The Long Way Back

by JoAnn Ross

  “Such as?”

  “Well, a child’s head is much larger, in relation to the rest of his body, than an adult’s. Which makes him more vulnerable to head injuries.

  “And then there’s his spleen. When an injured adult comes into the emergency room with a bleeding spleen, it’s standard procedure to remove it. An adult will never miss it. But to a child, the spleen is vital to the immune system.

  “If you take it out, the patient will seem to recover. Until he catches a cold or the flu, and since his body can’t handle the infection, he dies from what should have been a simple case of the sniffles.”

  She frowned, remembering the first time she’d encountered such a case. A light case of flu that should have been cured with chicken soup, fluids and a few days spent in bed watching cartoons had killed a six-year-old former accident victim.

  “And bones,” she said. “Children’s bones have a remarkable ability to heal themselves, but the problem is that broken bones grow faster than unbroken ones, so if you set a child’s leg the same way you do an adult’s, the broken leg will grow longer than the other.

  “So many things,” she murmured, glancing down at the papers he was still holding.

  “Sounds like too many for a mere paper,” Caine observed. “Perhaps you ought to write a book.”

  “And while I’m at it, I might as well shoot for the moon and establish a pediatric trauma center in my spare time,” she said. “All I’d have to do is give up sleep.”

  Having watched her grueling schedule, Caine knew she was right. “Too bad. It sounds like a book that needs to be written.”

  Nora nodded an agreement.

  When the grandfather clock in the foyer struck the hour, Caine glanced down at his watch in surprise. “It’ll be daylight soon. You’re going to be beat.”

  “It’s my monthly Saturday off,” Nora reminded him. “I can sleep all day.”

  Caine found the idea of spending a rainy Saturday in bed with this woman infinitely appealing.

  “Well, I’d better get going and let you get some rest.” Even as he pushed himself away from the table, Caine wished she would ask him to stay.

  A very strong part of Nora did not want Caine to leave. Telling herself that it was for the best, she stood, as well.

  “Thanks again,” she said, walking him to the door. “For everything.”

  “Thank you,” he replied. “For the coffee, and the cookies and, well, everything.”

  Knowing Nora no longer blamed him for Dylan’s death had taken a very heavy load from Caine’s shoulders. If she could forgive him, perhaps he could learn to forgive himself.

  They stood in the foyer, inches apart, looking at each other. Caine brushed his knuckles down her cheek. It felt too damn good for comfort.

  “Sleep tight.” Caine watched the desire rise in her remarkable eyes and knew he should go. Now, before it was too late.

  “You, too. Give Maggie my love.”

  “I’ll do that. See you on Monday. So you can take out my stitches,” he said, reminding her of his new appointment date.

  Because he wanted to kiss her, wanted to drag her upstairs to the bedroom and discover exactly how much of her elusive scent remained on her warm skin, Caine turned and trotted down the steps to the car parked at the curb.

  Nora opened her mouth to call him back, then closed it. But she did remain standing in the open doorway until the Ferrari’s taillights had disappeared around the corner.

  * * *

  Later that day, Caine flew a pair of tourists from California to Orcas Island. Since the honeymooning couple was clearly besotted with one another, he doubted they fully appreciated the magnificent scenery.

  Sunday he spent up to his elbows in soapsuds. Imbued with a new sense of purpose, he scrubbed the cabin floor, scoured the countertops and evicted the spiders that had taken up residence in the high ceiling corners. While washing the front window, he watched a robin weave a scarlet ribbon into the nest the robin was energetically building in a nearby tree and felt a strange sort of kinship with the red-breasted bird.

  On Monday morning, the cabin was clean enough for his mother to visit. After a trip to the dump, where the circling seagulls seemed delighted with his nearly three weeks’ collection of trash, Caine returned home, sat down at the kitchen table with a pot of coffee and a legal pad and began making telephone calls to friends and sports contacts around the country.

  By the time he left for his appointment with Nora, Caine felt, for the first time in a very long while, that he finally had his life back on track.

  Spring light latticed the landscape with shifting shades of green: the goldish green of early willows bent along the streams, the reddish green of maple leaves unfolding from their burst buds, the delicate green of bracken fern uncurling slender fronds, and always, the deep blue-green of water.

  Caine had long ago decided that there were probably more shades of green on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula than his Irish ancestors could have counted in Eire. During his years away from the peninsula, he’d grown increasingly homesick for such sights.

  But as he drove to the clinic, the willows, the maple leaves, the ferns and the water all went unnoticed. Because the only thing he could see was Nora’s exquisite face.

  As was usual on Mondays, a continuous stream of patients filed into Nora’s clinic. Fortunately Kirstin, her nurse, had returned from maternity leave and things were running a great deal more smoothly.

  Nora finished wrapping Eva Nelson’s sprained ankle. The teenager had stumbled while backpacking. Warning Eva to keep any stress off the ankle until the sprain was healed, to keep the leg elevated as much as possible, and to take aspirin as needed, Nora walked her to the reception area. That’s when she saw Caine, sprawled in her grandmother’s Queen Anne chair as if he belonged there. With his long legs stretched out in front of him, he seemed to take up half the narrow foyer.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. O’Halloran,” she greeted him formally.

  “Afternoon, Doc.”

  “I can see you now.”

  It did not escape Nora’s notice that her very efficient nurse, who was watching Caine surreptitiously as she filled out an insurance receipt for the injured teenager, made an uncharacteristic mistake, and with a murmured apology to the patient, had to begin again.

  “You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your making time for me in your busy schedule,” he drawled, rising to follow her back into the room in his easy, loose-hipped athlete’s gait.

  “Get up on the table—”

  “I know the drill, Nora.” He grinned. “Want me to take off my clothes again?”

  “That isn’t necessary.” She turned and reached into the cabinet for surgical scissors and gloves.

  Her sharp tone pleased him. Caine had noticed long ago that very few things got under Nora’s skin. He decided the fact that he was one of them was definitely an encouraging sign.

  When Nora turned around he was standing behind her, closer than she’d thought.

  “Did you have a nice weekend?” he asked.

  “Lovely,” she replied. “And you?”

  “Actually I did. I flew another one of Maggie’s charters to the islands. It felt funny being paid to do something I’d do for free. Funny, but nice.”

  “You always said you’d play ball for free.”

  “Got me there,” Caine said agreeably. Not quite ready to fill her in on what else he’d been doing, he pulled himself up onto the table, dangled his legs and said, “Snip away, Doc. I’m ready.”

  “I received a call from the hospice coordinator today about Maggie,” she said conversationally as she clipped the first stitch with deft hands.

  “I know.” Caine felt a slight tug against his scalp. “We made a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?” Clip. Another stitch gone.

  “In return for her entering the hospice program, I promised to quit drinking too much, stop speeding, and turn celibate.”

  “I can’t imagine
Maggie holding you to that last one.” Clip. Clip. Snip. Snip.

  “You’re right.” There was a sudden charge in the air as his gaze met hers. “She pointed out, in her inimitably direct way, that it wasn’t right, my courting one woman while I was technically married to another. So I promised to stay away from you until my divorce is final. Which makes celibacy a given.”

  His stormy eyes lowered slowly, purposefully to her lips, the look as physical as a kiss, and lingered there for a long, heartfelt moment. “Since you’re the only woman I want.”

  Her lovely face was a contradiction of emotions. Caine saw anxiety, fear, irritation, and most encouraging of all, need. “Back off, Caine.”

  “I told you, that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” he agreed with an easy smile. “For now.”

  He wanted to draw her into his arms and resisted the urge. “Haven’t you noticed that I’ve been in your office for at least ten minutes without giving in to the impulse to kiss you?”

  “Dammit, Caine—”

  “May I ask a question?”

  She peeled off the thin gloves. “I suppose that depends on the question.”

  “Are we done?”

  “Taking out the stitches? Yes.”

  “Then the professional part of this visit is over?”

  “Yes.” Her voice wasn’t quite as strong as before.

  “Good.”

  With a silent apology to his grandmother, Caine slid off the table, put his arms around Nora, lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her with all the pent-up passion he’d been feeling.

  “We can’t keep doing this,” she complained weakly when the long, hot kiss finally ended.

  His lips plucked enticingly at hers. “Give me one good reason to stop.”

  “How about your wife?’

  “Bull’s-eye.” Sighing, Caine reluctantly released her. “I hate it when you insist on acting like a grown-up.”

  “One of us has to.” Her cheeks were still flushed, her lips swollen, and her eyes were laced with desire. “Perhaps it’d be better if we just stayed away from one another.”

  “In this town?” Caine knew that no matter where they were living, things had gone too far to back away now.

  “You have a point,” Nora conceded reluctantly. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you next Friday night.”

  Midsummer’s Eve was an annual festival dating back to the days of Swedish pagan worship, a celebration of the summer solstice. Years ago someone had gotten the idea to add a contest of lumbering skills to the festivities, which resulted in loggers coming from all over the country to try to win the purse that had grown larger each year. Neither Caine nor Nora had attended since the night Dylan had been conceived.

  “I suppose. If I’m in town.”

  “Oh. Are you taking another charter for Maggie?” she asked with more casualness than she was feeling.

  “No.” He’d been trying to think of a way to break the news. “I got a call from the Tigers.”

  “Oh? I hadn’t realized you’d recovered well enough to pitch again.”

  Caine watched her shutting up, like a wildflower closing its petals prior to a storm. “I haven’t. They’re about to fire their pitching coach and I’m on the short list to be his replacement.”

  “I see.” She did, all too well. “Does that mean you’ve given up the idea of playing again?”

  “For the time being.” He flexed his fingers. “Hell, there’s no point in trying to fool myself any longer, Nora. I’ve still got the moves, but I’ve lost the feeling necessary for absolute control.”

  “Well, then, I certainly wish you luck with this new offer.”

  The intimacy between them was gone, replaced by that cold formality Caine had always hated. Only the knowledge that Nora was iciest when she was experiencing the greatest inner turmoil kept him from pushing.

  “Thanks. These days I need all the luck I can get.”

  He decided to leave before they got into an argument regarding what she’d always considered his self-centered career choices. “You don’t have to see me out.” He bent his head, stealing another quick kiss. “I know the way.”

  Frustrated by the way he could still cause such havoc to her emotional equilibrium, Nora curved her fingers around the handle of the surgical scissors. She was unreasonably tempted to throw them at his cocky, sun-streaked head.

  Instead, she deliberately put them down on the table, closed her eyes and struggled for calm—something that was difficult to achieve when she heard Caine’s deep voice, followed by an all-too-familiar rumbling chuckle coming from the foyer.

  If she was upset by the way Caine had left her shaken—and, dammit, wanting—Nora was appalled at the surge of dark jealousy caused by the sound of Kirstin’s appreciative, answering laugh.

  CHAPTER 11

  As if ancient pagan gods had benevolently conspired with Mother Nature, Midsummer Eve was warm and clear. A full moon hung like a silver dollar in the sky, bathing the town in a light that was nearly as bright as day, only softer.

  Japanese lanterns had been strung around the square; white lights twinkled in the broad leaves of maple trees planted by some long-ago town council. At one end of the square, men drank beer from a keg and slung horseshoes. The plink of forged iron shoes against the iron stakes joined with the sound of crickets.

  Tables were covered with food: cold fruit soups, a variety of local clams and oysters, pyttipanna—a traditional late-supper hash—and platters of salmon topped with senapssas, a cold mustard-dill sauce.

  On the dessert table, delicate pâlattar—traditional Swedish pancakes topped with lingonberries—shared space with blueberry filled tortes topped with a frothy meringue and mazarintsarta—a raspberry torte topped with lemon icing. At the end of the dessert table was hot punsch, a lethal brandy-and-rum drink. If all that weren’t enough to satiate appetites, people stood in line, paper plates in hand, waiting for one of the flame-broiled Olympic burgers Ingrid Johansson was cooking on an enormous charcoal grill.

  The opposite end of the square had been turned into a modern-day Highland games, where loggers competed to win the coveted purse that this year had grown to five thousand dollars. There was the angry, beelike drone of chain saws, the thwack of an ax landing on target, raucous laughter and wild splashing whenever a hapless logger tumbled off a rolling log into the fishpond.

  On her way across the green, Nora paused to watch the women’s ax-throwing contest.

  “Now that’s a magnificent, if admittedly frightening sight,” a deep voice murmured in her ear. “A beautiful woman swinging a double-headed ax.”

  She turned around, struggled to keep the smile off her face, and failed. “Hi.”

  Caine would have had to be deaf not to hear the uncensored pleasure in her voice. “Hi, yourself.”

  She was wearing something floaty and flowery and very feminine. She smelled like a spring garden. He reached out and fingered a dangling earring crafted from pastel shells. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”

  Color stained her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  The billowy skirt ended well below her knees; until tonight, Caine had never realized exactly how sexy a woman’s calves could be.

  “The town council made a big mistake.” He was looking down at her as if he wanted to grab her by the hair and drag her off to his cave. Nora looked up at him as if she hoped he would.

  “A mistake?” She glanced around at the festival that was an obvious success. “About what?”

  “They should have voted you Queen. Instead of Britta Nelson.”

  Nora followed his gaze to the majstàng—the flower-decked pole that a circle of young girls were currently dancing around. Fifteen-year-old Britta Nelson was wearing her crown, a circlet of fresh flowers, perched atop her silvery blond hair.

  “I brought you something.” Caine pulled a bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back.

  “Oh, they’re lovely.” In spite of her better judgment, Nora buried her nose in the fragrant blooms.


  “There are seven different kinds.”

  The significance of that number did not escape her. Swedish folklore decreed any maiden who placed seven different wildflowers beneath her pillow on Midsummer Eve would dream of the man she would marry.

  “Really, Caine…”

  When she would have backed away, he captured her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid you’ll dream about me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’ve been dreaming about you.” Smiling, he began to kiss her fingers. “Every night. Want to hear a few of the more interesting ones?”

  When his lips moved to the soft skin at the center of her palm, although Nora the doctor knew it was impossible, Nora the woman could have sworn that every muscle in her body began to melt. Knowing that nothing in Tribulation went unnoticed, she yanked her hand free.

  “No.” She put her hands behind her back to keep them out of Caine’s range. Unfortunately, such defensive behavior made it impossible to push him away when he proceeded to back her up against the trunk of the maple tree behind her. “I don’t.”

  “Too bad.” He put his hands on either side of her head, effectively holding her hostage. “My favorite is the one where we’re flying over the ocean in Maggie’s Learjet—”

  “Maggie doesn’t have a Learjet—”

  “It’s a dream,” Caine argued easily. “Anyway, we’re over the ocean, and all we can see for miles in all directions, is the blue-green of the sea and the blue of the sky. It’s as if we’re the only two people in the world.

  “Just you and me and the wild blue yonder. And here’s where the good part begins: I put the plane on autopilot, and—”

  There was the sound of a throat clearing behind them.

  “Ah, excuse me, Caine. Hi, Nora,” Joe Bob Carroll said apologetically. “Sorry to interrupt. But your grandpappy’s lookin’ for the both of you, Caine. Since he looked a little ragged around the edges, I told him to wait over by the horseshoe pits while I went and found you.”

  Caine dropped his hands to his sides. He gave Nora a worried look. “Devlin stayed home with Maggie tonight. If he left her to come here…”