by Irene Hannon
Torn, Sam wavered, realizing even as he vacillated how much he’d changed in the past couple of years. He’d once been decisive. Confident he had all the answers. In control. That sense of self-importance—of omnipotence, almost—had been honed by his professional success, he now realized. And it had spilled over into his personal life—to the detriment of his marriage. If nothing else, the violence that had been directed against him had destroyed that arrogance. The reining in of his ego might be the one good thing that had resulted from the nightmare, he reflected.
Making a decision at last, Sam reached up. But as he stood poised to knock, he paused to stare at 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 si
lent 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 her quiet response, he sent her a questioning look but remained silent.
“I take it you never got into the habit?” She scooped out some rice.
“I’m even less inclined now…after all that’s happened.”
“Times of trauma are often when we need Him the most,” Cara suggested, keeping her tone conversational as she dipped into the Mongolian beef.
“Maybe.”
Given his noncommittal reply, Cara decided a change of subject was in order. They never had meshed in their views of faith, and there was no reason to suppose they’d start now. In the beginning of their marriage, Sam had gone to church with Cara because he’d recognized the important role it played in her life. But it had never had the same meaning for him. And as their relationship faltered, she’d found herself attending church alone more and more often. Though it saddened her that he’d never connected with the Lord, his life was no longer her concern. She needed to remember that.
“Why don’t you tell me how you’ve positioned my visit to your friends here, so we can be sure our stories are straight.” She was curious to hear his answer in light of the fact that he was still wearing his ring.
Sam thought about her question. He didn’t have any friends in Oak Hill, not in the way she meant. Just patients and a few acquaintances. “I said you’d taken a leave after going far too long without a vacation, and that you needed a quiet place to relax and unwind,” he replied, choosing his words with care. “I mentioned that we’re separated but friendly. I know that’s stretching the truth a bit, but short of getting into a lot of history I doubt either of us wants to dredge up, that was the easiest way to explain it.”
“That works for me.”
Relieved, he ladled a spoonful of the chicken and broccoli onto his plate. “What did you tell your family?”
“That I’d be out of town for a bit. Everyone has my cell number, and that’s how they always call me. Besides, Mom and Dad are in Africa for a year on a mission trip, so all our communication is by e-mail anyway.”
“Liz mentioned that.”
Tilting her head, Cara looked at him, wondering what else Liz had told him. “Did she fill you in on Bev?”
“She just said your sister and her family are getting ready to move. And that Bev is pregnant. It was pretty clear that spending time with your family wasn’t an option.”
“No, it wasn’t. Besides, I didn’t see any reason to worry them with my problems. They all have enough on their minds as it is. What about your mom? What did you tell her?”
“Nothing. I always call her from the office. Every Friday morning, before the weekly bridge game she hosts. That’s about the only time I’m sure to connect with her. Since my aunt became a widow and they both moved into that retirement community in California, their social schedule is something to behold.”
A smile tugged at Cara’s mouth. She’d always liked Sam’s mother. Quiet, unassuming, introspective and brilliant—she was very much like her only child. It was nice to hear that she was cutting loose and enjoying an active social life in her golden years. Maybe Sam could learn a few more lessons from her, she mused.
“I’m glad your mom is enjoying herself. And it sounds like we’re covered.” Relieved, she reached for her glass of water.
“Until the locals start asking questions.”
Her hand froze and she shot him a startled look.
The hint of a smile teased his lips. “This is a small town, Cara. People talk. And there’s a very active grapevine. Almost as good as the Gazette—our local paper—when it comes to spreading news. Although I’ve laid the groundwork, you can expect to get a few discreet but leading questions.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” She set the glass back down. “I don’t plan to mingle much, anyway.”
Liz’s comment about Cara holing up in her apartment since the attack echoed in his mind. Considering that his wife had always been a social person, isolation couldn’t be healthy. “I don’t mean to give you the wrong impression. It’s a very nice town, and the people are genuine and caring. It might be fun to explore a bit. I guarantee you can’t get lost.”
Cara shrugged. “I’ll see. I brought along quite a few books, and I expect that will occupy most of my days.”
“Whatever you want, Cara.” Better to back off than turn her off, he decided. “This is your time.”
For the rest of the meal, Sam did his best to make small talk. But he’d never been very adept at it. Even in the good times of their marriage he’d been content to let Cara carry the bulk of the conversational burden. And that’s what it had always been to him—a burden. Cara, on the other hand, had been a master at drawing people out. For her, it was as natural as breathing.
Yet tonight their positions were reversed. She was subdued and reticent, giving brief answers, content to listen in silence as he told her about the town and some of the personalities. Yet another example of the profound effect the trauma had had on her, he realized. Her normal response would have been to pepper him with questions, her eyes alight with interest. Instead, she kept her gaze downcast, focused on her food, and responded only when asked a direct question. Though her body bore physical signs of her stress, it was her personality shift that most alarmed Sam. He was beginning to better understand—and appreciate—Liz’s concern.
When they finished the meal and he insisted on taking care of the dishes, Cara didn’t argue, as she once would have. Instead, she quietly thanked him and disappeared down the hall.
As Sam watched her go, he hoped that the Lord had listened to the earlier prayer of His wayward son. Because reaching the woman he loved was beginning to look like a far more difficult challenge than he’d even imagined. And he could sure use the extra help.
For the second time in a dozen hours, an intermittent, muffled noise penetrated Cara’s deep slumber.
Despite her three-hour nap, she’d once again drifted off to sleep with a speed that astounded her after her late dinner with Sam. And she knew why. She might not trust her heart to the man she’d married, but she felt safe in his presence. And that feeling of safety had chased away the fears that had kept her awake—and anxious—through the long nights she’d spent alone since the attack.
The sleep felt so good, so renewing, that she didn’t want to wake up. Yet there was something familiar about the sound that tugged her back to consciousness.
Staring up at the dark ceiling, she listened. But soon the house grew silent again. Could she have imagined the noise? Had it been some scrap of elusive dream deep in her subconscious?
When the silence lengthened, her eyelids once more grew heavy. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to worry about it. Sam was a few steps down the hall. If there was anything to be concerned about, he’d deal with it. It was his house, after all.
As she began to fall back sleep, however, the noise started again. Louder now.
Alarmed, Cara sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, adrenaline surging through her. Her hands shaking, she fumbled in the dark for the small canister of mace that hadn’t been more than an arm’s length away any night since the murder. Clutching it in trembling fingers, she rose and moved to her door, cracking it the tiniest bit.
The corridor, illuminated by the dim glow of a nightlight, was empty. But the sounds were louder. And they were coming from Sam’s room.
Now Cara knew why the noise had seemed familiar. She’d heard it often. After Sam had been released from the hospital, nightmares had often plagued him. He’d thrashed about with such force that Cara had limped for a week when he’d once kicked her in the calf in his sleep. After that he’d insisted on moving to the guest room. And he’d never returned.
But even then, she’d gone to him during t
he night whenever his agonized cries had awakened her, wanting to hold him, to comfort him, to let him know that she cared. Though he’d pushed her away, she’d kept trying. Until he’d lashed out once too often in bitterness and venomous anger, telling her that she couldn’t do anything to help him—that no one could—and she’d finally believed him. After that, she’d listened night after night, helpless to do anything more than pray, as he battled his demons alone.
The same ones he seemed to be battling still.
As she crept down the hall, stopping outside his door, Cara’s throat tightened with emotion. The fact that he continued to suffer from nightmares almost two years after the incident that had triggered them underscored the depth of his trauma. Her experience had been horrifying, true. But it hadn’t been a personal vendetta, carried out with calculating ruthlessness. Nor had it robbed her of the work she loved, changing her life forever.
The thrashing intensified and, fearing Sam would injure himself, she gave a sharp rap on the door.
“Sam? Sam, wake up!” When the thrashing persisted, along with the familiar cries that had always torn at her heart, she knocked louder and raised her volume. It always took a lot to wake him from these dreams. “Sam! Wake up, Sam!”
She kept at it, until all at once the sounds stopped and the house grew quiet. She waited, but when the silence continued, she spoke again—with less certainty. “Sam? Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I woke you.” The words came out hoarse and ragged.
“Can I…do you need anything?” She hadn’t planned to make that offer. But no matter her feelings about Sam, it went against her nature to turn away from anyone in need without attempting to help.