Return to Rosewood

Herb and Janie’s small house sat on the end of a quiet lane. His sister had the family green thumb and their yard was the prettiest on the street.

He rang the bell. The sounds of his niece and nephews running and shrieking poured out when Janie swung open the door.

“Wow. You never come at dinner time. What’s up?”

Sibling shorthand made it easy for them to get straight to the point.

“Don’t want to eat. Thanks anyway. Herb around?”

“He’s out back.” Janie frowned. “Something wrong?”

“Yep. You could have told me about his job.”

Her face fell. “We didn’t want to worry you.”

“First Dad, now me?”

She trailed him as far as the kitchen. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

The conciliatory gesture made him smile. Especially since Janie hated cooking.

Out back he found Herb trimming the already precisely edged shrubs lining the back fence.

“Hey.”

Seeing that it was Bret, Herb smiled. “Not like you to brave the rugrats during the week.”

“Actually came to see you.”

Herb gestured to the padded lawn chairs surrounding a wide, planked table. “What’s up?”

“Hoping you can help me out.” Bret outlined Peter’s behavior the last few months, ending with the disastrous morning. “So I’m wondering if you’re interested in working at the nursery.”

Herb’s expression was knowing. “A pity job to keep me employed?”

“Nope. I know it’s not ideal for you. And I’d expect you to keep on looking for something better—something like you’re used to. And no problems if you find a job and have to leave without notice. But I almost fired Peter today, which would leave me with no one. I probably shouldn’t have let him off with probation. I’m really hoping he’ll quit.”

Herb rubbed his forehead, pushing back short, light hair. “If it’s really not a pity offer, I’m grateful for the work.”

“Can you start tomorrow?”

“You are serious.”

“Peter’s good with the plants. But he treats people like they’re just another root vegetable. With the falloff in business, I need someone who’s good with the customers, especially to push our living Christmas trees. We’ve been setting them up for seniors—bringing them in, taking them out after the holidays. Now, I’m thinking we ought to make the same offer to any customers. It’s not just for business. You know how I feel about living Christmas trees.”

Herb grinned. “One less tree needlessly chopped down.”

“I’ll meet you there at eight.” Bret thought about the breakfast he needed to bring over to Sam. “Make that eight-thirty. Peter should have the nursery open by then, but I’m not counting on it.”

“Aren’t you staying for dinner?”

Bret grinned. “The way Janie was waving that spatula at the kids, I’m sure it’ll be a gourmet feast, but I’ll pass.”

“Coward.”

“You betcha.”

“Hey, Bret.” Herb’s gaze turned soberly sincere. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

The next morning Bret took a critical look at the crude porch ramp at Sam’s house. It wasn’t very attractive, but it was sturdy. The temporary threshold adapter he’d fashioned out of a few pieces of wood worked. And it would do until the one he’d ordered from the hardware store arrived.

He rang the bell, then tried the door. Since it was unlocked, he walked in. “Sam? I’ve got your breakfast.”

Dropping the breakfast on the dining room table, he headed into the kitchen. Wasn’t any easier to look at.

Charred black, the remains of the cabinets no longer resembled their original design. He could replace them with something easy that wasn’t nearly as beautiful, but he was fond of Sam’s parents. When he and Sam had dated, they’d treated him like a son. And they were always kind when he saw them at church, or anywhere in town. He sensed they felt guilty about the way Sam had ended the engagement.

Rolling toward the table, she looked at him tentatively when he walked back into the dining room.

“Do you know if your parents have any pictures taken in the kitchen?”

“Good morning to you, too.” Sam glanced at the ignored food. “I imagine there are some pictures. We always had lots of suppers at the kitchen table.”

“Where do you think the pictures are?”

“Um. Good question.” She turned toward the built-in bookcases flanking the tall, wide fireplace, craning her head to see. “Mom has some albums there.”

Knowing she couldn’t reach that high, Bret searched the shelves.

“The leather-bound album to your right,” Sam directed. “That one should be full of pictures.”

He pulled the volume down, then carried it to the dining room table. “Let’s take a look.”

Although Sam wasn’t accustomed to navigating her wheelchair, after a few tries she got in place at the table. Bret picked up one of the dining room chairs and placed it next to her. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”

As the pages of the book turned, the years fell away. Shots of Sam’s family were bittersweet memories. Many of the photos captured the closeness of brother and sister.

Sam gently touched a picture of Andy standing alone, proudly showing off his Eagle Scout award.

Bret swallowed. Andy had been an example to him as well. Three years older than he and Sam, Andy had been the golden boy, destined to do good. From early on, Andy knew he wanted to be a teacher so that he could improve the fates of underprivileged kids. While in high school, he’d volunteered for a summer in Africa. He fell in love with the land and its people. He decided to return, to build a school and make sure “his” kids had better lives. But five years earlier, a doomed flight during a monsoon had ended his life and his dreams. Until his parents stepped in to make them happen.

Glancing surreptitiously at Sam, he swallowed.

Head down, hands covering her cheeks, she was trying to hide her tears.

Remnants of feelings he’d long put aside stirred. Despite them, he couldn’t abandon her. Not until she recovered her once unstoppable tenacity. Then he could walk away, forget she’d returned.

Bret turned a page—to a photo of himself and Sam at college graduation with grins as wide as the state of Texas. The picture hit him like a fist to the gut. Back then, full of youthful optimism, he’d been sure she would reconsider leaving Rosewood. He’d believed it until she boarded the bus out of town.

“Were we ever that young?” she asked in a quiet voice.

Bret knew he couldn’t give in to his own emotions. “We’re not exactly approaching Methuselah time.”

Sam laughed, a humorless, brittle sound.

Silence blared between them. Feeling the tension in every muscle, Bret flipped another page in the album. The lone sound of it turning echoed. Unwilling to look at Sam, he studied the photos, then turned another page. And saw a picture taken in the kitchen. “Here’s one.” He tapped the photo. “We can get this enlarged for detail. It’s a good angle on the cabinets.”

She looked down. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. And you’re right. I can’t expect people I haven’t seen in years to help me. It’s a massive project and—”

“Did your parents have any renovations done since this picture?”

“I don’t think so.” Distracted, she shook her head. “Mom was always talking about upgrading, but she didn’t want to lose her cabinets.”

Sitting close to Sam, he felt the brush of her arm, the accidental graze of her hands as she reached for the album. Not moving, his gaze slid sideways. Her creamy ivory skin was just as he remembered. And the way her dark hair fell forward, just brushing her cheek. Wanting to sweep it back, to feel the softness of her cheek, he stood up abruptly.

As soon as possible, he’d hand over the responsibility for the kitchen to someone in her family. They could find the volunteers, get the renovations going. Without worrying what Sam’s presence would do to them.

Startled by his sudden movement, Sam looked up at him.

Bret paced the floor, deliberately not looking at her. “I’ve talked to Matt Whitaker. He’s agreed to work on the cabinets.” Matt was a local artisan who designed furniture and other works of wood so remarkable he had a national following.

“His work is beautiful,” she agreed. “But since he’s become famous—”

“Nobody in Rosewood gets so famous they can’t help a neighbor.”

She swallowed.

Making himself study the photo and not Sam, Bret held it up to the light. “So, what did your mother not want that’s in the kitchen now?”

“A fire.”

Her wit had always captivated him. Nearly as much as the way her blue eyes could deepen, then capture him and not let go.

“Bret?”

He brought himself back to the planet with a jerk. “Yeah. Um, she still want a table in there or something more modern like an island?”

Samantha pushed the midnight-colored hair from her forehead. “She said something about updating, modernizing the kitchen, but not losing the integrity of the house’s time period. I know she wants a refrigerator that doesn’t stick out any farther than the counters and a bigger stove in an alcove sort of thing.”

Bret glanced at the destroyed appliances. “I think we can work new ones into the plan.”

“Seems like she had some magazines set aside with pictures of what she likes…”

Resisting an urge to look through the entire photo album and find more pictures of himself and Sam together, he dropped the photo on the table. “I’ve got to get over to the nursery.”

She looked confused. “But your breakfast…”

He grabbed the container. “I’ve got a new employee starting today—my brother-in-law, Herb. Can’t keep him waiting.”

“Well—”

“I’ll try to get by this evening to wreck out some of the kitchen.”

“Okay, I’ll—”

Fleeing, Bret didn’t wait to hear her reply. From the disquieting trickle of sweat traveling down his back, he knew he didn’t dare.

Chapter Four

Bret parked in the nursery lot, immediately seeing Herb’s small truck, but not Peter’s car. Fuming under his breath, he met his brother-in-law at the front. “See what I mean about Peter?” He unlocked the door. “I have a key for you in the office. Looks like you’ll use one more than Peter does.”

Herb tried to keep his expression neutral.

“It’s okay.” Bret flipped on the lights. “You can say what you think.”

“Nope. Too soon for me to have an opinion.”

“Won’t take long,” Bret muttered.

And it didn’t take long, either, for a tour of all the nooks and crannies of the old main building.

“I’ll show you the outbuildings later.”

“Funny how you don’t notice everything when you’re just browsing.” Herb studied the rows and rows of herbs that stretched out in one screened area. “Looks like I’ve got a lot to learn.”

“After I show you the cash register, we’d better do your paperwork—W-4 and the lot the government requires.”

The bell jangled on the front door and Peter strolled inside.

Glancing at his watch, Bret noted the time. He intended to keep track of it so he didn’t have any issues about Peter’s probation and its likely outcome.

Giving Herb time to finish the forms, Bret made a pot of coffee. By the time it brewed, Peter emerged from the back.

“Peter, you’ve probably seen Herb here before.”

His assistant manager shrugged. “Lot of people come in here.”

“Herb’s starting today.”

That got Peter’s attention.

Herb extended his hand. Peter ignored him.

Bret counted silently to ten. “Herb will be working more on the inside. But he needs to learn everything.”

Sullenly, Peter stared at Herb without replying.

Pulling the spare key from his pocket, Bret handed it to Herb.

“Hey.” Peter’s face mottled into an ugly shade of red. “You didn’t give me a key until everybody else left.”

“I can trust Herb,” Bret replied briefly, not feeling any need for explanations.

“You friends?” Peter questioned.

“Not that it’s your concern, but Herb’s my brother-in-law.”

A sarcastically knowing expression flooded Peter’s harsh features. “Oh. Great. I’m on probation and all of a sudden, your brother-in-law’s working here?” He snorted. “And you making out like it was ’cause I was late yesterday when all the time you were planning on hiring him.”

“Your work record speaks for itself. And for what it’s worth, you pushed me over the edge yesterday. I was more inclined to fire you than give you a warning.”

“You taking back the probation?”

Bret frowned. “No. You either shape up or you’re out.”

“Like it’s going to be a fair test. Keep me on or your relative!” Slinking away, Peter muttered something unintelligible.

“That went well,” Herb commented. “I’d forgotten how fun orientation day is.”

“He’d have found out soon enough you’re family.”

Herb clapped one hand on Bret’s shoulder. “Well, brother, any more benefits like that and I’ll be spoiled for any other job.”

Despite himself, Bret grinned. “It’s going to be good having you around.”

“Remember that when I mix up the petunias and the pansies.”

If that was the worst he had to worry about, Bret would consider himself a lucky man.

It was late by the time Bret managed to get back to Sam’s. Herb was intelligent, filled with initiative, but still, a full day of training was tiring. Not to mention all the hostility from Peter.

So he wasn’t in a very talkative mood. “Let’s split the work. You look for the magazines with the stuff your mother likes. I’ll wreck out the old kitchen.”

“Oh, that sounds fair.” Before starting the search, Sam trailed him down the hall toward the kitchen, flinching when she looked at the scorched remains. “The counter was so beautiful.”

“Old as the house is, the limestone was probably quarried close by. And the counters might have been redone when they modernized the kitchen. Means we can try and get a close match. I can borrow a tile saw and we’ll cut off a piece for comparison.”

She blinked. “You can do that?”

“Most of us can do a lot more than we think we can.”

Her eyes, still wounded, met his. “I used to believe that.”

Wishing she didn’t have the ability to pull him in with a single look, he pushed aside old feelings. “It’s time you started believing again.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sam muttered, pivoting back toward the living room.

She’d barely started down the hall when the doorbell rang.

Bret listened. When Sam didn’t open the door, he laid down his tools and went to the entry hall.

Rachel stood on the porch, peering into the living room. “I was beginning to think Sam wasn’t home.”

“Which is impossible since she won’t leave the house,” Bret replied wryly.

Rachel rolled her eyes. “I’ve been trying to drag her to see the doctor and she won’t budge.”

“You have something set up?”

“Not much point until she agrees to go.”

Bret pursed his lips. “Maybe we need to do it the other way around.”

“You willing to help me on this?” Rachel asked hopefully.

He was going to find some duct tape and seal his mouth closed. “I could talk to J.C.” J. C. Mueller was Rosewood’s only neurologist and a friend of Bret’s.

Impulsively Rachel hugged him. “That would be perfect!”

Yep, just perfect.

Samantha finished brushing her hair, then looked in the mirror. She’d never put much value on looks, but it was startling to see her near-skeletal reflection. Bret had always claimed she was beautiful. Sam peered closer. If that had been true, it certainly wasn’t anymore. The unflattering clothes didn’t help. Her wardrobe these days was sweats, the only thing she could struggle into on her own.

Bret would probably be by soon. She hadn’t wanted to accept his help these last few weeks, but the truth was she couldn’t have gotten by on her own much longer. Without asking, he’d installed grab bars in the bathroom and bought a shower chair so she could bathe. Rachel had taken over, adding vanilla shampoo and green-tea-scented bath gel, along with loads of thick, soft towels. Her cousin had also taken care of the laundry.

Between goodies from Ethel Carruthers and childhood favorites Rachel brought over, Samantha had more than enough food. But she still shared breakfast from the café with Bret. He told her it was the only way he could be sure she really ate at least one meal a day. She heard him knock on the front door that she’d left unlocked for him. As had become his habit, he walked directly to the dining room table. “Change of pace today. Breakfast sandwiches.”

She joined him.

He unfolded the paper from his own. “Less mess.”

“Good idea.” Her appetite was still nonexistent and she ate only a few bites. Bret finished his sandwich almost as quickly, surprising her. She glanced up. “You must be in a hurry.”

“You could say that.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

She noticed that he hadn’t brought any coffee. He rarely went anywhere without a cup. He liked the brew so strong it was almost espresso. “I can’t believe you forgot your coffee.”

“Have my thermos in the Blazer, along with some cups.” His chair scraped over the wooden floor as he pushed it back. “We have to get on the road.”

Her face fell. “What?”

“You haven’t been out of the house enough. You need fresh air.”

Feeling panicked, Samantha shook her head. “I get plenty of air through the windows.”

Bret grasped the handles of her chair. “Nope.”

Before she could protest more, he pushed her out the door over the newly installed threshold adapter that had arrived the previous day. “Bret, wait! I don’t want to go around the neighborhood.”

“Good. We’re taking a drive.”

“A drive?”

“You know.” He opened the passenger door of his SUV. “That thing when you get in the car and go somewhere.”

Shaking her head, she reached for the wheels to reverse. But he was faster, lifting her up and into the vehicle. “Bret!”

Closing her door, he stowed her wheelchair in the back, then got inside.

“Where are we going?”

“Breathe, Sam.”

She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath in a death grip that nearly matched the one she had on the door handle.

“Have I ever done anything to hurt you?”

Never. “You used to be the master of practical jokes.”

He turned the key, starting the car. “And you weren’t?”

Sam felt like a bat pulled out of its cave, blinking in the sunlight, wanting desperately to be back in the safety of her parents’ home.

“It’s not far,” he continued.

Nothing was very far in the small Hill Country town. Established in the mid-eighteen-hundreds, Rosewood had never outgrown its practical roots. Resisting the urge to become a tourist destination, instead it was a community that thrived on small businesses and individuality.

When Samantha had arrived, she hadn’t paid attention to the cozy warmth of Main Street with its Victorian buildings and shops. Nor had she noticed the signs of summer in the large elm trees that lined the sidewalks. When she was a kid, super-stores had tried to establish a foothold, but the town hadn’t wanted to give up its rural lifestyle or run entrepreneurs out of business. Since the land outside town was owned by ranchers whose places had been in their families for generations, developers got nowhere with them either.

The town had invested in state-of-the-art hospital facilities, though. One that Bret was turning into. Dread assailed her. “What are you doing?”

Bret didn’t reply until he found a parking spot near the physicians’ building. “This is Rosewood, not Deadwood. We have doctors, indoor bathrooms, most everything.”

Samantha bristled at his tone. She might have left eight years ago, but she didn’t dislike her hometown. “Really?”

“And you have to keep up your medical care.”

Sam hated that her emotions were now so close to the surface that she felt like crying nearly all the time. “I told you I can’t afford it.”

Bret turned off the car, then faced her. “Sam, do you remember anybody in Rosewood going without care?”

It was the way they did things. When someone didn’t have enough money, people donated services and whatever else they could to make certain no one was denied help. But she’d been away from that kind of thinking for a lot of years. Straining desperately not to cry, she leaned back, scrunching into her door. “I’m not going to be a charity case.”

“That’s okay by me.” He retrieved the wheelchair, and rolled it to the passenger side. “You’d better lean in if you don’t want to land on the ground.”

Only the possibility of further humiliation made her move.

His hands were strong as he again lifted her. For a moment she wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and hang on. But she knew he wouldn’t want her to. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with her since their last and ultimate fight over the future.

Bret eased her into the chair, then took control of the handles. “The good part about going to therapy is once you get out of this chair, no one can push you around.”

Yeah. That was going to happen. She was silent as they entered the building, then traveled through the corridors.

“You remember J. C. Mueller?” Bret asked. “Three years ahead of us in school?”

J.C. had been in Andy’s class. “So he made it to medical school?”

“He’s a neurologist. Gave up several offers to practice in New York, Chicago, Dallas.” Bret slowed down at the elevators, backing her into an open one.

Samantha remained quiet as they reached the doctor’s office and Bret signed her in. The consultation was pointless since she couldn’t afford to follow through on anything J.C. suggested. But Bret wasn’t listening.

It wasn’t long before the nurse ushered them into an examination room. Before Sam could think of a way to escape, J.C. entered. His grin was as friendly as she remembered. “Samantha!”

She also remembered her manners. “J.C.”

Instead of reaching for the chart hanging on the back of the door, he eased into the chair next to her, meeting Samantha at eye level. “So. Bret’s dragged you here and you’re wishing he hadn’t.”

Briefly glancing up at Bret, she swallowed. “Looks like you have the picture.”

“I’d know more about the picture if you’ll agree to let me send for your records.”

Twisting her hands together, she looked down, uncomfortable beneath the two masculine gazes.

“Sam, if I’d gone into medicine to make money, I wouldn’t have come back to Rosewood.”

Embarrassment colored her pale cheeks. “So Bret told you.”

“Glad he did. I never have understood why people will accept friendship, gifts, help with things out of their scope of experience, but they balk when it comes to money. I don’t have a lot of money to give, but I can offer my expertise.”

Overwhelmed, she covered her eyes with one hand.

“So, what do you say?”

Reluctantly, she uncovered her eyes. “It won’t do any good, J.C. I tried to tell Bret. There’s not any hope.”

“Hope’s a funny thing. The Lord surprises us when we least expect it.” He reached for the chart. “One thing is certain—we can’t know until we explore all the options.” He extended a clipboard that held a request for transfer of medical records.

Bret leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. “You don’t have to do this alone. Your family knows.”

Shakily, she accepted the clipboard and pen, scribbling her name on the bottom of the paper. Drained, she slumped back.

“This is a good start,” J.C. assured her.

Samantha didn’t believe him. Maybe he’d had offers from New York, but she’d seen city doctors. She’d heard their opinions.

“My nurse will call in the request today. Shouldn’t be long until we get the records. In the meantime, I’m recommending both aqua and physical therapy.”

“It won’t do any good.” What physical therapy she’d tried in New York had failed.