Dream Mender

Because she understood that sadness and fear far better than he or even Carolanne could imagine, she slowly shook her head. “No,” she said finally. “Thanks, but I’ll see him.”

How could she possibly abandon a man who so clearly needed her—even if he couldn’t admit it yet?

Chapter Two (#ulink_86cc1744-9187-5007-abbe-68940d92f3d7)

“When am I getting out?” Frank demanded as his doctor bent over his bandages first thing in the morning. Nathan Wilding was one of the top burn specialists in the nation. In his fifties, he was compulsively dedicated, returning to the hospital at a moment’s notice at the slightest sign of change in any of his patients. Occasionally gruff, and always demanding, he insisted on excellence from his staff. Because he accepted no less from himself, his staff respected him, and his patients elevated him to godlike stature. He’d been featured in almost as many San Francisco newspaper stories as any 49ers quarterback, and treated with much the same reverence. Frank considered himself lucky to be the patient of a true expert, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hang around this place any longer than necessary.

“When I say so,” Wilding mumbled distractedly as he carefully snipped away another layer of gauze. When the nasty wounds were fully exposed, he nodded approvingly. Personally Frank thought they looked like hell. He stared with a sort of repulsed fascination.

“Am I going to be able to work again?” he asked, furious because his voice sounded choked with fear.

“Too soon to say,” Wilding replied. “Have you been doing your therapy?”

Frank evaded the doctor’s penetrating gaze. He sensed the doctor already knew the answer. “Not exactly.”

“I see,” he said slowly, allowing the silence to go on and on until Frank met his eyes. Then he added, “I thought you wanted to get full use of your hands back.”

“I do.”

“Then stop giving Ms. Michaels so much grief and get to work. She’s one of the best. She can help you, but only if you’ll work with her.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I can’t promise you’ll have any significant recovery of dexterity.” He pulled up a chair and sat down. “Let me spell it out for you, Mr. Chambers. Your injuries are severe, but not irreversible. Maybe even without therapy, given time, you’d be able to hold a glass again or grasp a fork, if the handle is wide enough.”

He waited for that to sink in. Certain that he had Frank’s full attention, he went on, “It is my understanding, however, that you are a craftsman. In fact, my wife bought one of your cabinets for our den. The workmanship is extraordinary in this day of fake wood and assembly-line furniture production. The detail is exquisite. If you ever hope to do that sort of delicate carving again, there’s not a minute to waste. You’ll do Ms. Michaels’s exercises and follow her instructions without argument. She’s a damned fine therapist. Cares about her patients. She doesn’t deserve any more of your abuse.”

Frank could feel an embarrassed flush creep up his neck. “She complained that I behaved like a jerk, right?”

“She didn’t tell me a thing.”

“Then she wrote it in the chart.”

“The chart mentioned that you were uncooperative and unresponsive.” Amusement suddenly danced in the doctor’s eyes, chasing away the stern demeanor. “It also mentioned that you told her to write that.”

As the doctor rewrapped each finger in solution-soaked gauze, he said, “Listen, I know you’re frustrated and angry. It’s understandable. I’d hate like hell being in your position. A doctor’s not much use without his hands, either. But the fact of the matter is that you’re the only thing standing in the way of your own recovery. If you think it’s bad now, just wait a couple more days until the pain starts full force. You’re going to hate the bunch of us, when that happens. There’s not one of us you won’t think is trying to torture you. You’re going to be downright nasty. You’d better hope you’ve made a few friends around here by then. We can walk you through it. We can remind you that the pain will pass. And Ms. Michaels can see to it that you don’t let the pain make you give up and decide to find a new career that doesn’t demand so much of your hands.”

“In other words, it’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get to work.”

“That’s about it.”

The last time Frank had had a straight, no-nonsense lecture like that he’d been a teenager similarly hell-bent on self-destruction. Angry over his father’s death, terrified of the sudden, overwhelming responsibilities, he’d gone a little wild. He’d been creeping into the house after three in the morning, staggering drunk, when his mother had stepped out of the shadows and smacked him square on the jaw. For a little woman, she had packed a hell of a wallop.

Having convinced him just who was in charge, she had marched him into the kitchen and poured enough coffee to float a cruise ship. While he’d longed for the oblivion of sleep, she’d told him in no uncertain terms that it was time to shape up and act like a man. He’d sat at that table, miserable, unable to meet her eyes, filled with regret for the additional pain he’d inflicted on her.

And then she had hugged him and reminded him that the only things that counted in life were family and love and support in times of trouble. She’d taught him by example just what that meant. She was the most giving soul he’d ever met. Some instinct told him that deep down Jennifer Michaels might be just like her.

If he’d learned the meaning of love and responsibility from his mother, Frank had learned the meaning of strength and character from his father. Until the day he’d died of cancer, his body racked with pain, the old man had been a fighter. Reflecting on his own behavior of the past couple of days, Frank felt a faint stirring of shame. He resolved to change his tune, to cooperate with that pesky little therapist when she finally showed up again.

“She’ll have no more problems with me,” Frank assured the doctor. “I’ll be a model patient.”

Unfortunately that spirit of cooperation died the minute she walked into the room pushing a wheelchair, her expression grimly determined. He didn’t even have time to reflect on how pretty she looked in the bright emerald green dress that matched her eyes. He was too busy girding himself for another totally unexpected battle.

“What’s that for?” He waved his hand at the offensive contraption.

“Time for therapy,” she announced cheerfully, edging the chair to the side of the bed. “Hop in, Mr. Chambers. We’re going for a ride.”

“Are you nuts? I’m not riding in that with some puny little wisp of a thing pushing me through the halls. My legs are just fine.”

She backed the chair up a foot or so to give him room. “Let’s see you move it, then. The therapy room is down the hall. I’ll give you five minutes to get there.” She spun on her heel and headed for the door, taking the wheelchair with her.

“Something tells me I’m not the one with the attitude problem today,” he observed, still not budging from the bed, arms folded across his chest.

Jenny abandoned the wheelchair, moving so fast her rubbersoled shoes made little squeaking sounds on the linoleum. Hands on hips, she loomed over him, sparks dancing in her eyes. The soft moss shade of yesterday was suddenly all emerald fire.

“Buster, this attitude is no problem at all. If I have to bust your butt to convince you to do what you should, then that’s the road I’ll take. Personally I prefer to spend my time being pleasant and helpful, but I’m not above a little street fighting if that’s what it takes to accomplish the job. Got it?”

Frank found himself grinning at her idea of playing down and dirty. In any sort of real street fighting, she’d be out of her league in twenty seconds. He gave her high marks for trying, though. And after what he’d put her through the previous day, he decided he owed her a round. He’d let her emerge from this particular battle unscathed.

“I’ll go peacefully,” he said compliantly.

She blinked in surprise, and then something that might have been relief replaced the fight in her eyes.

“Good,” she said, a wonderful smile spreading across her face. That smile alone was worth the surrender. It warmed him deep inside, where he hadn’t even realized he’d been feeling cold and alone.

“I had no idea how I was going to haul you into that chair if you didn’t cooperate,” she confided.

“Sweetheart, you should never admit a thing like that,” he warned while awkwardly pulling on his robe. “Tomorrow I just might get it into my head to stand you up for this therapy date, and now I know I can get away with it.”

“Who are you kidding?” she sassed right back. “You knew that anyway. You’re nearly a foot taller than I am and seventy pounds heavier.”

“So you admit to being all bluster.”

“Not exactly.” She gestured toward the door. “I have a very tall, very strong orderly waiting just outside in case my technique failed. He lifts twice your weight just for kicks.”

“Which confirms that you weren’t quite as sure of yourself as you wanted me to believe.”

“Let’s just say that I’m aware of the importance of both first impressions and contingency plans,” she said as she escorted him to the door.

Outside the room she turned the wheelchair over to the orderly, who was indeed more than equal to persuading a man of Frank’s size to do as he was told. “Thanks, Otis. We won’t be needing this after all.”

The huge black man grinned. “Never thought you would, Ms. Michaels. You’re batting fifty-eight for sixty by my count. It’s not even sporting fun to bet against you anymore.”

“Nice record,” Frank observed wryly as they walked down the hall. “I had no idea therapists kept scorecards. I’d have put up less of a fight if I’d known I was about to ruin your reputation.”

“Otis is a born gambler. I’m trying to persuade him that the track is not the best place to squander his paycheck.”

“So now he takes bets against you?”