She looked again. Nothing had changed. No glow of a burning cigarette bobbed in the dark. And the scent of smoke was gone. Still huddled in the hallway, she felt along the edge of the living-room wall until her fingers found the light switch. She flipped it up.
In an instant, the shadows disappeared and soft light filled the main part of the cabin. The room looked exactly the same as it had always looked. The pillows on the plaid couch facing the fireplace were right where they’d been earlier. The dark wood doors of the kitchen cabinets were shut and the drawers were closed.
Sam limped from the hallway, across the living room to the doors leading out onto the deck, and snapped the drapes shut.
“Better,” she breathed softly. No one could see into the cabin now.
She crossed to the kitchen door and rattled the doorknob. It was firmly locked. She checked the catch on the window above the sink. Still in place.
Hobbling back to the living room, she went to the French doors and lifted the drapes back just enough to check the lock. The door was latched and the safety bar was in place along the bottom track. She found the other switch and turned off the lights, throwing the room back into darkness. Grasping the edge of the drapes, she stayed half hidden in its folds and stared out over the lake.
The reflection of the full moon glowed on the quiet surface of the lake, while the tall pines ringing the lake masked the far shore in inky black. To the north, the hulking shape of a small island guarded the entrance to the bay where her cabin was located. From her position, Sam saw the boathouse and the dock protruding out into the lake. Its weathered boards looked pearly in the moonlight.
Her hand tightened on the drapes.
At the end of the dock a lone woman stood with her back toward the cabin. The moon seemed to act as a spotlight shining down on her. Too short to be Anne, she had red hair that cascaded down her back and over white, white shoulders and arms. She was dressed in a long lavender nightgown, thin enough for the light of the moon to reveal the shadow of her legs even at this distance. Sam saw the bright red ember of a cigarette move in a lazy arc toward her head as she lifted it to her mouth. A thin plume of smoke drifted above her and out across the lake when she exhaled.
Had she been the one Sam had heard whispering? Had she been close enough to the cabin for her cigarette smoke to drift inside? The thought made Sam’s breath hitch. The drapes had been open. She could’ve been standing on the deck, watching, and Sam would’ve been oblivious to her prying eyes. She dropped the drapes and clutched her hand at her side. What in the hell was some woman doing wandering around the lake in her nightgown at this time of night? And on her dock?
She inched the edge of the drape aside.
The moonlight still reflected off the placid water and the dock still looked shaded in soft grays, but the woman had disappeared.
Dropping the drape, she flicked on the Maglite, then grasped it with both hands like a weapon and shambled back to the bedroom. Once over the threshold, she shut the door, locking it. Crossing the room, she crawled into bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, and turned on the bedside lamp.
She fell asleep clutching the Maglite to her chest.
Chapter Six
The lights of the city spread out below me and a beautiful sense of freedom bubbles deep inside. I’ve escaped, at least for a little while. The opera I’d enjoyed tonight had made my spirits soar, and now I’d finish my perfect evening with a perfect late-night supper at one of the finest restaurants in Minneapolis. When I’m seated, I’ll order the best wine they have to offer, a thick steak, and asparagus done just right. My mouth waters at the thought and a faint smile tugs at my lips. Moving away from the plate-glass window, I turn to where the maître d’ waits at his station, in his starched white shirt, black jacket, and impeccable bow tie. He gives me an appraising look, and suddenly nervous about my own appearance, I flick an imaginary piece of lint from my sleeve.
Picking up a menu, he gives me a smooth smile. “Will anyone be joining you?” he inquires with a note of superiority in his voice.
I resent it. Who does he think he is? He’s nothing more than a glorified waiter. If she had allowed me to follow my destiny, this man would’ve been fawning all over me. He would’ve been honored to have someone of my stature choose his establishment. Instead he looks at me as if I were ordinary.
Masking my irritation, I assess him with a cool eye. “No, I’m alone.”
His shoulders sag under the weight of my stare, and turning, he motions toward the half-empty dining room. “Right this way.”
I follow two steps behind as he leads me to a table near the doors to the kitchen area. Placing the menu on the table, he pulls out a chair.
“Your waiter will be right with you,” he says as he begins to glide away.
With a light touch to his arm, I stop his retreat. “This table is unacceptable,” I say in a low tone, and point to an empty one by the window. “I want to be seated there.”
“But due to the late hour, that area is closed,” he replies swiftly.
“Then open it,” I say, turning away from him and moving toward my selected table.
I hear a slight hiss as he follows in my wake, but ignore it. Reaching my destination, I wait patiently for him to pull out my chair. He does, and with a nod of my head, I smile tightly and take my seat.
“I’ll send someone right over.”
Satisfied, I pick up the menu to peruse the selections. Glancing over the top of it, I see the maître d’ engaged in a hurried discussion with one of the waiters. The man frowns as his eyes settle on me, while the maître d’ spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. With a shake of his head, the waiter picks up a water pitcher and heads my way. Returning my attention to the menu, I allow myself a triumphant grin. Maybe now they’ll see I’m not ordinary.
I make my selections quickly, then settle back to enjoy the view of the city. I belong here . . . I really do. If only there were some way to escape . . . to have this sense of freedom every day instead of satisfying myself with these stolen moments. Suddenly bands of tension tighten around my chest. If I tried to leave my old life behind, it would hurt financially.
At what price freedom, eh? I think bitterly, and take a big gulp of my Merlot, not tasting it as I swallow.
My steak arrives and I try to shove my dark thoughts away and enjoy these last moments. I cut into the tender meat with the precision of a surgeon, and as I do, a thin, watery line of red oozes across the pure white china plate. Stabbing the meat with my fork, I place the morsel in my mouth and chew, but it seems to have no flavor. I wash it down with wine and try again. Dry as dust.
Snapping my fingers at the waiter, I point to my now-empty glass of wine. He scurries over and refills my glass.
“Is your steak to your liking?”
“It’s fine,” I answer, waving him away and grabbing my wineglass. Another long drink while I stare at the red liquid seeping over the plate.
One stupid moment of violence . . . and a life is ruined. And through no fault of mine. It was her . . . she was responsible for what happened, not me. Why should I continue to pay the price? I stare out the window at the lights. Somehow they don’t seem as bright as they once were. Disgusted, I throw my napkin on the table and down the last of my wine. I signal for my check, and after settling the bill, leave my half-eaten meal sitting on the table, the bloody juice now congealed on the plate.
I stride past the waiter, past the maître d’, and out the dining-room doors. As I stab the elevator button, my anger sizzles. Another evening ruined by her. It can’t continue. I’ve earned a better life than this . . . I deserve a better life than this. There must be a way out.
All I have to do is find the key.
Chapter Seven
Anne sat in her car and stared at the cabin. Yesterday did not go well. Sam had shut herself in the bedroom for most of the day, claiming weariness. At first Anne had wondered if it was avoidance on Sam’s part. It had been obvious Sam didn’t wa
nt her there and resented her parents’ and fiancé’s interference.
They’d left that part out during her interview, she thought wryly. Neither the father nor the fiancé had mentioned that Sam was less than thrilled with the idea of in-home therapy. Anne’s lips curled downward in a frown. What kind of reception would Sam give her today? Would she spend the entire summer struggling to win Sam’s cooperation? Didn’t Sam realize how lucky she was? She had people in her life who cared, who would do anything to help her.
Disgusted, Anne shook her head. She’d never had that kind of support in her life. No one had ever stepped up to the plate to help her. It had always been up to her, and her alone, to shoulder the burdens, to make the decisions, to solve the problems. It was a miracle that she hadn’t been crushed by the weight of it all.
She laid her head against the seat and shut her eyes for a moment. Instead of acting like a spoiled brat, Samantha Moore should be overcome with gratitude.
Straightening, she opened her eyes and blew out a long breath as she stared at the cabin door. What she thought of Samantha Moore wasn’t important. She had a job to do. During the interview, Lawrence Moore had made his expectations clear, and in not so many words, he’d let her know that failure was not an option.
Her thoughts shot to the pile of bills lying on the kitchen table. A pang of anxiety squeezed her chest. What if she did fail and he fired her? Laid off from the hospital and no money coming in—it wouldn’t take long for her savings to dwindle. Her carefully laid plans for Caleb’s college would be shot to hell. All those years of scrimping, wasted. She rubbed a spot on her chest as if to loosen the knot around her heart. She couldn’t let that happen. Whether Samantha Moore wanted her help or not didn’t matter. She’d do whatever it took to keep Lawrence Moore happy.
Flinging the car door open, she got out and strode across the sandy yard to the front porch. She’d taken one step when a plant growing at its edge caught her eye. Had it been there yesterday? Anne moved closer to take a look.
Stalks with deeply veined, green leaves shot skyward and were beginning to arch toward the ground. Looking closer, Anne saw tiny clusters of buds forming. She’d driven by this cabin for years, but she’d never noticed this bush growing by the porch. The landlord must have planted it.
“Ah, who cares?” she mumbled to herself, fingering the leaves. “Time to quit dithering and get my butt in there. I’ve got a patient who resents me.” Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. “But I’ve faced worse.”
With firm steps, Anne crossed the porch and unlocked the cabin door. Swinging it open, she peered into the semidark room. The silent atmosphere was stifling. This won’t do, she thought. Quickly, she moved to the French doors, and flinging back the curtains, jerked one open. Immediately sunlight flooded the cabin, chasing away the darkness, and the air lightened as a breeze from the lake fluttered in.
Anne took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Better.”
Moving back to the kitchen, she began making preparations to cook breakfast. She’d wait until it was ready before waking Sleeping Beauty. As if the young woman had been summoned by her thoughts, Anne turned to see Sam shuffle into the kitchen.
Squinting against the sunlight, Sam ran her fingers through her butchered hair.
Glancing at Sam over her shoulder, Anne decided that was the worst haircut she’d ever seen. It looked like the woman had used a Weedwhacker. Maybe she should gently suggest a trip to Alice’s Beauty Barn in Pardo?
“Good morning,” she said, schooling her face into a cheery mask. “What would you like for breakfast? How about eggs and sausage?”
Sam tugged at her errant spikes of hair, looking first at Anne then glancing toward the open door to the deck. “Nothing—just coffee,” she mumbled.
During the interview, Lawrence Moore had shown Anne pictures of Sam, but looking at her now, she was amazed at the difference between the woman in the photos and the one who stood there, pulling at her hair. In the photos, she’d been smiling and confident, but now? It was like she’d been stripped to the bone. Light pouring in highlighted her hollow cheeks and her almost skeletal frame. And her eyes—shadowed and haunted—darted around the kitchen with uncertainty. At that moment Anne thought she’d never seen anyone less confident than Samantha Moore.
Catching Anne watching her, Sam dropped her hand away from her hair and gave Anne a defiant look. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing,” Anne replied quickly, pulling the eggs and milk out of the fridge. “You don’t look like you slept well. Did you have a bad night?”
Sam gave a rough bark. “You might say that.” She looked back toward the door to the deck. “There’s too much light in here. And,” she called over her shoulder as she limped across the room, “don’t ever leave here again without pulling all the drapes and blinds.” Reaching the door, she closed both the door and the drapes, plunging the room back into gloom.
Breakfast forgotten, Anne was beside her in an instant. “It’s as dark as a tomb in here,” she said, opening the drapes. “A little sunshine will make you feel better.”
Sam shut the drapes. “No, it won’t.”
Anne opened them. “Yes, it will.”
Sam’s hand wavered on the curtains while her eyes narrowed. “I like it dark.”
“I don’t. The curtains stay open,” Anne said, drawing herself up to her full six feet and staring down at Sam. As she looked into those troubled eyes, sympathy tugged at her, but she tamped it down. She couldn’t let this little wisp of a thing get the upper hand.
Emotions flitted across Sam’s face—defiance, anger, and finally resignation. Her shoulders sagged, and she pivoted awkwardly. “Whatever,” she replied in a voice dripping with bitterness. “I’m going back to bed.”
Anne’s hand stopped her. “No, you’re not. You’re going to eat breakfast, take your meds, and start your therapy.”
“Who put you in charge, Nurse Nancy?” Sam shot back, hugging herself tightly.
“Your father.”
Sam’s arms dropped to her side. “Oh, that’s right.” She shambled over to the couch and plopped down. “You’re here to care for his crippled daughter,” she finished sarcastically.
Anne placed her hands on her hips and studied her. “Do you want to get your mobility back or not?”
Sam’s chin shot up. “Of course I do,” she exclaimed, “but I don’t need you to do it. I’m tired of everyone treating me like an invalid.”
“Then quit acting like one,” Anne fired back, returning to the kitchen.
Sam surged to her feet and with halting steps followed her. “Excuse me? You’ve known me what? Less than twenty-four hours? How do you know how I act?”
“And during those twenty-four hours, you’ve spent most of your time hiding out in the bedroom, sleeping.” Anne cracked three eggs in a bowl and beat them with short angry strokes. “That’s not the behavior of someone who wants to get better.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” Sam insisted.
“I know what I’ve seen and what your father and fiancé told me during the interview.”
Sam yanked out a chair and sank down. “Did you ever consider that their perspective might be a little skewed? That they have their own reasons for sticking me up here in the boonies?”
“Such as?”
“Such as my mother doesn’t like dealing with ‘unpleasant’ situations.” Sam leaned back in her chair and gave Anne a long look. “Remembering what happened to me is unpleasant.”
“My impression was that your parents and fiancé want to do what’s best for you.”
“No, they want to do what’s easiest for them. And shoving me off on you is easy.”
A comeback sprang to mind, but Anne clamped her mouth shut. Nope, she thought, I’m not going to get involved in a debate about her relationship with her parents. Instead, she calmly laid the whisk in the sink and turned her attention to Sam. “What difference does it make what their motives a
re? Isn’t getting your strength back the important thing?”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Sam cried. “I’ve taken every pill, every potion they shoved my way, until I’ve felt so woozy it’s been hard to tell what’s real and what’s not.”
Anne let her expression soften. “It takes time for the body to heal and—”
“Right,” Sam snorted, cutting in, “like I haven’t heard that one before, and while you’re at it, why don’t you explain to me how fortunate I am?”
Sam’s remark echoed Anne’s earlier thoughts and Anne felt a stab of guilt. She watched Sam’s anger and misery shimmer around her like an aura, and she couldn’t help thinking that maybe Samantha Moore wasn’t so fortunate after all. But before she could frame a response, Sam continued.
“ ‘Really, Samantha,’ ” Sam said in a spot-on imitation of Lawrence Moore. “ ‘Look around the hospital—how many of these people will never walk again?’ ” She suddenly slumped in her chair. “I’m supposed to be thankful they only bashed in my skull.”
Turning away, Anne struggled for the right words to say. This woman probably had more money than she herself would ever see in her lifetime, yet Samantha Moore couldn’t buy what she needed most—determination. Anne had to find a way to break through the girl’s bitterness. If she didn’t, she’d fail and Lawrence Moore would fire her. Grabbing the bowl, she felt a small sigh escape before she could stop it. Rolling her shoulders, she tried to release the building tension while she plastered a smile on her face.
“Look, just sit there and relax while I make breakfast,” Anne said, sliding the toaster toward her and popping two slices of bread into the slots. “After you’re finished, we’ll go out on the deck and start on some exercises.”
Sam rose to her feet and took a halting step toward the living room. “I told you . . . I’m going back to bed.”
Anne’s smile vanished. Great. What did she do now? Hog-tie her and haul her out onto the deck? Lawrence Moore would love hearing about how she manhandled his daughter.
Love Lies Bleeding Page 6