From This Day Forward. Irene Hannon
the scars on the back of his hand. From just above his wrist to the tips of his fingers, there wasn’t a square inch untouched by the network of shiny white lines. Even now, almost two years after the attack, his hand remained slightly misshapen, the function improved but still impaired. Though he maintained the physical therapy regime prescribed by his doctors, and continued to note small improvements, his fingers would never regain the dexterity required to perform surgery. Bill West had achieved his goal.
A flash of terror from that dark night, along with a recollection of acute pain, swept over Sam. While he hadn’t been able to control the nightmares that had plagued him in the beginning, it had been months since he’d let himself think about the incident that had robbed him of his career.
And this wasn’t the time to start. He’d moved past that, gone on with his life. Thanks to the skill of the colleagues who had reconstructed his hand with painstaking care, he’d recovered far more function than anyone had dared hope for. Considering that his hand had been smashed beyond recognition, and factoring in the extensive nerve damage he’d suffered, the fact that he could use it at all was nothing short of a miracle—if one believed in such things.
Putting such reflections aside, Sam forced himself to knock on the door. Cara might not be pleased at the intrusion. But too often in his marriage he’d held back, pulled away and shut the window to his heart at the very time he should have thrown wide the door and invited her in. Only in retrospect had Sam recognized how hurtful that had been to his wife—and how damaging it had been to their relationship. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. This time, he was going to follow his heart.
No matter the risk that entailed.
Chapter Four
A faint rapping penetrated Cara’s consciousness, tugging her back from a deep slumber she didn’t want to relinquish. Not when it was the most restful sleep she’d enjoyed in weeks. Turning on her side, she buried her head in the down pillow, drifting off in a matter of seconds when the room grew silent.
Unfortunately, the quiet didn’t last long. The rapping started again, more insistent this time. And too loud to ignore. But it was the muffled question, the words laced with apprehension, that pulled her back to reality.
“Cara? Are you okay?”
Struggling to shake off the heavy sleep, Cara opened her eyes. The dim room, illuminated only by the glow of a light somewhere beyond the large, unshuttered window, wasn’t familiar. But the voice was.
“Cara, please answer me!”
Where was she? And what was Sam doing here?
The dots still weren’t connecting in her sleep-fuzzy brain. With a triumph of mind over body, she forced her lethargic arms to respond and tried to push herself into a sitting position, hoping the fog would clear once she was upright.
Just as she managed to get vertical, the door cracked open. And as light from the hall spilled across the bottom of the bed, spotlighting the Monet-patterned comforter, the pieces fell into place. She was in Oak Hill. At Sam’s house. She’d lain down to take a twenty-minute nap.
Except that didn’t make sense, she realized, turning toward the window. It had been bright daylight when she’d stretched out. Now it was dusk.
“Sorry to intrude, but I’ve been knocking for a while. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
At the sound of Sam’s voice, she turned back. He was little more than a silhouette, his face unreadable in the shadows. Shoving her hair back, she peered at her watch in the dim light. “What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No. Is it all right if I turn on a light?”
“Sure.”
He felt along the wall, then flicked on the switch. The lamp on the dresser came on, bathing the room in a mellow glow.
Blinking, Cara tried to rub the sleep out of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I only planned to take a quick nap. And I can’t imagine why I didn’t hear your knock.” She slept so lightly these days that the slightest sound brought her instantly awake—and alert.
“When did you last have a block of uninterrupted sleep?”
“I don’t know.” More to the point, when had she last felt safe enough to indulge in a block of uninterrupted sleep?
“Considering what you went through, that’s not unusual. Stress can cause insomnia, and that, in turn, often leads to more stress. It can become a vicious cycle that results in a serious anxiety disorder.” He waited, as if giving her a chance to comment. To her relief, he didn’t push when she ignored the overture. “In any case, let’s hope you can break that cycle while you’re here. I think you made a good start tonight. Are you hungry?”
She was surprised to discover that she was. Her appetite had been another casualty of the trauma. “Yes. Give me a minute.”
“I’ll meet you in the kitchen.” He closed the door behind him.
In view of the late hour, she did no more than run a brush through her hair and touch up her lipstick. Nevertheless, by the time she joined him he’d already put plates and utensils on the oak table. When she paused in the doorway, he was removing a steaming plate of chicken and broccoli from the microwave.
He looked good, she thought, taking a moment to observe him before he noticed her. Sam hadn’t often worn jeans in Philadelphia, but she’d always liked the way they emphasized his long, lean legs. And his blue knit sport shirt not only matched his eyes, it accentuated the width of his shoulders and his broad chest. There were more glints of silver than she remembered in his short, sandy hair. But that just gave him a distinguished air. The cobalt blue of his eyes hadn’t changed, though the fine lines around them were new. As were the faint grooves at the corners of his mouth. It seemed the past thirteen months hadn’t been easy on him, either.
A smile warmed his face when he spotted her. “That was fast.” He set the plate next to a bowl of rice. “What would you like to drink?”
“Water will be fine.” He was still wearing his wedding ring, she realized, her gaze riveted to his hand. Just as she was. Somehow, she hadn’t expected that.
Returning to the counter, he slid a plate of what looked like Mongolian beef into the microwave, closed the door and punched some buttons. Then he retrieved a glass from the cabinet. “This will be ready in a couple of minutes. Have a seat.”
“I hope I didn’t delay your dinner too long.” She slid into her chair.
“Not a problem.”
“You always were a late eater.” She thought about the days when it hadn’t been uncommon for him to wolf down dinner at nine or ten o’clock at night, then head for his study to do a couple more hours of paperwork before turning in.
“Not anymore.” He deposited her glass on the table.
Surprised, she angled a look up at him. “Why not?”
“I ate late in those days because that was the only time I could fit it in. The pace here is quite a bit slower. Oak Hill isn’t Philly, and family practice isn’t surgery. Go ahead and help yourself.”
Cara watched as he retrieved the beef from the microwave and joined her at the table. His new life sounded quite a bit different from his old one, and she was curious about it. But if she wanted to keep things simple, it was best to avoid personal topics.
As he reached for the bowl of rice, Cara bowed her head. He paused, waiting until she finished her silent prayer of thanks before filling his plate.
“I’m surprised you continue to find comfort in that after all that’s happened,” he remarked.
Hearing none of the expected sarcasm, she gave him an honest reply. “Now more than ever.”
At