From This Day Forward. Irene Hannon

don’t you tell me how you’ve positioned my visit to your friends here, so we can be sure our stories are straight.” She was curious to hear his answer in light of the fact that he was still wearing his ring.

      Sam thought about her question. He didn’t have any friends in Oak Hill, not in the way she meant. Just patients and a few acquaintances. “I said you’d taken a leave after going far too long without a vacation, and that you needed a quiet place to relax and unwind,” he replied, choosing his words with care. “I mentioned that we’re separated but friendly. I know that’s stretching the truth a bit, but short of getting into a lot of history I doubt either of us wants to dredge up, that was the easiest way to explain it.”

      “That works for me.”

      Relieved, he ladled a spoonful of the chicken and broccoli onto his plate. “What did you tell your family?”

      “That I’d be out of town for a bit. Everyone has my cell number, and that’s how they always call me. Besides, Mom and Dad are in Africa for a year on a mission trip, so all our communication is by e-mail anyway.”

      “Liz mentioned that.”

      Tilting her head, Cara looked at him, wondering what else Liz had told him. “Did she fill you in on Bev?”

      “She just said your sister and her family are getting ready to move. And that Bev is pregnant. It was pretty clear that spending time with your family wasn’t an option.”

      “No, it wasn’t. Besides, I didn’t see any reason to worry them with my problems. They all have enough on their minds as it is. What about your mom? What did you tell her?”

      “Nothing. I always call her from the office. Every Friday morning, before the weekly bridge game she hosts. That’s about the only time I’m sure to connect with her. Since my aunt became a widow and they both moved into that retirement community in California, their social schedule is something to behold.”

      A smile tugged at Cara’s mouth. She’d always liked Sam’s mother. Quiet, unassuming, introspective and brilliant—she was very much like her only child. It was nice to hear that she was cutting loose and enjoying an active social life in her golden years. Maybe Sam could learn a few more lessons from her, she mused.

      “I’m glad your mom is enjoying herself. And it sounds like we’re covered.” Relieved, she reached for her glass of water.

      “Until the locals start asking questions.”

      Her hand froze and she shot him a startled look.

      The hint of a smile teased his lips. “This is a small town, Cara. People talk. And there’s a very active grapevine. Almost as good as the Gazette—our local paper—when it comes to spreading news. Although I’ve laid the groundwork, you can expect to get a few discreet but leading questions.”

      “That shouldn’t be a problem.” She set the glass back down. “I don’t plan to mingle much, anyway.”

      Liz’s comment about Cara holing up in her apartment since the attack echoed in his mind. Considering that his wife had always been a social person, isolation couldn’t be healthy. “I don’t mean to give you the wrong impression. It’s a very nice town, and the people are genuine and caring. It might be fun to explore a bit. I guarantee you can’t get lost.”

      Cara shrugged. “I’ll see. I brought along quite a few books, and I expect that will occupy most of my days.”

      “Whatever you want, Cara.” Better to back off than turn her off, he decided. “This is your time.”

      For the rest of the meal, Sam did his best to make small talk. But he’d never been very adept at it. Even in the good times of their marriage he’d been content to let Cara carry the bulk of the conversational burden. And that’s what it had always been to him—a burden. Cara, on the other hand, had been a master at drawing people out. For her, it was as natural as breathing.

      Yet tonight their positions were reversed. She was subdued and reticent, giving brief answers, content to listen in silence as he told her about the town and some of the personalities. Yet another example of the profound effect the trauma had had on her, he realized. Her normal response would have been to pepper him with questions, her eyes alight with interest. Instead, she kept her gaze downcast, focused on her food, and responded only when asked a direct question. Though her body bore physical signs of her stress, it was her personality shift that most alarmed Sam. He was beginning to better understand—and appreciate—Liz’s concern.

      When they finished the meal and he insisted on taking care of the dishes, Cara didn’t argue, as she once would have. Instead, she quietly thanked him and disappeared down the hall.

      As Sam watched her go, he hoped that the Lord had listened to the earlier prayer of His wayward son. Because reaching the woman he loved was beginning to look like a far more difficult challenge than he’d even imagined. And he could sure use the extra help.

      For the second time in a dozen hours, an intermittent, muffled noise penetrated Cara’s deep slumber.

      Despite her three-hour nap, she’d once again drifted off to sleep with a speed that astounded her after her late dinner with Sam. And she knew why. She might not trust her heart to the man she’d married, but she felt safe in his presence. And that feeling of safety had chased away the fears that had kept her awake—and anxious—through the long nights she’d spent alone since the attack.

      The sleep felt so good, so renewing, that she didn’t want to wake up. Yet there was something familiar about the sound that tugged her back to consciousness.

      Staring up at the dark ceiling, she listened. But soon the house grew silent again. Could she have imagined the noise? Had it been some scrap of elusive dream deep in her subconscious?

      When the silence lengthened, her eyelids once more grew heavy. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to worry about it. Sam was a few steps down the hall. If there was anything to be concerned about, he’d deal with it. It was his house, after all.

      As she began to fall back sleep, however, the noise started again. Louder now.

      Alarmed, Cara sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, adrenaline surging through her. Her hands shaking, she fumbled in the dark for the small canister of mace that hadn’t been more than an arm’s length away any night since the murder. Clutching it in trembling fingers, she rose and moved to her door, cracking it the tiniest bit.

      The corridor, illuminated by the dim glow of a nightlight, was empty. But the sounds were louder. And they were coming from Sam’s room.

      Now Cara knew why the noise had seemed familiar. She’d heard it often. After Sam had been released from the hospital, nightmares had often plagued him. He’d thrashed about with such force that Cara had limped for a week when he’d once kicked her in the calf in his sleep. After that he’d insisted on moving to the guest room. And he’d never returned.

      But even then, she’d gone to him during the night whenever his agonized cries had awakened her, wanting to hold him, to comfort him, to let him know that she cared. Though he’d pushed her away, she’d kept trying. Until he’d lashed out once too often in bitterness and venomous anger, telling her that she couldn’t do anything to help him—that no one could—and she’d finally believed him. After that, she’d listened night after night, helpless to do anything more than pray, as he battled his demons alone.

      The same ones he seemed to be battling still.

      As she crept down the hall, stopping outside his door, Cara’s throat tightened with emotion. The fact that he continued to suffer from nightmares almost two years after the incident that had triggered them underscored the depth of his trauma. Her experience had been horrifying, true. But it hadn’t been a personal vendetta, carried out with calculating ruthlessness. Nor had it robbed her of the work she loved, changing her life forever.

      The thrashing intensified and, fearing Sam would injure himself, she gave a sharp rap on the door.

      “Sam?