Bonnie Winn - Return to Rosewood

“Not ruined,” he rebuked. “Damaged. But it can be fixed.”

Helplessly, she stared at him.

His gut told him to run. To get as far away as possible from the one woman he’d never been able to forget. He’d learned to live without her, but he’d never felt the same way about anyone else. Yet, as they always had, the deep blue of her eyes chased away his good sense. “I can recruit some help to work on the kitchen.”

“But you have—”

Bret resisted the pull of old, unresolved feelings. He doubted he’d survive another desertion. And once she was well, he knew she’d be gone again. “A friend who needs help.”

Samantha’s eyes, devoid of hope, flickered just a bit.

Friend… He had to keep it that way. Or he might not get over the pain this time.

Birdsong floated through the open bedroom window, the curtain stirring in the morning breeze. Still unaccustomed to the small-town sounds of her youth, Samantha yawned. Arms stretched out elbow to elbow, hands rubbing still sleepy eyes, she halted at a new, unexpected sound.

Hammering. Or shooting?

Something was peppering the house. From the sound of it, nails or bullets must be hitting nearly the entire place.

Reaching toward the end of the bed, she grabbed a sweatshirt. She pulled it over her flannel pajama top and levered herself out of bed. Wheeling to the front door, she pulled it open. Still not oriented, she craned her head, looking for the source of the noise.

“Morning.” Bret spoke from her right, standing off on the grass.

“What are you doing?” She tried to see, but couldn’t push herself over the threshold.

“Porch ramp.”

She gestured behind into the house. “You offered to help with the kitchen. Why—?”

He looked pointedly at her stuck chair. “And if there’s another fire?”

“Institutionalize me.”

“You can’t afford it.” Bret’s somber face loosened for a moment and he flashed the same wide grin she remembered. He hadn’t changed that much since college. Sun-streaked brown hair, year-round tan, dark eyes that had always seemed full of laughter. If he’d aged, it was only to the good. No longer a youth; all the harder edges of manhood suited him.

“I’m putting the ramp over here so when you’re on your feet again, you can use the steps.” He shot more nails into the wood structure.

Samantha wasn’t a quitter, but she’d heard enough of the doctors talking when they consulted to know what her chances were. Amazing how candid they were when under the assumption the patient was asleep. It’d been the only way to find out anything. Asking questions hadn’t gotten her anywhere.

Bret jumped up on the side of the porch, his tall, muscled form scaling it easily. Before she guessed his intent, he grasped her arm rests, then pushed the chair back. “I ordered a threshold adapter—two, actually. Until we get your kitchen fixed, you’d better plan on breakfast at the café. Why don’t you get ready while I finish up?”

Shaking her head, Samantha grabbed the wheels and rolled backward. “No!”

Puzzled, he frowned. “What?”

“And announce to the entire town that I’m here?”

“How long do you think you can hide?” He gestured toward the houses flanking hers. “You’ve got relatives and friends in Rosewood. You plan on never leaving the house? Never answering the door? Or the phone?”

“My parents put the phone on suspend.” It was a weak defense, but the only one she had.

Bret tapped a booted foot on the porch.

“Okay. So I didn’t completely think the plan out.” Samantha glanced down at her lifeless legs. “But I’ll figure out something.”

“You’d have a better chance of folks not spilling your secret if you tell them first. People around here don’t appreciate being lied to.”

She swallowed. “I do know how Rosewood works.”

His eyes darkened further. “You sure about that?”

Between them, he’d always been the logical one, the most grounded. Certainly the one most connected to Rosewood. “Looks like you think I don’t have any claim to my hometown.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Few days.” It had been an excruciating trip, managing first the plane and then the bus ride on her own. She couldn’t even handle the small suitcase she’d brought along. Some strangers had taken pity on her, helping open doors occasionally. But she’d already wearied of pity while she was in the hospital. It wasn’t any more palatable because she needed help. And she’d hated having to enlist the Carruthers to pick her up at the bus station, then struggle to get her wheelchair through the back door. They’d been disapproving, believing she should contact her parents immediately. Ridiculously, she felt on the edge of tears again.

“How are you getting groceries? Supplies?”

She shrugged. Hunger wasn’t her problem. “Mrs. Carruthers keeps bringing over food. I told her not to.”

“Have you eaten breakfast?”

Sam shook her head.

“I didn’t think so.” He glanced at his watch, then pulled his eyebrows together in an annoyed crease. “Rosewood’s a hard place to keep a secret. Just having lights on in the house has probably gotten someone talking.”

Weary both physically and emotionally, she felt like a wound-down clock. Overwhelmed, under-equipped. Neither was her style. Now it was her fate.

A short time later, Bret pulled into the parking lot of Conway’s Nursery. All the lights were off; none of the displays were set out front. Peter, his assistant manager, hadn’t opened yet. And it was a good thirty minutes past opening time. Bret slid out of his Blazer and stomped across the lot.

As he singled out the building key, Bret noticed that the door didn’t look firmly closed. He stepped back a few inches. The sign indicating whether they were open was flipped to Closed. Pushing on the door lightly, it opened. “Peter?”

Silence.

Bret glanced back at the parking lot, which was empty. Peter always drove to work. Turning on the inside lights, Bret could see that the ledger was laid out on the main counter. Peter was supposed to have closed up the previous evening, which meant locking the ledger in the small office.

Heading to the back of the shop, Bret didn’t need long to see the office wasn’t locked, either. A too familiar anger grew. Peter had been slacking off more and more. And it was at the worst possible time.

The recession hadn’t spared Rosewood. People didn’t consider plants a vital necessity. As receipts shrunk, Bret had been forced to rethink his business plan. He’d offered retirement packages to his three oldest employees. That had left him with Peter, whose redeeming quality was superior horticulture knowledge, and two young women who had agreed to share one position.

However, as each woman found a full-time job elsewhere, they’d left. And, now it was just Bret and Peter. Unfortunately, Peter had taken the changes as a permanent job guarantee.

Grabbing the phone, he punched in Peter’s number. It rang and rang. Bret slammed the phone down hard enough to make the base rattle.

Just then he heard Peter’s old Camaro screech into the lot, the low underside scraping on the driveway as it did every day.

Bret gritted his teeth as Peter took his time dragging into the store.

Peter paused to flip the sign on the door to Open.

“Turn it back.”

Surprised, Peter frowned. “It’s time.”

“It’s past time.”

Shrugging, Peter yawned. “No customers.”

“If anyone had come when we’re supposed to be open, do you think they’d wait around until you decided to show up?”

Peter sighed, a long-suffering sound that told Bret that he wouldn’t listen. Certainly wouldn’t change.