Miracles. Part 3

Bourner's Crossing had seen its last dairy farm go under three years ago. The townspeople, and those who lived close by, were mostly either lumberjacks, small-business people who catered to the year-round needs of sportsmen, or sawmill workers.

The mill on Larry Bourner's property was located on Bourner's Mill Road, which crossed Main Street at the town center. Both were the wide dirt roads common to the Upper Peninsula. On the northwest corner of Main and Bourner's Mill sat the post office; on the southwest was Ed Davenport's general store; across from Davenport's was the First Lutheran Church; and on the remaining corner was Gibson's gas station and small-motor repair shop.

In addition to Main and Bourner's Mill, a narrow dirt track cut into Main by the Sandersons' house. Called simply the old lake road, the track wound its way in a southwesterly direction through the forest, providing local access to the eastern sh.o.r.es of Lake Gogebic. It was upon this time-worn trail that Sam's Jeep had brought them into town.

"Now what?" Sam wanted to know when they'd crossed the town center.

"My house is the last one on the right," Kate answered. "The white one with the red pickup parked in front."

She gave him a brief look. A muscle in his temple flexed as he repeatedly clenched and unclenched his teeth. He'd grown silent again, and she wished to heaven he'd done as she asked- gone to Erik Nielsen for help, rather than put himself out when he obviously didn't want to be put out.

Sam parked behind her pickup and, without a word, removed her from the Jeep and carried her up the front steps, into the small one-bedroom cottage. As he ducked through the narrow hall on the way to the bedroom, she persuaded him to give her a few minutes alone in the bathroom, where she managed to maneuver in the confined s.p.a.ce on one foot. The effort left her quivering, though, and she was glad he appeared to catch her the instant she called, before she fell and made things even worse.

"Is the place we pa.s.sed, Davenport's, the food store?" Sam asked, lowering her onto the patchwork quilt that covered her double bed.

"Yes," she replied, "but I'm sure it's closed. You can fix supper here and take some things with you for breakfast."

He started to protest, but she stopped him. "Sam, I haven't got enough fight left in me to argue. The refrigerator's packed. Fix yourself something. All I want is my nightgown and robe out of that closet, and the pills in the corner kitchen cabinet called- No, wait, I'll write it down." She grabbed the pad and pencil on her bedside table, scribbled the name of the medication, and handed it to him. "If you just get me those things, I'll be fine."

He looked at the piece of paper, then asked, "Are you going to call Doc Cabot to look at that ankle?"

Kate shook her head. "Doc's in Wakefield tonight, visiting his brother. I'm not going to bother him."

Sam's forehead creased in a dark scowl. "You should call somebody to help you."

She pushed the hair out of her face with a trembling hand. "It's nice of you to be concerned, but, really, I'll be all right until tomorrow. Believe me, I'm not going to be stupid about this. It's too important that I be able to get around."

When she looked at him, his gaze dropped to her ankle. He stood there glowering at it for several seconds. Then, abruptly, he turned toward the closet opposite the bed. He found her robe and gown hanging on the inside of the door and, s.n.a.t.c.hing them off the hook, tossed them to her. Then, without a glance in her direction, he left the room, mumbling something about getting her pills.

Kate stared at the empty doorway, confused and unaccountably sorry that she'd met Sam Reese under such abysmal circ.u.mstances. In spite of his reticence and strange behavior, he was the kind of man a woman wanted to impress.

Sam strode through the small house, found the kitchen, and automatically flicked the light switch. But when he reached the cupboard, instead of opening it, he lay both palms flat on the counter, let his head drop forward, and drew a long, steadying breath.

The ride had been harder than he'd expected, and things weren't getting any better. He'd thought he had it all figured out, but Katie disarmed him at every turn. He had to get out of here. Soon. The war wasn' t over yet, and he knew from experience that he could still lose.

He also knew that worrying about it would weaken his defenses. Confidence was crucial. Panic would doom him to failure. He had to think his way through this. He couldn't react like some green kid caught in his first street fight. The crucial thing to remember was that Katie's life was not in danger. She only had a messed-up ankle.

So he'd get her the pills. Then he'd fix her something to eat-and himself, too. It was the logical thing to do. He'd see to it that she let someone know she was incapacitated. Then he'd leave.

It was a good plan. He wasn't being cruel. He was just being practical, trying to survive.

Sam straightened to locate the pills amid the cabinet's variety of medical supplies. When he heard the phone ring faintly in Katie's bedroom, he hoped it was a neighbor, somebody she could tell about her predicament. Grabbing a gla.s.s out of another cabinet, he filled it with water, spent another few minutes gathering his defenses, then headed toward the bedroom. He arrived in time to see Katie hang up the phone.

She had put on her nightgown and robe. Her discarded clothing was in a heap on the floor-except her jeans, which were bunched above her injured ankle. She'd obviously been trying to get them off, and her expression of pain and frustration nearly wasted him then and there.

"Sam, I need your knife again," she said, her voice raw. His steps slowed as he approached. She made a little exasperated gesture. "These jeans are too narrow to go over the swelling, and I don't think my sewing scissors will cut through the hem."

He set the gla.s.s and the pills on her bedside table and reached into his pocket, producing the knife and opening it for her. She took it from him without a word. As she started to slip it under the thick hem, though, he saw her hand tremble, and he reached out to cover her fingers with his own.

"I'll do it," he said, crouching in front of her. "You'll cut yourself that way."

He couldn't blame her for looking surprised. h.e.l.l, he'd acted like she had leprosy when she'd asked for help taking off her shoe. She handed him the knife, though, and her murmured thank you sounded relieved. Still, when he slid the blade under the cloth and saw how badly his own hand was shaking, he had to wonder which of them was in worse shape.

It would be so easy, he thought as his hand brushed her tender skin. So easy to give her what she needed-what he needed, too, to satisfy the gut-wrenching ache inside him. But then she would know, and that alone was enough to harden his resolve.

With a few careful movements, he sliced through the fabric binding her ankle, parting the leg of her jeans up to the knee. Then he paused to ask, "Do you want to try to salvage these?"

When she didn't answer right away, he glanced up. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth, and her eyes were squeezed closed. She let out a shuddering breath and opened her eyes to look at him.

"No. Just get them off."

His gaze fell to her mouth. Her lower lip was purple where she'd bitten it-probably to keep from screaming-and he knew he had to hurry up and get out of that room.

The sound of tearing cloth filled the silence as he worked the blade through the length of denim. When the waistband parted and the rent jeans fell to the floor, he closed his eyes briefly and took a shallow breath. Then, in one swift motion, he flicked the knife closed against his thigh, pocketed it, and stood. Turning away, he shoved his hands into his back pockets and cast his gaze over the cozy, feminine-but-not-frilly bedroom.

"Was that a neighbor on the phone?" he asked, barely recognizing his own voice.

"Yes," Katie answered, easing her legs onto the bed.

She'd arranged two pillows at the bottom, on top of the quilt, and he watched as she cautiously lowered her injured ankle onto them. The ankle was a mess-bruised and swollen to the size of the sensually curved calf above it.

Sam cleared his throat. "So, are you going to get some help tonight if you need it?"

Reaching for the pill bottle, she replied, "Ruth Davenport's going to stop over later, but I'm hoping I'll be asleep. I really don't feel like talking to anybody."

He followed her movements as she took a white pill out of the bottle and swallowed it with the water he'd brought. "I'm going to fix supper. What can I get you?"

"Nothing. I'm not hungry."

"You sure?"

She nodded, lying back on the pillows piled behind her. "I would like an ice pack, though. There's one in the cabinet where you found the pills. Could you-"

"I'll get it."

He did so, quickly. And he delivered it to her-along with a towel from the bathroom to wrap it in- then turned around and left without pausing to see that she got it arranged properly.

As he rummaged through the refrigerator in the bright kitchen, he thought somewhat desperately about walking out the front door and driving away. But he couldn't. He had to get through this trial by fire. If he didn't, he'd only face another like it somewhere down the line with no more ability to handle it than he had now. Which was next to none.

Granted, the particular battle he was fighting was harder than most. Katie was a nurse, and his conscience was bothered by the thought that people depended on her. Besides that, he was having a d.a.m.ned hard time ignoring his attraction to her. He wanted her. And he wanted to help her. And it wasn't clear how much wanting he could stand before he gave in to it, one way or another.

Sam settled on scrambled eggs and leftover potatoes that he could fry up in a hurry. He had finished the meal and was was.h.i.+ng his plate when the back doork.n.o.b rattled. With his hands full of soap, he turned to see a small, gray-haired woman enter, the key still in her hand.

The woman looked startled by the sight of him, but before he could explain his presence, her expression cleared and she smiled.

"You must be Sam Reese. Kate told me about you. I'm Ruth Davenport. My husband Ed and I own the general store."

Wiping his hands on a dish towel, he said a polite greeting and shook Ruth's hand.

She met his gaze with a worried look. "Mr. Reese-"

"Sam."

"Oh . . . thank you, Sam. I want you to know how glad I am you happened along and found Kate when you did. Storms off Superior can be bad business, and once in a while we lose somebody with winds like we had this afternoon."

"I can believe it," he said softly.

Ruth nodded. "She would have been in even worse straits tonight, since it's supposed to drop down close to freezing. I'm sure she's thanked you, but I want to thank you, too-for Bourner's Crossing. Kate means a lot to all of us."

He started to brush off Ruth's grat.i.tude, but she peered anxiously around him. "How is she? Does she need anything?"

"I think she's asleep."

"Oh. Well, I'll just go and check."

Sam was was.h.i.+ng the skillet he'd used when Ruth returned.

She bustled into the kitchen, s.n.a.t.c.hed the b.u.t.ter dish off the table to put away, and let out an exasperated sigh. "That girl!"

"Is she all right?" he demanded, his battered nerves reacting instantly to Ruth's tone.

"She's fine. Well, she's not fine, of course, but she's sound asleep. I didn't disturb her." Ruth shut the refrigerator door, then proceeded to take his place at the sink, plunging her hands into the soapy water as she went on to say, "Kate exasperates me sometimes, that's all. She works herself to the bone, doing for others, but do you know, if Sarah Winfield hadn't called me to say she saw you carrying Kate up her front walk, and if I hadn't called to see what was wrong, I bet she wouldn't have said a word to anybody about being hurt, not if she could possibly have helped it."

Sam didn't doubt it. He'd heard Katie himself, lying through her teeth about how there was nothing wrong with her ankle an ice pack wouldn't cure. No, she wasn't a complainer.

"Not that she ever needs help," Ruth continued, scrubbing at the potatoes and eggs stuck to the cast-iron skillet. "She's as capable and dependable as the day is long. Comes from all those years of taking care of her family."

A warning light went off in his head. He knew he shouldn't listen to any more of this, but simple male curiosity about the woman who'd stirred his senses made him say, "Her family?"

Ruth was glad to satisfy his interest. "Her mother died in childbirth when Kate was twelve and left John Morgan with six children, including the new baby. Kate's the oldest, so you see what I mean that she comes by her knack for taking care of others honestly. And a sweeter, nicer girl you'll never meet. Of course, I imagine you've already figured that out."

The bottom had dropped out of Sam's stomach, and he offered no resistance as Ruth plucked the dish towel out of his hands to dry the skillet. Nor did he interrupt as she went on.

"Cal Drinker, in Ontonagon-he's Kate's family doctor and a friend of Bill Cabot's-Cal says if it hadn't been for her, John Morgan would've had to split up the children between his brother down in Grand Rapids and some cousins back east. But they got a neighbor to take care of the baby and the next youngest during the day, when Kate was in school. The rest of the time, that girl kept things running smooth as clockwork. Cal says they'd never have made it without her." Pausing, a wet dishrag poised over the stove top she was about to wipe, Ruth murmured, "I hope things around here don't fall apart without her."

Then she gave Sam an anxious smile. "I imagine she's just sprained her ankle some, don't you think?"

His stomach was churning. "I'm no doctor, Mrs. D., but I'd guess it's broken."

"Oh, dear." Ruth dropped her rag onto the stove and turned to face him. "I should call Bill Cabot. Kate said not to, but-"

"I don't think one night's going to make much difference," Sam a.s.sured her. "And Katie said she couldn't face riding to the hospital for an x-ray tonight. She's had a pretty rough day."

With her brow wrinkled, Ruth shook her head. "This could be bad. Laura Graff is due in a couple of weeks, and if this baby comes as fast as the first one did, Kate will end up delivering it. Of course, could be somebody besides Laura, too, since Bill and Kate are the only ones delivering babies in a hundred square miles, outside the hospitals."

Ruth's frown deepened. "I know she's been keeping an eye on a few folks who live outside of town. Lord knows what'll happen if there's an accident at one of the campgrounds. She and Bill between them have picked up the pieces since they took the ambulances away-filling in until the ambulance gets here. But Bill isn't up to traipsing over the countryside-ar-thritis, you know-though, knowing him, he'll try to do it, anyway."

So much for problems and solutions, Sam thought. Taking a step backward, toward the doorway, he began, "Well, listen, Mrs. D.-"

"Goodness!" Ruth shuddered. "The more I think about it, the worse it looks. I guess you don't know until you face losing somebody how indispensable they've become. And Kate's gotten to be Bill Cabot's right hand-or I guess I should say his right knee, since it's his knee that gives him the most trouble."

"Yeah, well . . ." Sam cast a glance toward the doorway. "I'm sure you'll all work out something. But, listen, I'm a little worried about getting back out that road in the dark. I think I'd better get going."

"Now, hold on." Ruth's anxious frown disappeared instantly, replaced by a no-nonsense look. "There's no point in your leaving town without the things you're going to need in that cabin. Kate told me you were asking about groceries, and Ed said to send you over to the store. He'll meet you there.''

Sam's heart was pounding as he thanked Ruth and said goodbye, leaving her in the kitchen to put away the dishes. He strode through the dining room, grabbing his jacket as he pa.s.sed the chair where he'd left it, managing to get three feet from the front door. Then, most unwillingly, he came to a stop.

He stared at the door, his forehead and upper lip beaded with sweat, his insides twisted in knots. Move it, the voice in his head ordered. Get out of here-now! But he couldn't move, and he had that feeling in his gut that he wasn't going to make it.

Dammit, why did it have to be her? Why, of all the people who could have been hurt in that storm, did the one he'd found have to be the town nurse? The one person n.o.body could do without. Pregnant women who might not make it to the hospital, hunting accidents happening where the old doctor might not be able to get to them: Yes, people needed Katie, and it was going to make their lives miserable-if not downright dan-gerous-if she couldn't do her job.

And what about her? What about the woman who'd taken over raising her brothers and sisters when her mother died? Katie had gone on to make a career of taking care of people, but who was taking care of her? How was he supposed to turn away from her? How was he supposed to fight this thing inside him that urged him to give her back some of what she gave to others?

How could he justify walking out that door?

The answer came in hard, absolute terms: He couldn't.

"Ah, h.e.l.l," Sam muttered, his hand skimming over his face and around the back of his neck. What was one lost battle, anyway? G.o.d knows, there'd be others-others he'd have a better chance of winning than this one.

Whirling away from the door, he walked purposefully toward Katie's room. When he got to the doorway, he paused, and the tortured expression on his hard features softened as his gaze swept over her, lying on the bed.

Her eyes were closed, and her hair lay fanned across the pillow. He'd never in his life seen such hair- a curtain of toasty golden-brown ripples-and it framed a face that maybe wasn't beautiful but couldn't have been any sweeter or more honest. A small, turned-up nose and soft, rosy lips and a stubborn little chin that all went so well with her warm brown eyes. Her bathrobe was long and pink; it tied at her waist and, above the belt, lay open far enough to reveal little rows of lace across the top of her white flannel nightgown. The nightgown had pink flowers on it, too, and Sam couldn't remember any woman he'd known wearing a nightgown like it. But then, he hadn't known many women like Katie, and it fit her just right.

As he stood there, his eyes taking in the lush, womanly, curves of her thighs and b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the torment and the gut-wrenching ambivalence drained out of him. The decision was made. He wasn't going to fight it anymore. And, oddly enough, looking at Katie, he didn't feel as if he'd lost a battle. No, for once, this just might end up being a pleasure.

Half awake, Kate sensed someone in the room with her. As exhausted as she was and as groggy as the pill had made her, the pain wouldn't let her fall asleep. She opened her eyes but couldn't quite focus on Sam, standing at the foot of her bed. He looked so tall, she thought, in her low-ceilinged house.

"I thought you'd lef'," she said, slurring the edges of the words.

"Not yet," he replied. "You're supposed to be asleep."

She yawned. "I am. Mos'ly . . . Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"T'morrow . . . when you go t' Cressie and Steve's t' get your key . . ."

"Yes?"

"Tell Cressie I won' be out, okay? She'll hafta bring the baby in t' see Doc."

"They have a sick kid?"

"Uh-uh. New one. Due for three-week check."

"I'll tell her. Listen, Katie, about tomorrow . . . I'll run you down to Ironwood."

She looked at him, blinking in surprise. "Sam, you don' hafta do that. There's lotsa people-"