by Irene Hannon
Four and a half minutes later, Cara found him by the back door. She’d thrown on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and run a brush through her hair. Already she was feeling foolish about her cowardice, yet the notion of staying alone in the dark house freaked her out.
If Sam thought her behavior irrational, however, he was kind enough to keep his opinion to himself. In silence she preceded him out the door, hovered close while he locked it, and was grateful when he placed a protective hand in the small of her back as they walked through the still, early-morning darkness toward the garage.
Depositing his case in the backseat of the car, he opened her door, then took his place behind the wheel. Neither spoke until he backed out and headed away from town on a small country road. At that point, feeling more foolish by the minute, Cara felt compelled to say something. The inky darkness around them hid their expressions, making it easier to share confidences.
“Ever since the shooting, I’ve…had difficulty dealing with darkness.” Her voice was soft in the quiet car, not much louder than the background hum of the engine. “I know it’s silly, but I can’t seem to help it. I hope it isn’t too awkward for you that I came along.”
Awkward didn’t come close to describing how Sam viewed this outing. Providential would be a better word. Since Cara had arrived a week ago, he’d been desperately trying to think of ways to increase their time together without infringing on the turf she’d delineated. That she’d suggested sharing dinner had been an unexpected—and most welcome—gift. One that had boosted his feeble hopes and given him the courage to invite her to drive to Rolla with him. But her refusal of that invitation had dimmed those hopes. Since then, he’d come up with no other plan to convince her to spend more time with him. Yet once again, an opportunity had been dropped in his lap.
The silence had lengthened, and Sam realized he owed her a response. Or better yet, a reassurance. “It’s not awkward at all. In fact, I appreciate the company. It’s a long drive in the dark alone.”
Quiet descended on the car again as Sam tried to think of some way to extend the conversation. But for once, Cara took the lead.
“I didn’t think doctors made house calls anymore.”
“It seems country doctors do. At least Doc Adams did, as I’ve been told by countless patients. I figured he’d be a hard act to follow when I took over his practice, and I was right.”
“Marge said he was well liked.”
“Yeah. He was a good man.”
“How did you two connect?”
“He and Dad went to medical school together, and they never lost touch. I’d met him on a few occasions through the years. Somehow he heard about my…about what happened…and he got in touch. We talked several times, and he ended up offering to sell me his family practice. He was getting ready to retire and wanted to bring in someone he trusted, who could build on the tradition of compassionate care he’d created.”
Sam hesitated for a few moments, and when he continued his discouraged tone tugged at her heart. “To be honest, I often think he could have done better. If he hadn’t died a month after he retired, I might have suggested he find a better candidate to carry on his legacy.”
The cover of darkness seemed to have given Sam the courage to open up a bit, too, Cara noted. “I have a feeling you’re being too hard on yourself. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be making a house call miles away in the wee hours of the morning.”
“This trip is a reflection of my failure, not my benevolence, Cara. I tried to convince Marv Jackson to let me admit him to the hospital when he came into my office two days ago. I failed. Doc Adams would have succeeded.”
Hearing his frustration, Cara recalled Marge’s comment about Sam needing a little lightening up. And the remarks from congregants about him being a loner, and keeping to himself. Knowing Sam, Cara assumed that he’d used a very logical, clinical approach with Marv Jackson. That had always been his style as a surgeon, where patient/doctor relationships were short-term and straightforward and the focus was on a very specific job that needed to be done.
In family practice, however, doctors had to treat the whole patient, over the long term. To do that well they needed to develop a caring relationship based on trust and understanding. The kind Doc Adams had created, which made the patient receptive to a doctor’s recommendation, however distasteful it might be.
Unable to dispute Sam’s response, Cara fell silent. She couldn’t ignore the evidence that suggested he had a problem relating to patients. Nor was she surprised by his dilemma, knowing him as well as she did. Yet it was clear he wanted to succeed. But she wasn’t sure he would, not without guidance. As to who could provide that…she wasn’t going to go there.
They completed the ride in silence. Not until Sam pulled into the long, gravel lane leading to a frame, two-story farmhouse did he speak. “I’ll park on the side. That way no one will know you’re here. I’ll lock the doors, but lean on the horn if anything spooks you. To be honest, though, about the only thing likely to bother you out here is a cow or a goat.”
At his teasing tone, Cara’s lips twitched in response. For some reason, she wasn’t all that worried about waiting in the dark car. The locks and the horn helped, as did the rural setting. Besides, there was already a subtle glow on the eastern horizon. All symptoms of her earlier, impending panic attack had vanished.
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
With a nod, Sam got out of the car, opened the back door and reached for his bag. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Sam.”
His name came out before she could stop it, and her neck grew warm as he leaned down again, a question in his eyes. She hadn’t intended to offer any advice; yet she’d been touched by his admission that he’d failed to convince the ill man in this house to get the necessary medical care. And an idea had occurred to her. Taking a deep breath, she plunged in.
“I was just thinking about that time you twisted your ankle and refused to get it looked at. You thought it was a sprain. But it turned out to be a fracture, and because you didn’t get it treated right away, there were complications. Maybe if you tell that story to Marv Jackson, it might help convince him that things could get worse if he doesn’t go to the hospital. Sometimes sharing a personal experience makes people more receptive.”
The dim overhead light in the car did little to illuminate Sam’s face. But Cara was sure she saw a flicker of some indefinable emotion, some subtle shift in his features. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”
And then he was gone.
Forty-five minutes later, as the sun crested the horizon and cast a golden glow over the green fields, the flash of another light caught Cara’s attention. An ambulance had turned into the gravel driveway.
It seemed Sam had won his case.
From her position at the side of the house, Cara watched as the EMTs exited the vehicle. A few minutes later they came back and removed the gurney. Ten minutes after that, they were securing it on board, the older man lying on top already hooked to an IV. The ambulance departed, followed by a car. Sam joined her a short while later, stowing his case in the back and slipping into his seat.
In daylight, Cara could see the lines of fatigue at the corners of his eyes. But his lips were smiling. “It worked.” He turned the key in the ignition and eased the car down the long driveway.
“You told him about your ankle?”
“Yes. In all the gory details. Including how stubborn I was, and how I ignored my wife’s advice—and the price I paid. For some reason, knowing that I’d been stupid seemed to compel him not to want to make the same mistake. He even shook my hand. I’ve never had a patient in Oak Hill do that.”
“I’m glad things worked out.”
“Thanks to you.” He risked a quick look at her, then focused again on the road. “I think this calls for a celebration. And I have the perfect thing in mind.”
Curious, she examined his profile, warmed by the morning light.
“What?”
“It’s a surprise. If you’re game.”
“Sure.” She had no plans for the day, other than a nap later to compensate for her disrupted sleep. Rolling down her window a few inches, she leaned back in her seat, enjoying the fresh scent of a country morning and the song of the birds as they trilled in the quiet air. Sam, too, seemed content to drive in silence.
Fifteen minutes later they entered a tiny town, and Sam pulled to a stop in front of a storefront with a sign marked Sweet Stuff.
“The best bakery for miles around.” Sam opened his door. “I discovered it a few months ago after another early-morning call in this area, and I try to get back every few weeks. The owners are from Denmark, and their Danish pastry is the best this side of the Atlantic.”
A few minutes later he was back, toting a white paper sack and a cardboard tray containing two cups of coffee. He reached in and handed the goodies over to Cara before sliding back in. “If you can resist the aroma for a few minutes, I know the perfect place to enjoy this.”
“I’m not sure I can hold off.” As Cara inhaled, the scent of fresh-baked pastry set off a rumble in her stomach.
“You always did have a sweet tooth.” He shot her a grin. “I never could figure out how you stayed so slender.”
“Working in a kitchen burns up a lot of calories.”
The skeptical look he gave her was one thing that hadn’t changed about him, she realized. Sam never had understood that the grueling pace of a commercial kitchen was as physically taxing as surgery. She’d given up trying to convince him of that long ago. And now wasn’t the time to reopen that sore subject. Ignoring his look, she lifted the flap on the bag and peeked in. The pastries did look authentic. Her mouth began to water. “How much farther?”
“About half a mile.”
As Sam rounded a curve in the road a minute later, he eased onto a small gravel pull-off at the top of a hill. Framed by large oak trees, it offered a panoramic view. As the rising sun played hide-and-seek with the fluffy white clouds strewn about the blue sky, mischievous rays darted toward the ground, turning a meandering stream into a silver ribbon. When Sam shut off the engine and lowered his window, the peace was absolute except for the morning song of the birds.
“Wow.” Cara breathed, rather than spoke the word, enchanted by the scene in front of her.
While she drank in the landscape, Sam traced her profile with a loving gaze. Despite her lack of makeup and hastily brushed hair, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. But her beauty wasn’t just physical. From the beginning, he’d recognized her loveliness of spirit and kindness of heart, realized that there was depth and purpose and character to Cara.
Yet somewhere along the way, in the frenzy of success and professional adulation, he’d ceased to appreciate the qualities that made her such a special woman. All that had mattered was his career.
Despite his neglect, however, she’d stuck with him. Even when he’d given her nothing but abuse, she’d tried to be there for him. Far longer than he’d had a right to expect. Only his final indiscretion had driven her away.
Smiling, Cara opened the sack and turned to Sam. “I can’t wait any…”
The words died in her throat and, with a sinking feeling, Sam watched as wariness—and fear—wiped away her smile. Struggling to compose his features, he did his best to erase any visible trace of what was in his heart. He wanted Cara to know that he hoped for a reconciliation, but the time wasn’t yet right for that revelation. Not when she was still dealing with her own trauma. And not until she had a chance to discover for herself that he’d changed.
“Are you going to share those?” He gestured toward the bag and tried for a teasing inflection.
“Sure.” She dug into the sack and extracted some napkins and one of the flaky pastries.
He reached for it with both hands, and their fingers brushed. She snatched hers back.
“Your hand…seems better.” She buried her face in the sack again as she selected a pastry for herself.
“Not better. But improved.”
To Cara’s surprise, there was no bitterness in his matter-of-fact tone, and she sent him a curious look. His placid, relaxed expression bore no trace of the intimate warmth and caring she’d glimpsed moments ago, when for a brief instant tenderness had softened his features and the yearning in his eyes had stolen the breath from her lungs. Now she wondered if she’d imagined it. “You sound okay with that.”
“Resigned, anyway.” He took a bite of the pastry, and she watched as pieces of the outer layer of dough flaked off and drifted to the napkin he’d spread on his lap. They reminded her of autumn leaves, falling one by one, leaving the trees bare and exposed. “At least I regained enough use to stay in medicine. Although I often wonder if that was a good thing. I was a far better surgeon than family practitioner. Surgery requires coordination and dexterity. Family practice requires communication and discernment. Those have never been my strong points.”
He started to take another bite of his pastry, then changed his mind. Setting it on his lap, he turned to her, his eyes bleak. “I guess our marriage proves that.”
The raw anguish on his face tightened Cara’s throat. “There was fault on both sides, Sam.”
“That’s not true.” He tightened his grip on the cup and drew a harsh breath. “I take full responsibility for what happened between us.”
“I was just as wrapped up in my job as you were in yours.” Looking down, Cara traced the rim of her cup with one finger. “Relationships can’t survive without nurturing, and neither of us devoted enough attention to that after our careers took off.”
“But you recognized it, and were willing to try and fix it. I wasn’t.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
“Besides, I’m not sure that alone would have driven us apart. It’s what I did after the attack that killed our marriage.” He set his coffee back into the cup holder, and out of the corner of her eye Cara could see that his hands were trembling. “I want you to know how sorry I am for pushing you away. And I also want you to know that…” He stopped and cleared his throat, then laid his scarred fingers on the back of her hand, his touch gentle, tentative.
Startled, she stopped breathing. When she risked a peek at him, he caught—and held—her gaze.
“Despite what it looked like that night, Cara, nothing happened.”
That night.
He didn’t have to spell it out. The night she and Liz had run into Sam in a movie theater parking lot, a young blond clinging to his arm, was forever etched in her memory. It had been the most profound blow she’d ever sustained.
Yet even after being confronted with the evidence of his infidelity, Cara had found it hard to believe that Sam would betray her. She’d had absolute trust in him through all the years they’d lived together as man and wife, sure that despite their problems, he would honor their marriage vows. But that night had shattered her trust. And without trust, they had a marriage in name only. That was when she’d walked out.
Searching his eyes now, however, Cara could see nothing but sincerity in their depths. Could he be telling the truth? Had the night in the parking lot been an aberration? The result of one too many solitary evenings spent at the local bar as he struggled to cope with his chaotic life? An attempt to find the consolation she’d withdrawn? An indiscretion born of desperation rather than an actual act of infidelity?
But there was more. She could see that he wanted to continue, yet something was holding him back. Unsure whether she wanted to hear the rest of his confession, she remained silent. If he was seeking absolution, she didn’t think she was up to the task.
Shame coursed through Sam as he studied Cara. It was too soon to ask for her forgiveness, but he needed to put his contrition on the table. And that meant he had to be honest about everything. If she ever gave her pardon, it had to be for the whole ball of wax. Because wrong intentions were as immoral as wrong actions. However hard they were to con
fess.
Forcing himself to look her in the eye, Sam spoke again, his voice not quite steady. “What I said before was the truth, Cara. I’ve always been faithful to you. That night was the first time I’d ever…seen a woman socially…since I met you. And there’s been no one since. But I’m ashamed to admit that if we hadn’t run into you and Liz, I…I’m not sure I could make that statement. And I’m as sorry about that as if something had actually happened.”
He lifted a hand to massage the taut furrows in his forehead. “I know it’s no excuse, and I don’t expect you to fully understand the depths of my despair, but hopelessness and depression led me to that night. It wasn’t because I stopped loving you.”
Although she didn’t move a muscle, Sam felt her withdraw as surely as if she’d jerked her hand back and turned away. It was what he’d expected, yet the effect was no less devastating.
The ache in his heart, the sense of loss that had been with him since the day she’d left him, intensified in the silence. Her hand lay cold and still beneath his, and at last Sam forced himself to break contact. He supposed he’d rushed this discussion. But when the opportunity had presented itself, he’d taken it. Now he was sorry. It had been too soon to bring up the past. She hadn’t been ready to listen, let alone forgive.
Even worse, maybe she never would be.
Putting the car in gear, he backed away from the serenity and promise of the scene below them, where a new day was dawning.
Neither spoke a word on the way home. When he pulled into the driveway, Cara got out of the car almost before it came to a stop and disappeared into her room, leaving him alone in the kitchen, the bag of Danish in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
He took a sip, hoping to dispel the chill in his heart. But the dark brew offered no comfort, for it too had grown cold.
Chapter Eight
Marge was right. You couldn’t miss the Oak Hill Inn.
As Cara pulled to a stop in front of the gingerbread-bedecked Victorian house, painted pale pink with deep rose-colored trim, her lips curved into an appreciative smile. Marge might not find the ornate style appealing, but Cara thought the house was nostalgic and charming. And it was just what she needed to distract her from her conversation with Sam over Danish, which was still replaying in her mind two days after it occurred.
