From This Day Forward. Irene Hannon

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? Sam, wake up!” When the thrashing persisted, along with the familiar cries that had always torn at her heart, she knocked louder and raised her volume. It always took a lot to wake him from these dreams. “Sam! Wake up, Sam!”

      She kept at it, until all at once the sounds stopped and the house grew quiet. She waited, but when the silence continued, she spoke again—with less certainty. “Sam? Are you all right?”

      “Yes. I’m sorry I woke you.” The words came out hoarse and ragged.

      “Can I…do you need anything?” She hadn’t planned to make that offer. But no matter her feelings about Sam, it went against her nature to turn away from anyone in need without attempting to help.

      “No. I’m sorry for disturbing you. Go back to bed.”

      Glancing at her watch, Cara noted the time. Three o’clock. A long way until morning, she realized with a sigh. And she had a feeling she wasn’t going to fall back to sleep with anywhere near the same ease she’d drifted off earlier in the evening.

      On the other side of the door, Sam struggled to regain control. Forcing himself to take deep, even breaths, he managed to slow his pulse and respiration. But he couldn’t stop the tremors that racked his body.

      What in the world was going on? It had been weeks since he’d had the nightmare that had plagued him for months after the attack. A dream so terrifying, so real, that he’d fought off sleep each night as long as he could. Yet time hadn’t diminished its horror.

      Tonight, once again, he’d relived that late return to the parking garage below the condo. Felt the prickle of unease race along his spine as he’d left his car, sensing some ominous presence. Tasted fear as the dark-clothed figure emerged from the shadows, just out of sight of the security cameras, a gun pointed in his direction.

      As his temples began to throb—another familiar consequence of the dream—Sam pulled himself upright in the bed. Drawing his legs up, he rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his pounding head in his hands. He tried to stem the tide of memories, tried to bury them, but it was impossible after the nightmare. They were too fresh, too vivid. The attack was as real as if it had happened yesterday. As were the incidents leading up to it.

      In retrospect, Sam knew he hadn’t been in top form going into surgery on the fateful day that had set the tragic events in motion. But he’d attributed his slight nausea to a simple upset stomach. Though he could have asked a colleague to take over for him, he’d been convinced that no one could do the operation better than him—even if he wasn’t a hundred percent. Another example of his arrogance in those days.

      But then things had started to go wrong. As the surgery progressed, and the simple upset stomach evolved into an acute pain, he’d begun to fumble. Make mistakes. When he’d finally acknowledged that he was too ill to continue, a colleague had to be rushed in to complete the job.

      Sam had recovered from the surgery prompted by his appendicitis attack. But his patient—Claire West—had died. Consumed by anger and grief, the woman’s husband had demanded an investigation.

      After Sam was cleared of any wrongdoing, everyone had thought that was the end of it. Until the night Bill West, his reasoning clouded by grief and anger, had confronted Sam in the condo’s basement parking garage. After forcing Sam into the shadows at gunpoint, then motioning for him to turn around, he’d spoken. Barely more than a dozen words. But they were forever etched in Sam’s brain.

      “I can’t bring Claire back. But I’m going to make sure you never kill anyone again.”

      Sam had assumed the man meant to shoot him. An assumption that seemed borne out when a sharp pain had ricocheted through his head, and the world had gone black.

      As it turned out, though, Bill West had had another kind of punishment in store for his wife’s surgeon.

      When Sam awakened, lying on the floor of the garage, he’d been aware of two things. A relentless throbbing in his head—and an excruciating pain in his right hand. He’d tried to move his fingers, but they hadn’t responded. When his vision cleared and he could finally shift his head enough to look toward his hand, the reason had become clear. Swollen and misshapen, his hand had been smashed almost beyond recognition. Through the haze of pain, he knew that multiple bones had been broken, and he suspected the man had inflicted extensive nerve damage as well.

      Somehow he’d extracted his cell phone and called 911. And he’d managed to remain conscious long enough to identify the perpetrator for the police. Later he’d learned that they’d discovered the man at his home, a short note beside his body: “I did what I had to do. May Claire rest in peace.”

      Through all of the pain and bitterness and despair that had followed, Sam had tried to hate the man who’d destroyed his life. Yet part of him feared the man’s accusation had merit. Sam had made mistakes in the operating room that day. He knew that, as did his team. However, he hadn’t considered any of them serious enough to contribute to the woman’s death. Neither had the review board. But he couldn’t help wondering if he was at fault. If Claire West—and her husband—were dead because of him. That burden continued to weigh him down, and he was still trying to find a way to deal with the guilt.

      For the most part, he’d managed to confine the battle to daylight hours.

      Until tonight.

      Cara’s arrival couldn’t be coincidental, he realized. She’d stood by him through the whole ordeal, despite the fact that he’d given her nothing but abuse. Angry at the world, he’d lashed out at the closest available target. Meeting her encouragement with sarcasm, her suggestions of prayer with ridicule, her gestures of love with indifference, he’d driven her away bit by bit. And even when the nightmares began to recede, when his hand had begun to heal and they could once more have safely shared a bed, they remained in separate rooms by unspoken mutual consent.

      It was then that Sam realized how much he missed her. How much he needed her. But just as his awkward hand no longer seemed to know how to touch an object without breaking it, neither did his heart know how to reach out and touch the woman he loved without hurting her more.

      In time, his desperate loneliness had driven him to a local bar. Alcohol hadn’t helped much, but Amber’s interest had. The blond waitress had given the bar’s newest customer more than his fair share of attention. And that had led to the night he’d driven the final wedge in his marriage, splitting it in two.

      Lifting his head, Sam stared into the darkness of his bedroom, his expression bleak. How could he ever hope to win Cara back after the way he’d treated her? Yet how could he go on if he didn’t? All these months, as he’d tried to build a new life for himself, the one thing that had kept him going was the hope that he would find a way to convince Cara to give their marriage another try. But now, despite her presence in his home, the obstacles seemed insurmountable.

      And he wasn’t in any condition to deal with them tonight, he realized, as the throbbing in his head intensified. He needed aspirin. Several. Quickly.

      Swinging his feet to the floor, he stood, bracing himself with one hand against the wall. When his legs steadied, he covered the short distance to the door, pulled it open—and stopped short.

      Cara was still standing in the hall, dressed in one of those sleep shirts she’d always favored, a can of mace