Bonnie Winn - Return to Rosewood

When the tears subsided, Samantha faced them all. “I didn’t mean to exclude you. I…just hadn’t thought out what it would mean coming back here.”

“This is your home.” Don, only two years older than her father, Ed, looked nearly enough like him to be his twin. “You never have to think out coming home. But we’d like to make things easier for you.”

Although he was wise enough to hide his pity, Samantha knew it was there. “But that’s just it. I don’t want anyone to take care of me…to worry.”

“It comes with the territory. Rachel contends she’s an adult who can live her own life. I suppose she’s right, but it doesn’t stop us worrying. That’s what family does.”

The years away from Rosewood had dimmed her sense of family, what the connections really meant. But ever since her brother, Andy, had died….

Sniffling, Rachel playfully punched her dad’s arm. “You’d think I was twelve years old.”

“Don’t believe otherwise,” Trudy advised, wiping her own face. “As far as your father’s concerned, you’ll always be twelve.”

Don glanced in the kitchen. “Looks like we’ve got some work to do.”

“But—”

He held up one hand. “Bret filled me in before he left. I’m no carpenter, but I’ll do what I can. You’ll get plenty of help from your friends and neighbors.”

Samantha felt she’d been gone too long to expect anything from them. But that was how Rosewood worked. People pitched in together. They might be a dying breed, but the small town’s citizens believed in neighbor helping neighbor.

“I thought your dad was being extravagant when he told me he planned to keep the utilities on,” Don continued. “Said a house slowly disintegrates when it’s left closed up.”

“He knows how much the house means to Mom.”

Don nodded in agreement. “Oh, and Miss Leeson comes in to clean twice a month. You’d have given her a heart attack.”

The complications were multiplying. “Uncle Don, you can’t tell Mom or Dad.”

He pursed his lips.

“Promise…please?”

Reluctance swamped his face, but he finally nodded. “As long as you’re okay. That changes and the promise is off.”

Samantha knew she was lucky he wasn’t already dialing the phone. “Thanks.” The emotional reunion was exhausting. Had it only been months since she could trek for hours on end hunting a new species? Traveling to South America, Asia, pushing through the rain forests and jungles as easily as walking from one room to another. Now she was exhausted from sitting and talking a few minutes.

Rachel noticed. “Mom, Dad, we’re wearing Sam out.”

“But we just got here!” Trudy protested.

Don took her arm. “Rachel’s right. Sam, we’ll leave for today, but we’ll be back. Often.”

Touched, again she felt the threat of tears. Not a crier, she hated the weakness. “Thanks, Uncle Don.”

He clasped her shoulder. “You’ve got a lot to deal with, Sam. Remember you don’t have to do it alone.”

Not sure whether her voice would warble, she nodded.

Her Aunt Trudy looked as though she was ready to start the waterworks again, so Samantha dredged up a smile.

Rachel leaned close. “Don’t worry, Sam. We’ll get those legs working again. And you’ve got my cell number. I don’t care if it’s three a.m., you need something—call.”

Samantha returned her cousin’s hug, and kept the smile on her face until they were gone. Then she stared at her legs. She couldn’t tell them. She couldn’t tell anyone. There was no hope. No chance. Not unless there was a miracle. And she’d stopped believing in those the day Andy died.

By late afternoon, Bret had left the nursery in Peter’s less-than-capable hands. Not that he wanted to, but he needed to make his daily run to his parents’ home to check on his father.

Robert’s health had been delicate since his heart transplant. So much so that he’d retired when Bret graduated from Texas A&M. Over the years, Bret had transformed the old family nursery. Robert had approved of the changes, understanding the need to grow native species that didn’t require watering. Not that Robert wanted to stop selling traditional bedding plants, too.

And although he couldn’t work at the nursery any longer, Robert kept busy growing orchids, a process as delicate as his health.

Bret quickly walked up the weathered brick driveway, nearing the garage, which was actually an old carriage house. It went with the age of the house, which had been built around the turn of the last century. It wasn’t a fancy house, but one that always said home. Welcoming, warm, comforting. Thick ivy grew up the brick exterior, framing the front door, outlining the windows, wrapping the house in a protective green layer. Each flower bed was laid out with loving care so that something bloomed most all year.

Bret passed beneath heirloom roses that climbed the arched trellis leading to the backyard. The glass greenhouse where he was headed was nearly as old as the house. His parents said it had been a deciding factor when they’d purchased the house. The Victorian greenhouse had fallen into disrepair with the previous owners, but his parents, then young and healthy, had lovingly restored the building.

The arid conditions in the Hill Country weren’t a good match for Robert’s exotic orchids, but the greenhouse was equipped with steam-driven humidity. Back in the early 1900s, the lady of the house no doubt had kept her most treasured plants in the large, adjacent conservatory.

Bret paused, glancing at the huge old magnolia tree that shaded the back porch. Dinner-plate-sized blossoms nestled amidst glossy, deep-green leaves, perfuming the entire yard.

Hearing his father humming, Bret stepped into the moist air of the greenhouse. “Hey, Dad.”

“Bret!” Pleasure filled his father’s voice. Then he looked closely at his son. “Something wrong?”

“I must be completely transparent.” Bret dropped on a stool near his father.

“It’s a parent thing.” Robert laid down his pruning shears, then pulled off his gloves.

“Samantha’s back in town.”

Eyebrows lifted, Robert pursed his lips. “Been awhile.”

“Yeah.” Bret hooked one boot over the stool’s railing.

“Something special bring her home?”

“She had a bad accident. Her legs are paralyzed.”

Shocked, Robert stared at him. “Permanently?”

Bret shrugged. “She thinks so.”

“Her parents must be frantic.”

“They don’t know she’s here.” He explained Sam’s reasoning. “Sam knows they’ll find out. She’s just hoping to put it off for awhile.”

Robert scrunched his brow in concentration. “I saw something in the paper about a grease fire at the Shaw home. Nothing about Sam in the article, though.”

“That’s because she was already in the Carruthers house by the time the kid from the paper came to take pictures. And the neighbors repeated what Sam had said about it being a small fire.”

“Hmm.”

“She didn’t even have a ramp put in. Lucky she didn’t roast herself.”

Concern etched deeper lines in Robert’s face. “Is she all right?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing today, making sure…building a ramp, putting in threshold adapters.”

Robert waited.

“I’m going to talk to Matt Whitaker. See if he’ll build some new cabinets—try and replicate the originals. That, and round up some more volunteers.”

“Wish I were stronger. I’d help.”

Despite everything his dad had endured, he still reached out to help others. He donated his prized orchids to be auctioned off for charity, supplied cut flowers to the church for Sunday services. And he never felt sorry for himself. Something Sam needed to learn. “You help, Dad. Listening.” Exhaling, Bret flipped his keys.