Return to Rosewood. Bonnie K. Winn

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