As she sank to the bed, her eyes flashed with anger and with a wave of her hand, she brushed Jackson’s book off the bed. “Oh yeah? Easy for you to say—you weren’t the one in a coma for months—all the time dreaming one terrible dream after another, unable to wake up and escape the dreams.” She hugged herself tightly, and drawing a deep breath, let the frustration pour out. “You don’t have a leg that doesn’t work right because of nerve damage. You’re still the same person you were a year ago. I’m not.”
“You—” He clenched his jaw and stopped abruptly. “You’re upset and, well, never mind. If you’re going to be okay, I think I’ll go back to bed. I’ll leave the door of the guest room open in case you need me.”
Sam’s hand shot out as she felt the tears gather. She’d hurt him again. Something she’d been doing a lot lately. “Wait . . .”
Pausing in the doorway, he turned, his face calm and his expression unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” she said, clearing her throat. “I don’t mean to be such a bitch, Jackson. I—”
“I
do
understand, Sam,” he said swiftly while he held up a hand to stop her. “Dr. Weissinger told us to expect these mood swings.” He paused as if he were carefully picking his next words. “But it might help if you’d remember your life isn’t the only one that’s changed.” With a shake of his head, he turned and walked out of the room.
She stared at the open doorway for a moment. Great, he was not only hurt, but angry. What would she do if he finally got fed up with her and left, not only her bedroom, but her life? He’d become her anchor and there were days when only the dream of their future together kept her going. Until Jackson, her focus had been her work, and she’d never met anyone who’d made her want to change. She had avoided commitment, but he’d changed all that when he breezed into her life at a concert, one of her mother’s many charity benefits. Both of his parents had been patrons of the arts, devoting time and money to help struggling musicians, and since their deaths, he’d continued their good works. After the concert, he’d wooed her relentlessly with flowers, dinners, and thoughtful gifts.
Her eyes filled with tears again as she looked down at her left hand and the three-carat diamond Jackson had so proudly placed on her finger. It was all going to be perfect. After the wedding, they were moving into his family home, a wonderful Victorian, nestled in the woods and newly restored to her precise specifications. She dashed away the tears and rubbed the muscle in her left thigh. The work that the carpenters had done on the staircase with its curving walnut banister had delighted her, but now it reminded her of Mount McKinley. How could she negotiate the high risers when she had trouble walking across the room?
If Jackson did leave her, what would her family say? Her father had been thrilled when they starting dating. He was proud of the fact she was marrying a successful plastic surgeon. He said he couldn’t have chosen a better match for her if he’d have picked Jackson himself. He’d even agreed to a donation for a new wing at the hospital as an engagement present.
She had to stop being such a bitch. She had to change . . . but how? Every time she tried to show him how much she loved him, her fears, her resentment over the way her life had changed, strangled every word, every action.
Rising, she limped back to the window. Lifting her hand, she let it linger over the cord used to raise the blinds. She wanted to open them. She wanted to see the starry night sky, but she was afraid, afraid that someone might be out there in the night, in the woods, watching the cabin, watching her.
Letting her hand fall to her side, she crossed to the bed and sat. Her left leg felt stiff and she rubbed her thigh absentmindedly. Only thirty-five, she felt more like eighty. Leaning back and using her elbows for balance, she slid her feet forward until her lower legs were away from the bed. Even with her nightgown covering them, she could see the difference between her right and left legs. The right looked normal . . . the left, shrunken with wasted muscle. She took a deep breath and lifted them, just like the therapist had shown her. Her right leg rose to a foot off the floor, but her left wavered only inches above it. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on her brain making the connection with muscles in her leg. A thin sheen of sweat dampened her forehead as the leg rose another inch.
Yes,
she thought triumphantly,
just a little higher.
A spasm hit, sending pain shooting up her leg. With a groan, she let both feet drop.
A sense of weariness swamped her. Would her leg ever be strong again? She was tired of the whole thing, tired of trying, tired of everyone’s quiet voices giving her the answer she didn’t want . . .
“It takes time—just be patient.”
Well, how
much
time would it take? Would she ever be able to walk normally? Would she stop jumping at sudden noises? Would she enjoy the warmth of the sun on her face ever again without the overwhelming fear that someone was lurking and waiting to pounce? Would the dreams go away?
Time was running out. Not only on her relationship with Jackson, but on her career, too. Her dad had already given her old job at his advertising agency to her former assistant, Dan Borden. Dan was now her father’s right hand, not her. What if he proved himself indispensable? Lawrence Moore wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t replace a valued employee with her just because she was his daughter. Nepotism didn’t go that far with her dad.
No Jackson—no career
. The thought made her stomach clench.
From the corner of her eye, she spied her cell phone lying on the nightstand next to the pill bottles and the picture. Flipping the picture facedown, she picked up the phone and stared at it. If only she knew what was happening at the agency, she’d feel that she wasn’t out of the loop. That she had something waiting for her at the end of her struggle. She could focus on the future, and not the now.
Using speed dial, she called Dan’s private number. So maybe it was past midnight, but Dan was a night owl, and in the past they’d shared many late-night calls. He’d been not only her assistant, but her friend. He wouldn’t mind.
“Hey, Dan,” she said with forced brightness when the groggy voice on the other end answered.
“Samantha!” he exclaimed, suddenly wide-awake.
“I know it’s late,” she said, the words rushing out.
“Is something wrong? Are you okay?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine,” she replied, trying to keep the need out of her voice. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d still be up. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“That’s okay . . . it’s . . . um . . . well . . . we’ve been busy lately. I’ve put in some pretty long hours, so I’ve been turning in earlier when I can.”
“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I’ll let you go so you can get back to sleep.”
“No, really, it’s okay. What’s up?”
“Nothing . . .” She hesitated. “I was just wondering how everything’s going.”
There was a long pause on the line
“Fine . . . good,” Dan answered cautiously.
“Did you land the Schwitzer account?”
“Yes.”
“Is everything going well in the art department?”
“About like normal,” he replied, not really answering her question.
She plucked at the blanket and felt her desperation rise. “Having any problems with Marcus? Maybe I could give you some advice on how to handle him.” She tried to chuckle. “You know how those artsy types are. Always going off on a tangent and ignoring the client’s wishes.”
“We’ve had a few disagreements, but not bad.”
“Nothing like the time he wanted to use a purple-and-pink background in the ad for the sporting-goods company?”
She heard him hesitate.
“No, nothing like that,” he said finally.
“That’s good. How about Ed? Is—”
“Let’s not talk about the agency,” he said, cutting her off. “How are you doing? Are you enjoying the lake? Your dad said Jackson had spent a summer there when he was a teenager and loved it. That’s why he suggested they send you there,” he said, suddenly talkative. “It must be beautiful this time of year.”
Sam thought about the darkness waiting outside the cabin windows, thought about what lurked in the woods ringing the property.
“Oh, sure,” she lied. “It’s great up here; really, ah, peaceful.”
“Is Jackson staying up there with you?”
“No, he has too many patients to take the whole summer off. He’ll be driving up on the weekends.”
Dan laughed. “We ought to know . . . it’s all about image, isn’t it. A plastic surgeon’s life has to be pretty hectic. All those women who want it nipped, tucked, and sucked.” His tone grew serious. “It’s good your dad’s hired someone to look after you while Jackson’s gone. It’s going—”
“What?” she broke in, frowning. “Dad’s hired someone to stay with me?”
“Ah, well,” he stammered. “Lawrence mentioned that they’ve hired a woman, a physical therapy assistant, to help you.”
“A nursemaid,” she stated flatly.
“He—he didn’t say she’d be living with you. I’m—I’m—”
Sam sighed into the receiver. “Don’t worry, Dan. I’ll talk to Dad about it. You just caught me off guard, that’s all.”
“You won’t tell him I told you, will you?” he asked with a twinge of fear in his voice.
“No.”
Dan cleared his throat and his tone became stronger. “With you being alone during the week, I know he’s worried . . .”
About her mental stability,
she thought, filling in the blank.
“He’s only trying to protect you,” Dan finished.
Protect her?
A realization hit her. “Dad told you not to talk to me about work, didn’t he?”
“Um, well . . .” His voice trailed away.
Dan always blushed easily, and Sam could imagine the pink infusing his pale face.
“He wants you to concentrate on your recovery,” Dan blurted out. “He doesn’t want you to worry about what’s happening down here in Minneapolis.”
“But, Dan,” she pleaded, “I need—”
“I agree with him,” he forcefully interrupted her. “You know how much stress there is down here, and your dad knows that you don’t need it.”
Great, everyone knew what she needed better than she did. She closed her eyes and shook her head. There was no point in arguing with him. Dan was a company man, and there was no way he’d ever go against Lawrence Moore.
“He’s probably right,” she said, defeated.
A soft chuckle sounded in her ear. “Lawrence is
always
right.”
“Look, I’ve kept you long enough. Sorry for waking you.”
“Not a problem, Sam. I miss you.” He paused. “One last thing—the paintings in my, er,
your
office?”
“The cityscapes that I did in college?”
“Yeah. Lawrence had
your
office redecorated—”
“Really?” she asked, not hiding the irritation in her voice.
“Yes, but he had a good reason,” Dan said, rushing in. “He wanted it to have a fresh look when you came back.” He hurried on before she could respond. “He suggested we donate them to the charity auction that they’re having for the Minnesota Museum of American Art, but I thought you might want them. I’ll ship them to you.”
A thousand thoughts cruised through her mind, but she knew Dan wouldn’t understand them any better than Jackson or her parents did.
“Thanks,” she said simply.
“You’re welcome. I knew it was the right thing to do,” Dan said proudly. “You’d better get some sleep, Sam. Great talking to you,” he said before he clicked off his phone.
“Bye, Dan,” she said to empty air, feeling like a door had just been slammed in her face.
A
nne Weaver never walked, she marched. Today, her long legs ate up the distance between her car and the small house she shared with her teenage son, Caleb. She stopped midstride as her eyes took in her yard with its thin blades of grass fighting for a toehold in the sandy soil and the white trim around the windows, badly in need of a new paint job.
Where was Caleb? He should be helping her lug all these groceries inside. With a shake of her head, she hoisted the bags higher in her arms and mounted the steps of the porch. As she yanked the screen door open with one hand, her ears were assaulted by the loud voice of a TV announcer assuring her for only $19.95 his product could tackle any laundry problem she had.
Guess she knew where Caleb was—plopped on the couch, his size-eleven feet dangling over the arm. That kid would lose his hearing if he didn’t start turning down the volume on the TV.
Groaning, she continued her way down the short hallway to the kitchen located at the back of the house.
“Caleb!” she yelled over the sound as she set the bags of groceries on the counter. “Turn the TV down!”
The TV continued to blare.
“Caleb!”
“What?” a voice whispered in her ear.
Jerking her hand to her chest, she spun around to see her son grinning at her. “That’s not funny . . . sneaking up on me. I could have had a heart attack,” she said with a stern look.
Dressed in a navy T-shirt and cutoffs, Caleb rolled his eyes while his grin widened into a smile.
Watching him, she was struck by how much he’d grown over the past year. Why, he could look her straight in the eye now.
Her expression softened, and without thinking, she brushed a shock of blond hair off his forehead. “Where were you?”
“Out in the garage,” he said, pulling one of the bags close to check out the contents.
“And you left the TV—”
“Okay, okay, I’ll shut it off.” Caleb lumbered out of the kitchen. A minute later, the living room fell silent.
“Finally,” Anne muttered to herself while she unpacked the groceries.
Returning to the kitchen, Caleb grabbed one of the bags again and started to rummage through it. “Get anything good?”
Yanking the sack toward her, she removed a bag of carrots and waved them in front of his face. “These.”
“Oh, yum,” he shot back as he foraged through another sack. “No chips or salsa?”
“Carrots are healthier,” she said, placing them on the counter. She didn’t add the words
and cheaper
. Ever since that kid had hit puberty, it was impossible to keep food in the house. Anything in the fridge was fair game, just as long as it hadn’t turned green and fuzzy. And even then, she suspected he scraped off the fuzz and ate it anyway.