Bonnie Winn - Return to Rosewood

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

Helplessly she stared at him.

Bret’s gut told him to get as far away as possible from the one woman he’d never been able to stop loving. He’d learned to live without her, but he had never felt the same way about anyone else. Yet the deep blue of her eyes chased away his good sense. “I know my way around a saw and hammer. And I can recruit some help.”

“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 would 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.

is a hopeless romantic who has written incessantly since the third grade. So it seemed only natural that she turned to romance writing. A seasoned author of historical and contemporary romance, Bonnie has won numerous awards for her bestselling books. Affaire de Coeur chose her as one of the Top Ten Romance Writers in America.

Bonnie loves writing contemporary romance because she can set her stories in the modern cities close to her heart and explore the endlessly fascinating strengths of today’s women.

Living in the foothills of the Rockies gives her plenty of inspiration and a touch of whimsy, as well. She shares her life with her husband, son and a spunky Norwich terrier who lends his characteristics to many pets in her stories. Bonnie’s keeping mum about anyone else’s characteristics she may have borrowed.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair. Persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.

—II Corinthians 4: 8-9

For my love, Howard.

Always and forever.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Ice! The ocean-sized sheet sucked her in, paralyzing, drowning her. Samantha shot up from her nightmare, drenched in sweat. Breathing so hard the gasps hurt her chest, she painfully lifted one leg, then the other over the side of the bed. She reached for her wheelchair. Still not accustomed to her damaged body, Samantha tried three times before she levered herself up from the bed.

Trembling, she wheeled slowly through her parents’ home to the kitchen, which was in the rear quarter of the old, large Victorian house. Accustomed to her streamlined New York apartment, she’d forgotten how many doodads her mother had everywhere. Between the little tea tables, plants and trinkets, it was hard to navigate the distance, especially in the aftermath of her nightmare.

Hands shaking, Samantha decided to have a cup of tea. She turned the knob on the stove, but it didn’t light. Ignitor switches were getting old, her mother had said months before. Samantha was lucky they’d decided to leave the utilities on in the empty house.

Muttering to herself, she searched through the lower shelves of the pantry and three drawers before she found a kitchen match. She returned to the stove. Hands not yet under control, it took her several tries to light the match.

Whoosh! Boom! With the knob set on high, gas had built up, causing it to explode.

Samantha rolled backward as the blast billowed out. Flames touched the crowded row of potholders on the cabinet directly beside the stove, then climbed to the curtain framing the large window. Silly, frilly doodads hanging on the adjoining wall erupted into flames. The heat grew, suddenly popping out the glass in the window. Air rushed in, feeding the fire.

Smoke alarms started shrieking, first in the kitchen, then in the hall as the smoke traveled. Trying not to panic, Samantha wheeled over to the small fire extinguisher that hung on the wall. She reached with all her might, but she couldn’t get a decent hold on the metal cannister. Frustrated, she tried to stand, but her leg muscles were ineffectual.

Panting from exertion, she slumped back in the chair. Tempted to give into her fate, Samantha waited a few precious seconds before she pivoted and wheeled into the living room, where she’d stowed her purse. Grabbing her cell phone, she dialed 911. She didn’t particularly care what happened to her, but she wasn’t going to destroy her parents’ house.

Fearfully watching fire eat through dry, native pine cabinets in the kitchen, Samantha gave the emergency operator the address. The house was more than a hundred years old, perfect kindling.

Samantha closed her eyes briefly, imagining the disappointment on her parents’ faces. Retired teachers, they’d gone to a remote country in Africa to run a school. But the house was her mother’s pride and joy, having been in her family for generations.

Coughing from the smoke, Samantha unlocked the front door for the firemen. She tried to reach the rear door in the kitchen, but the heat of the fire pressed her back.

The smoke made its way into the living room and more alarms shrieked. Her coughing intensified. She tried covering her mouth with her hands, but it didn’t do much good.

A siren split the air as the fire engine screeched to a stop in front of the house. The door burst open and volunteer firemen rushed inside. She pointed toward the hall. “It’s in the kitchen, in the back of the house,” she gulped out between coughs.

“Anywhere else?” one man asked.

“No….” She continued coughing, then managed to speak. “At least I don’t think so.”

Another man grasped the handles of her wheelchair, pushing her toward the porch as soon as the last fireman cleared the doorway. He had to lift the chair over the threshold. Outside in the fresh air, Samantha continued coughing. In between, she took deep breaths to clear her lungs.

Long hoses were uncoiled, then hooked up to the fire hydrant three houses down. Some of the men carried dispensers of foam fire retardant as well. Neighbors opened their doors and windows to see what was going on.

A paramedic rushed to her side, checking for injuries.

Samantha touched her hot cheeks. “I’m not hurt. Just scorched a little of my hair.”

The paramedic scanned her beneath the illumination of his flashlight, then reached for an oxygen mask. “Just want to be sure.”

She brushed back the singed ends of her bangs. “I’m fine.”

“You really need to get a threshold ramp in case you have to get out alone. It’s an easy adaptation.” The tall, muscular fireman who had wheeled her outside pulled off his mask and frowned, critically studying the front of the house. “You don’t have a porch ramp either.”

“Bret?” Samantha stared at the handsome man. They’d known each other since high school. And had loved each other enough to become engaged. The pain of their breakup had kept them apart for the last eight years.