his chest.

Jenny abandoned the wheelchair, moving so fast her rubbersoled shoes made little squeaking sounds on the linoleum. Hands on hips, she loomed over him, sparks dancing in her eyes. The soft moss shade of yesterday was suddenly all emerald fire.

“Buster, this attitude is no problem at all. If I have to bust your butt to convince you to do what you should, then that’s the road I’ll take. Personally I prefer to spend my time being pleasant and helpful, but I’m not above a little street fighting if that’s what it takes to accomplish the job. Got it?”

Frank found himself grinning at her idea of playing down and dirty. In any sort of real street fighting, she’d be out of her league in twenty seconds. He gave her high marks for trying, though. And after what he’d put her through the previous day, he decided he owed her a round. He’d let her emerge from this particular battle unscathed.

“I’ll go peacefully,” he said compliantly.

She blinked in surprise, and then something that might have been relief replaced the fight in her eyes.

“Good,” she said, a wonderful smile spreading across her face. That smile alone was worth the surrender. It warmed him deep inside, where he hadn’t even realized he’d been feeling cold and alone.

“I had no idea how I was going to haul you into that chair if you didn’t cooperate,” she confided.

“Sweetheart, you should never admit a thing like that,” he warned while awkwardly pulling on his robe. “Tomorrow I just might get it into my head to stand you up for this therapy date, and now I know I can get away with it.”

“Who are you kidding?” she sassed right back. “You knew that anyway. You’re nearly a foot taller than I am and seventy pounds heavier.”

“So you admit to being all bluster.”

“Not exactly.” She gestured toward the door. “I have a very tall, very strong orderly waiting just outside in case my technique failed. He lifts twice your weight just for kicks.”

“Which confirms that you weren’t quite as sure of yourself as you wanted me to believe.”

“Let’s just say that I’m aware of the importance of both first impressions and contingency plans,” she said as she escorted him to the door.

Outside the room she turned the wheelchair over to the orderly, who was indeed more than equal to persuading a man of Frank’s size to do as he was told. “Thanks, Otis. We won’t be needing this after all.”

The huge black man grinned. “Never thought you would, Ms. Michaels. You’re batting fifty-eight for sixty by my count. It’s not even sporting fun to bet against you anymore.”

“Nice record,” Frank observed wryly as they walked down the hall. “I had no idea therapists kept scorecards. I’d have put up less of a fight if I’d known I was about to ruin your reputation.”

“Otis is a born gambler. I’m trying to persuade him that the track is not the best place to squander his paycheck.”

“So now he takes bets against you?”

“I’m hoping eventually he’ll get bored enough to quit that, too. I think he’s getting close.” She peered up at Frank, her expression hopeful. “What do you think?”

What Frank thought, as he lost himself in those huge green eyes, was that he was facing trouble a whole lot more dangerous than the condition of his hands. His voice gentled to a near whisper. “Ms. Michaels, I think a man would be a fool to ever bet against you.”

Her gaze locked with his until finally, swallowing hard, she blinked and looked away. “Jenny,” she said, just as softly. “You can call me Jenny.”

Frank nodded, aware that they were suddenly communicating in ways that went beyond mere words. “Jenny,” he repeated for no reason other than the chance to hear her name roll off his tongue. The name was simple and uncomplicated, not at all like the woman it belonged to. He had a hunch he’d done a whole lot of miscalculating in the past couple of days. It might be fascinating to discover just how far off the mark he had been. “And I’m Frank.”

“Frank.”

They’d stopped outside a closed door marked Therapy and might have stood right where they were, awareness suddenly throbbing between them, if Otis hadn’t strolled past, whistling, giving Jenny a conspiratorial wink. Suddenly she was all business again, opening the door, pointing to a chair. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

Frank stepped into a room filled with ordinary, everyday items from jars to toothbrushes, from scissors to jumbo-size crayons. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t this dime-store collection of household paraphernalia. He hooked his foot under the rung of an ordinary straight-back chair and pulled it away from a Formica-topped table so he could sit. He eyed the assortment of equipment skeptically. He suspected his insurance was going to pay big bucks for this therapy, and for what? So he could play with a toothbrush? His spirit of cooperation took another nosedive.

“What’s all this?” he asked derisively the minute Jenny joined him.

“Advanced therapy,” she retorted. “If you’re lucky and work hard, you’ll get to it in a week or two.”

He regarded her incredulously. “It’s going to take two weeks before I can brush my teeth? I thought you were supposed to be good.”

“I am good. You’re the patient,” she reminded him. “Two weeks. Could be longer. The bandages won’t even be off for three weeks. Think you can handle it sooner?”

There was no mistaking the challenge. “Give me the brush,” he said.

“Get it yourself.”

He reached across the table and tried to pick it up. He managed it with both hands, by sliding it to the edge of the table and clamping it between his hands as it fell off. At least his quick, ball-playing reflexes hadn’t suffered any.

“Now what?” Jenny said, all bright-eyed curiosity. The woman was just waiting for a failure. Frank was equally determined not to fail. He was going to set a few recovery records of his own.

He pressed harder to keep the brush from slipping and tried to maneuver it toward his mouth. “Do you have to watch every move I make?” he grumbled, sweat forming across his brow with the taxing effort.

“Yep.”

Irritated by his inability to manipulate the brush and by her fascinated observation of the failure, he threw it down. “Forget it.”

“Maybe we ought to work up to that,” Jenny suggested mildly. There wasn’t the slightest hint of gloating in her tone.

He scowled back at her, but her gaze remained unwaveringly calm. “Okay, fine,” he bit out finally. “You call the shots. Where do we start?”

She sat down next to him, inching her chair so close he could smell the sweet spring scent of her perfume. “We’ll start with flexing your fingers. I’ll do the work this first time, okay? It’s called passive motion.”

Momentarily resigned, he shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

With surprising gentleness, she took his hand in hers. At once Frank cursed his fate all over again. He couldn’t even feel the unexpected caress. His imagination went wild though. He wondered if her skin was as soft as it looked, if the texture felt like rose petals. He was so fascinated with his fantasizing, in fact, that he barely noticed what she was doing, until she said, “Now you try it.”

“Mmm?” he murmured.

She regarded him indignantly. “Frank, weren’t you paying a bit of attention?”

“My mind wandered.”

If she was aware of exactly where his wayward thoughts had strayed, she showed no evidence of it, not even the faintest blush of embarrassment. She picked up his other hand.

“Try to pay attention this time,” she said as she slowly flexed each finger back and forth. The range of movement was minuscule. Frank couldn’t believe how little she expected or how inept he was at accomplishing it. He needed her to move his fingers for him—and he hated that weakness.

“That’s it?” he scoffed when she stopped. “That’s your idea of therapy? You dragged me all the way down here for that?”

“You could have done it in your room, but we tried that routine yesterday and you didn’t seem to like it. It occurred to me you might take it more seriously if I brought you down here. Just remember there’s an old saying that you have to walk before you can run.”

“It usually applies just to babies.”

Jenny rested her hand on his forearm and regarded him intently. Compassion and understanding filled her eyes. “In this instance it might be wise if you think of your hands as being every bit as untutored as a newborn’s,” she told him. “The instincts are there, but the control is shaky. Right now we’re just trying to assure that the joints don’t stiffen up as you heal and that the skin maintains some elasticity.”

Frank wasn’t interested in baby steps. He wanted desperately to make strides. “All I need is to get these bandages off and I’ll be just fine.”

“You will be if you do the exercises religiously, ten minutes an hour. Got it?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Want me to walk you back to your room or send for Otis?”

“Hardly. My legs aren’t the problem.”

“I’ll be in later to check on you.”

Her tone was all business and her gaze was directed at his chart as she scribbled in a notation. Frank found it thoroughly irritating that he’d apparently been summarily dismissed now that she’d gotten her way. He was just about to tell her in grumpy detail what she could do with her ridiculous therapy, when the door opened and another patient was wheeled in by the formidable Otis.

The young girl was swathed in bandages over fifty percent of her body. Only one side of her face peeked through the gauze and only one arm remained unbandaged. Even so, she struggled for a smile at the sight of Jenny. Frank felt his heart wrench at the pitiful effort.

“Hey, Pam, how’s it going?” Jenny asked, her own smile warm, her gaze unflinching.

“Pretty good. I just beat Otis at poker. He has to go out and bring me a hamburger and fries for lunch.”

Otis leaned down, his expression chagrined. “I thought that was going to be our little secret.”

Jenny chuckled. “That will teach you, big guy. There are no secrets between therapist and patient. As long as you’re buying, you can bring me a hamburger, too.”

“Women! The two of you are going to put me in the poorhouse,” the orderly grumbled, but he was grinning as he left.

Frank watched the byplay between Jenny and the teenager for a few more minutes, irritated by their camaraderie, the easy laughter. He could feel the pull of the warmth between them and envied it. Feeling lonelier than he ever had in his life, he finally slipped out the door and went back to his room.

Late into the night, long after he probably should have been asleep, he struggled to move his fingers just a fraction of an inch. He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to prove something to himself…or to Jenny.

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