A Family for Christmas

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Working on the hearts of children...just the thought of it made her shudder.

  Every morning he’d have breakfast ready by the time she left the bedroom. She did the dishes. And prepared lunch, after which he’d clean up. Dinner was determined over lunch. Drops and pills before breakfast and dinner. Every morning and every afternoon he left the cabin to spend a couple of hours outdoors.

  She figured that was for her benefit, to give her space, and always showered during his morning walk.

  As she sat alone in the cabin every day, Cara told herself that the doctor’s outside adventures were for his benefit, as well. She had no idea what he did out there. He never came back with anything. He’d been out the morning he’d found her. Maybe long walks were part of whatever process he was going through.

  While the doctor was out, Cara also cleaned the cabin. One chore each day. Dusting. Sweeping. The bathroom. And she read.

  They both read. A lot. She read instead of having to make conversation. Why he did, she couldn’t say.

  And by the time darkness fell each night, she was exhausted. More, she supposed, from holding at bay the demons inside her—the sense that she was in a surreal wasteland—than from any physical malady.

  The doc was still concerned about her face. Telling her every night, as she excused herself to her bedroom right after dinner, to remember not to lie down with the left side of her face against the pillow. She could have told him she’d slept on her back for more years now than she could remember.

  She also could have told him that all of his doctoring was wasted on a body that wasn’t long for this world.

  Except that she wouldn’t.

  And she wasn’t sure, exactly, how the big plan for her would play out now. When Shawn had left her to die she’d been ready. Had expected to go quietly to sleep and pass over. She’d been found, instead, and now she was too healthy to just lie down and die.

  Every morning and every night she lay in bed and asked Fate to make her way known to her. She begged for merciful quickness. The longer the doctor kept her with him, the more she rested, the more she healed and the more confused she grew.

  As a bad person, she had no future to build. That was a given. Because of Joy...what Cara had done...she had no life to live. And yet, there she was.

  Trapped by a man’s conscience in a situation that meant either going to the authorities or staying with him until she healed enough and was ready to go to the authorities.

  She was never going to be ready.

  Unless that was the Karma she’d earned for herself. To spend the rest of her life in prison.

  A fate worse than death. But was it her fate?

  Sitting on the couch, she saw the doctor at the edge of the yard, leaning a stick up against the back of a big sagebrush. Should she tell him she was ready to go to the authorities?

  The thought took her air. Sent a searing pain up her neck and into her head. She closed her eyes, letting it pass. Waited for the sudden nausea to dissipate. Clearly, the authorities weren’t the right answer.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Eyes opening slowly as the room ceased to spin, Cara’s first sight was the doctor walking toward the front door of the cabin. His steps were sure. Strong. Confident. Just like him.

  Could he be the reason she was still alive? Were the fates using her, just like they’d used Mom? Through all of the procedures, the pain, Beth Mantle had maintained that when she was meant to go, the fates would take her. And until then, she’d assured Cara time and time again—with her frail and shaking fingers still sifting through Cara’s hair, like she was the one meant to give the comfort—you never knew who Fate was helping through you.

  Cara had been so sure that her mother had it all wrong. That it had been the meds talking. That the fact that her mother had beaten the odds and was still alive was because she wasn’t meant to die.

  And then, one night, after Cara had sat with her, read to her and they’d joked about the syringe she’d get for breakfast, Beth had simply closed her eyes and passed away.

  No goodbye. No This is it, Cara. No warning.

  Just gone...

  The door swung open.

  “You look pale.” The doctor came toward her.

  A surge of...comfort...washed over her so acutely Cara couldn’t speak. Could only watch and wait as he reached her, gently slid a hand behind her neck, tilted her head and...studied her face.

  With his free hand he lifted her wrist. Felt for her pulse.

  “What’s your middle name?” Her need to know was sudden. Inexplicable. Like she didn’t know him well enough, or really know him, until she had his full name.

  “What?” He dropped her wrist, but still was looking at her face. Touching softly here and there.

  “I... That first day...you said your name. I saw your badge. Simon L. Walsh. What does the L. stand for?”

  Dr. Simon L. Walsh.

  He was the doctor insisting on watching over her. Not a man she would ever really know. Or who could ever know her.

  “Lee,” he said. “My middle name is Lee.”

  “You’ve never asked my last name.” Why was she doing this? Forcing the issue so that he could turn her in and end this thing?

  He stood back. Probably thinking about her face. And if the frown was anything to go by he wasn’t wholly pleased.

  She didn’t give a damn about how her face was healing.

  “I know your last name. It’s Amos.”

  Heart pounding, she was glad he’d let go of her wrist.

  “You left your driver’s license on your nightstand the second night you were here. I saw it when I brought in your pills.”

  He’d known for days. And...

  “You could call the authorities at any time. You could turn me in.”

  “Turn you in?” He frowned. “I don’t want to turn you in, Cara. I want you to be willing to get help. The proper care that you need and deserve.”

  “But...”

  “You said that first day that you had no other family. That there was no one.” As he said the words, she vaguely remembered such a conversation. In the haze of the first pain-and sleep-filled hours she was in her bed. His bed. That she was borrowing. Temporarily. Just until she could figure out what she was supposed to do.

  “If there’s no one looking for you, other than your husband, there was no need to alert anyone where you are. And, to the contrary, a very good reason not to do so.”

  Peace settled over her as he took a seat in the chair she’d come to think of as his, where he read medical books in the morning. Fiction in the afternoon.

  His methodical ways were part of what made him odd. And yet...they were a strange kind of comfort, too. Like the smell of him the morning he’d carried her in from what she’d thought would be her deathbed...

  “I’m assuming it’s his name?”

  “Whose?” She was truly perplexed, glancing over to find him sitting there watching her.

  “Your husband’s.”

  Oh. “Amos? Yes.” Fear shot through her as soon as she said the word aloud. Had Shawn already gone to the authorities?

  Had he told them what she’d done?

  Mary. Sweet Mary.

  No, wait. Shawn wouldn’t go to the cops. He’d have to tell them about hitting her. It had all started that morning when a guy at the fast-food restaurant where they’d taken Joy for breakfast had smiled and held the door for her as they’d been leaving...

  The memory was brand-new to her. Right there. Clear as day. As though it had been there all along.

  Mary had been there. Had seen that Cara hadn’t flirted with anyone. She wouldn’t let Shawn lie and say that his jealousy was Cara’s fault for encouraging the guy...

  Her heart rate slowed as she thought of her
sister-in-law. And then sped up again. Mary was hurt. It was all Cara’s fault.

  She couldn’t get a clear picture. Didn’t know why she had that impression. And let it go. Let the haze return.

  Memories brought pain. Searing, unbearable pain.

  She didn’t need them. She knew that day had turned her into a criminal. They’d been on the run for a reason. Even if she hadn’t done anything herself like he’d said she did, and she wasn’t all that sure she hadn’t, she’d gone with Shawn. They were accomplices in whatever had happened. There was no getting beyond that.

  “Here, take this.” The doctor, Simon, was standing in front of her, handing her a pain reliever and a glass of water. It wasn’t until then that she realized she had tears falling down her cheeks.

  “You looked pale when I came in. Your pupils were dilated, equally, and not alarmingly, so not indicative of brain bleed. Your pulse is slightly higher, indicating discomfort. Why not just tell me you have a headache and accept some relief?”

  She’d always preferred to deal with the pain so she could keep her wits about her. “It’s my night to make dinner.”

  “I’ll get dinner. You take this pill and rest.”

  For once, she didn’t even want to argue with him.

  * * *

  THE BASTARD’S NAME was Shawn Amos. He’d assumed, of course, but hadn’t known for sure. The entire time Simon had been in the kitchen, preparing a stir-fry, he’d been hearing Cara’s voice say that name. Amos.

  Her husband had given her the name. A man who knew Cara far better than Simon did.

  Who legally had more rights to Cara than Simon did.

  His thoughts tumbled around, more akin to the way his mind had been working since the attack than the methodical, chart-like process he was used to. Still, he’d gone twenty minutes and prepared most of the dinner without once noticing that half his sight was nothing but clouds. Without closing his good eye just to see if there’d been some change.

  Without even thinking about his blindness.

  Looking around the corner at the woman sound asleep on his couch, Simon once again heard her voice say that name and felt an intense wave of anger...which was immediately at war with the protectiveness that welled up inside him.

  Simon’s first instinct upon having confirmation that Amos was her abuser’s name was to call someone to find Amos. To arrest his ass and lock him away for the rest of his life.

  And if he did? How could he be sure that Amos actually would end up in jail? If this was a first offense...

  And how could he prove that Shawn Amos’s fists were what had done the damage he was tending?

  Most particularly if Cara wouldn’t testify.

  That was the key. Getting Cara to trust enough to let someone help her.

  Like...she was letting him help her. The realization struck him. The woman trusted him enough to put her life in his hands. She trusted him to care for her. Not to hurt her. And not to break his promise to her.

  Could it be that his job, then, was to continue nurturing her until she could trust him enough to let him take her someplace where they’d know how to help her with Shawn, where the law could protect her and where she would be safe until she could resume her life?

  He didn’t hate the idea. Just as he didn’t hate having her around as much as he’d expected he would. As it turned out, he had all the time he needed outside to exercise his right eye in private. Was fairly certain that he was seeing more shadows in the clouds when he was in bright daylight.

  Used to being in busy hospitals, Simon had never been a loner. And Cara was...easy...to be around.

  Liking his plan, liking that he had a plan, Simon quietly set the plates on the table in the places that had become, in his mind, his and hers.

  * * *

  THE PAINKILLER HAD HELPED. Cara felt much better when she came to the table for dinner. Her head still hurt some—the usual tension headache—but not nearly as badly. Not the migraine kind. She was relaxed.

  And surprisingly hungry.

  “This is good,” she said, enjoying the doctor’s cabin version of stir-fry. Reaching for the bottle of soy sauce, she added a little more to the mixture of chicken, vegetables and noodles on her plate.

  He shrugged. Reached for the soy where she’d put it, just to the right of him. If she’d known he wanted it, too, she could have just handed it to him...

  The bottle flew to the floor.

  Heart pounding, she jumped up. Moved toward the kitchen to grab a wet towel.

  “I’m so sorr...umph.” She ran into the doctor.

  “Oh, my God.” The words came out. The fear in her spread. “I’ll clean it up,” she said quickly. “You go ahead and sit in my place. It’s my fault. I don’t know what I was thinking. I placed it too close to the edge of the table...”

  Warm wet towel in hand, she was heading down to her hands and knees on the floor when male hands pulled her upright. Held her in place.

  Both of her arms flew upward, covering her face, causing the towel in her hand to whack him on the chin. “Please,” she said, even though she knew begging didn’t help. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

  She was going to offer to replace the bottle.

  But she couldn’t.

  She had no money. No way to get money. She was living off him for free. Had been for well over a week. And...

  “Cara.” The doctor’s voice called to her; his hands gripped both of her arms. He’d fight her until he had both of her wrists in one hand, and then he’d...

  “Cara.”

  He’d cared so gently for her face. Wanted so badly for it to heal. She buried her head further in her arms. Trying not to cry. A sign of weakness. Which seemed to bring out the male instinct to conquer. “I’m sorry,” she said against her chest.

  And...the hands on her arms...left. They were just...gone. She thought of the soy sauce still on the cabin’s linoleum floor. Needed to clean it up but was afraid to move. To incur wrath.

  “Cara? Look at me please. I need to see your eyes.” He was a doctor. Had been checking her pupils since the day she met him. She had to get the floor cleaned up.

  Dropping down, wet towel still in hand, she wiped up the sauce. The doctor was there. She could feel his presence, but she couldn’t see him. Not even his feet. Standing, she stumbled once on her way to the sink. Rinsed the towel well. And again, to be sure she wouldn’t streak the floor with leftover soy, and went back to make certain there would be no sticky residue.

  Hopefully, he was sitting back down. Eating. Before his dinner got cold.

  The floor was clean. Cara rinsed the towel again, her panic easing as the warm water flowed over her skin. Calming her. It would be a bit before the shaking stopped.

  Actually, she had no idea how long it would be. This was the first time she hadn’t been physically injured along with the shaking.

  “Can I please look at you now? If I promise not to touch?” The doctor’s voice came from a few feet away. Calm and reassuring. As always.

  And she realized what she’d done.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT TOOK EVERY ounce of Simon’s strength not to take Cara Amos into his arms and hold her until she stopped shaking. Instead, he stood in the kitchen, attempting to keep enough distance to help her feel safe, yet close enough to catch her if she fell, and let her guide his actions.

  When she raised her head—to stare at the bottle of soy sauce now back on the table—and he saw her pupils were dilated in a fight-or-flight response, he struggled to remain still. To pretend as though having a woman act this way with him was perfectly normal.

  “I’m sorry.” Her words were calm—as though they came from someone else.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for. It was an accident.”

 
“I...” She looked from the chair he’d vacated to the spot where they’d collided on her way from the sink.

  “I was getting up to help you,” he said. “I’m the one who knocked the bottle off the table.”

  “It didn’t break,” she said now, still sounding normal in spite of the almost childlike statement considering that they both knew the bottle had survived the incident much better than she had.

  “No. The lid just popped off.”

  “I didn’t put it on tightly enough.” Her gaze hadn’t left the bottle.

  “Cara.”

  Arms wrapped around herself, she stood there. Shaking. But looking as though she was somehow trying to restrain the reaction.

  “Cara, it’s okay.”

  She nodded.

  “Please come back to the table. Sit with me.”

  If nothing else, she’d given him the very clear sense that she’d do whatever he asked to please him so he wouldn’t hurt her. The idea made him sick to his stomach. But he used it just enough to get her safely to her chair.

  Then he handed her a glass of water. “Here,” he said. “Please take a sip or two.”

  When he sat back down rather than towering over her, she did as he’d asked.

  “Eat when you’re ready,” he told her, his mind reeling with what he’d just witnessed.

  He, a man who could take a scalpel to the chest of a child and remain calm, had just about lost the contents of his stomach thinking of what must have happened to her to make her react as she had.

  He was in way over his head.

  He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, how long they sat there, silently, him watching her staring at her plate. Long after the food had grown cold, Cara lifted her fork. Slowly, methodically, she lifted every bit of stir-fry into her mouth. While he sat helplessly, she stood, wordlessly carried the dishes to the sink, washed them.

  When she reached for the cupboard where he’d been keeping his eyedrops, he lowered himself in his seat as he always did, tipped back his head and waited while she carefully placed both drops in the middle of his unseeing eye and resisted, as always, the need to blink so as not to lose any of the much-needed antipressure salve, and then went for her pills.