Part 6 (1/2)

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 gla.s.s of wine. He scurries over and refills my gla.s.s.

”Is your steak to your liking?”

”It's fine,” I answer, waving him away and grabbing my winegla.s.s. 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 b.l.o.o.d.y juice now congealed on the plate.

I stride past the waiter, past the maitre d', and out the dining-room doors. As I stab the elevator b.u.t.ton, 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 want her there and resented her parents' and fiance's interference.

They'd left that part out during her interview, she thought wryly. Neither the father nor the fiance 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 grat.i.tude.

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 h.e.l.l. 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 cl.u.s.ters 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 b.u.t.t 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 fiance 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?”