Dream Mender

by Sherryl Woods

“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 passionat
e 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.