Dream Mender. Sherryl Woods

bandaged hands.

      If he’d expected pity or understanding, he didn’t get either. She shrugged and hung up the receiver. “I suppose some people would consider that an excuse.”

      Frank glared at her just as the phone started to ring again. He stared at it, cursing it for the helplessness it stirred in him again. He took all of his frustration out on the therapist. “Get out!”

      As skinny as she was, he was surprised his bellow alone hadn’t blown her from the room. She didn’t budge, every puny inch of her radiating mule-headed stubbornness.A tiny little bit of respect found its way into his perception of Ms. Jenny Michaels.

      “I thought you wanted someone to answer the phone,” she said, all sweet innocence over a core of what was clearly solid steel.

      “I’ll manage.”

      “How?” she said, voicing his own disgruntled thought.

      “What the hell difference does it make to you?”

      “I’ll consider it the first step in your therapy.”

      She waited. He glowered, his muscles tensing with each damnable ring of the phone. Finally, thankfully, it stopped.

      “It’s probably just as well,” she said. “It is time for your therapy. I usually like to start with something less complicated.”

      “Push-ups perhaps,” he suggested sarcastically.

      “Maybe tomorrow,” she said without missing a beat. “In the meantime, why don’t I just show you how to start exercising those fingers? You can repeat the exercises every hour, about ten minutes at a time.”

      “I’m not interested in therapy. I just want to be left alone.”

      Ignoring that, she ordered, “Sit,” and waved him toward the bed.

      “Forget it,” he said, bracing himself for a fight. He’d been itching for one all morning. Everyone else had sensed that and run for their lives. Jennifer Michaels wasn’t scaring so easily.

      “Okay, stand,” she replied, not batting an eye at his surliness. “Hold out your hand. I’ll show you what I want you to do.”

      He backed up until he was out of reach. “What about me? What about what I want?” he thundered. “Don’t you get it, lady? I’m not doing any ‘exercises.’”

      “You’d prefer to have your hands heal the way they are now?”

      Her voice never even wavered. Frank decided in that instant that his initial impression had been right on target: Jennifer Michaels was one tough little cookie. He took another look and saw the spark of determination in her eyes. He tried again to get through that thick, do-gooder skull of hers.

      “Listen, sweetheart,” he said with deliberate condescension. “I know you have a job to do. I know you probably think you can accomplish miracles, but I’m not interested. The only thing I want out of life right this second is to be left alone, followed in very short order by my discharge papers.”

      She winced once during the tirade, but recovered quickly. After that her expression remained absolutely calm. Not stoic. Not smug. Calm. It infuriated him. The only people he’d ever seen that serene before had been drugged out or chanting. Around San Francisco it was possible to see plenty of both.

      “I could leave you here to stew,” she said as if honestly considering the possibility. “Of course, it would make me a lousy therapist if I let you get away with your bullying tactics.”

      “I’ll write you an excuse you can put in your personnel file. The patient was uncooperative and unresponsive. That ought to cover it, don’t you think?”

      She nodded agreeably. “It’s certainly accurate enough. Unfortunately you won’t be able to hold the pen unless you do the exercises.”

      “Dammit, don’t you ever give up?” he said, advancing until he was towering over her. She swallowed hard, but stood her ground as he continued to rant. “I’ll type it. I ought to be able to hunt and peck, even with my fingers like this.” He waved them under her nose for emphasis.

      She leveled her green eyes at him and tried to stare him down. When he didn’t back off she shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

      She headed for the door and suddenly, perversely, Frank felt uncertain. At least she was company. And as long as they were hurling insults, he wouldn’t be alone with his own lousy thoughts. “You’re leaving?”

      “That is what you said you wanted. I have patients who are interested in getting better. I don’t have time to waste on one who’s feeling sorry for himself. Think about it and we’ll talk again.”

      She pinned him with an unflinching green-eyed gaze until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He turned away. A sigh shuddered through him as he heard the door shut softly behind her.

      Well, Chambers, you definitely made a horse’s ass out of yourself that time, he told himself. Not that Jennifer Michaels couldn’t take it. There had been that unmistakable glint of steely determination in her eyes and an absolute lack of sympathy in her voice. At almost any other moment in his life that combination might have impressed him. He admired spunk and dedication. He was not in the habit of dishing out garbage the way he had just now, but on the occasions when his temper got the best of him, he appreciated knowing that the target had the audacity to throw it right back in his face. Jennifer Michaels had audacity to spare.

      In her case, the unexpectedness of that tart, unyielding response had caught him off guard. He doubted she’d learned that particular bedside technique in therapist school. But he had to admit it was mildly effective. He felt guilty for a full five minutes before reminding himself that, like it or not, he was the patient here. Nobody was exactly coddling him.

      Not that he wanted them to, he amended quickly. The papers might be calling him a hero for rescuing his co-worker, and his family might think he was behaving like a pain in the butt, but either label irked. He didn’t feel particularly heroic. Nor was he ready to don a hair shirt just because his attitude sucked. He figured he had a right. With his hands burned and his livelihood in jeopardy, it was little wonder that his stomach was knotted in fear. If he wanted to sulk, then, by God, he was going to sulk, and no pint-size therapist with freckles, saucer eyes and bright red curls was going to cheer him up or lay a guilt trip on him.

      But to his amazement, the memory of her sunny disposition and sweet smile began to taunt him. It couldn’t be easy dealing with angry patients, some of them injured a whole lot worse than he was. How did she do it day after day? How much of the abuse did she take before lashing back? How much would she withstand before truly giving up? Somewhere deep inside he knew that she hadn’t given up on him after this one brief skirmish. She’d only staged a tactical retreat, leaving him with a whole lot to think about.

      Frank spent the rest of the day intermittently pacing, staring at the door, waiting. Every time it opened, his muscles tensed and his breathing seemed to go still. Each time, when it was just a nurse or a doctor, disappointment warred with relief.

      Finally, exhausted and aware that, like it or not, he wasn’t going anywhere today, he crawled back into bed. He was stretched out on his back, counting the tiny pinpoint holes in the water-stained ceiling tiles, when the door opened yet again. This time he didn’t even bother turning his head.

      “Hey, big brother,” Tim said from the foot of the bed. “How come you’re not out chasing nurses up and down the corridors? There are some fine-looking women around here.”

      “I hadn’t noticed.”

      His youngest brother stepped closer, a worried expression on his face. He placed a hand against Frank’s forehead. “Nope. You’re not dead. Must be the smoke. It’s addled your senses.”

      “My senses are just fine.” He paused. “Except maybe for touch.”

      Tim chuckled. “That’s better. A little humor is good for healing.