Miracles. Part 17

"Well, either way, you're getting awfully personal."

Doc was unabashed. "Maybe I am. Maybe I'm getting too personal. But I'm concerned because I'm thinking about what it would mean for a woman to be . . . well, let's say, in love with a man who can do the things you thought I was accusing you of doing."

He waited until she gave him a hesitant look. "It'd be a terrible responsibility, Kate."

"I know."

"Do you?"

She nodded, then ducked her head as she spoke very carefully. "If a woman were in love with a man who could do those sorts of things, she'd have to find a way to protect him, if she didn't want to see him broken by people who wanted to use him-people who were so desperate to have what he could give them that they didn't see their demands were too many and too great for him to handle . . . people who didn't understand it was all still new to him."

Drawing a shallow breath, she continued. "So for a while, at least, until he had a chance to learn his limits and how to handle those people on his own, this woman would try to help the man she loved buy the time and the peace he needed. And she'd feel very selfish about it. Because aside from not wanting to see him hurt, she couldn't stand the thought that he might get scared and leave . . . and that she'd lose him."

"I guess it would be pretty bad if that happened."

"Yes. Very bad."

Doc was silent for a moment, then asked, "Does this woman have any ideas about how she might protect this man of hers?"

"A few," she replied. Then, abandoning all pretense, she said, "First, I'm not going to ask him to use his gift for my purposes. I'm going to trust him to make his own decisions about it. Because the giving has to come from inside him, or it isn't a gift at all-it's a duty, and there's no joy in it. And the ability he has to perform the duty becomes a terrible burden."

Doc nodded slowly. "Sounds wise. What else are you planning to do?"

Kate held his gaze unwaveringly. "I'm going to ask the only other person in town who knows not to tell anyone else."

"I'd say this falls under the heading of doctor-patient confidentiality, wouldn't you?"

"Definitely." Closing her eyes, she added fervently, "And I'm going to pray like mad that Martin Anderson means what he says, that he wishes Sam well."

She opened her eyes to find Doc frowning thoughtfully.

"The man sounded sincere," he said. "I don't think he's going to cause trouble." Tilting his head, he added, "By the way, I think tonight would be a good night for me to be on call. Don't you?"

"Doc, you don't have to . . ." Kate stopped, realizing her foolishness, and instead simply gave him a grateful look. "Thank you."

His mouth sloped into a smile of both approval and rea.s.surance. "Don't look so worried. I think we can cover the tracks that man of yours is leaving behind him. In fact, it could be quite an interesting challenge." Reaching out to give her arm a pat, he added, "I don't think we could do it forever, but between us we ought to be able to buy Sam the time he needs."

But who would buy her the time she needed? Kate was afraid, knowing what she had to do, that the timer was about to run out.

Fourteen.

At four o'clock, Kate closed up the office and started out the old lake road. Yesterday's warm suns.h.i.+ne had disappeared; the sky was overcast, the air chilly. She reached for the denim jacket on the seat beside her as she hesitated at the turnoff to Sam's, then drove on to the Nielsens'.

She found Lynn doing laundry and sent her straight to bed, ignoring the young woman's protests that she'd been fine all weekend. Then, grimacing in disgust at the Nielsens' ramshackle living conditions, Kate went looking for Erik. She found him putting a roof on one of the camp's small cabins.

No, Erik said, he'd had no idea Lynn's condition could be really serious. She hadn't told him that, and she certainly hadn't said anything about any bleeding the previous week. And he guessed he knew why. They didn't have any medical insurance, they were strapped for money, and they had just enough put aside to pay for Lynn's prenatal care and to have the baby in the hospital-provided the hospital stay only amounted to a day or two. Sheepishly he admitted that he'd been worrying out loud a lot and that, in not telling him the whole story, Lynn had probably been trying not to make him feel any more pressured.

Kate figured he was right, and she promptly told him that he, at least, could forget her fee. Erik's pride wouldn't let him accept her offer, but he swore he'd see to it that Lynn kept her appointment the next morning with the obstetrician, and Kate left feeling a tad less worried, after telling him where she'd be for the rest of the evening, should Lynn need her.

Sam's Jeep was nowhere in sight when she arrived at the cabin, but the door was unlocked. She went to the kitchen with the notion of fixing dinner and found a pot of fresh vegetables- carrots, brocoli, peapods, and onions-chopped and ready for what looked like a Chinese-style stir-fry. Stuck in a book, lying on the counter, was a note penned in straight, definitive strokes: I'll be back in time to cook. You relax. Read this, if you want to. Sam.

Smiling, Kate looked at the book, which was tattered from numerous readings. The author was a physician with impressive credentials, and the back-cover blurb described the book as a collection of accounts given to the physician by people who had experienced death. Thumbing through the first couple of pages, Kate walked slowly toward the couch. And there she spent one of the most thought-provoking hours of her life.

Sam, it seemed, was not alone. Rather, he was part of a growing number of people, most of whom had suffered a grave physical crisis-heart attack, drowning, or the like-that by all natural laws should have killed them but had not. In some cases, improved resuscitation techniques had brought the victim back, either from the brink of death or shortly after clinical death occurred. In other cases, though-cases like Sam's-no apparent reason could be found to explain why the victim, who had been declared dead, was suddenly alive again. In all cases, those who'd had close brushes with death, in the process of trying to a.s.similate the extraordinary experience, found that their physicians were either useless or, worse, downright obstructive.

Kate immediately understood the problem from the medical point of view. Nothing in her training even began to address how to help a patient who related a story such as the one Sam had related to her; in that respect, at least, her training wasn't much different than, for instance, the average cardiologist's. Doctors and nurses were taught to consider the physical, not the spiritual, ramifications of death. They certainly weren't taught how to respond when a patient began telling them what had happened to their nonphysical being while vital functions had ceased.

Now, however, it seemed that a growing number of sensitive professionals were listening to and recording near-death survivor's experiences, despite the almost universal claim among those who'd visited that noncorporeal realm that no words existed to describe it adequately. As Sam had told her, there was no language. The first thing that struck her was the phenomenal similarities among the experiences near-death survivors claimed to have had. In content, sequence of events, and detail, each story had elements in common with the others, and a few elements were present in nearly every one.

A tunnel-a vast, dark s.p.a.ce. The dying soul moved through the tunnel, beckoned toward a light-a clear, white light, dazzling yet not blinding. The gate to heaven, Kate thought, recalling Sam's words to Francis when he'd likened the light to a sunrise seen while flying over the water. As the dying person moved closer, the brightness became a "Being of Light"-a name chosen by the book's author from among the many given by the socially and religiously diverse group of near-death survivors. Although the names the survivors used differed, their descriptions of the Being of Light did not: All were certain they'd met a superior being, and all said that, in the being's presence, they'd felt completely accepted and flooded with a kind of warmth and love that defied any description.

The purpose of the encounter for the dying soul also seemed clear. The Being of Light posed a question, not in words, but in pure thought: Was the person prepared to die?

To help answer the question, the soul was given a display of his or her life events, the events flas.h.i.+ng by quickly, although each remaining distinct. In the review, the survivors claimed they didn't feel they were being judged, but through it they reached an understanding of what had really mattered- what they'd done that counted, and what had not. Often, the things the person had thought important, in the face of death, appeared to have been only a waste of time.

A waste of time.

How would a man meet eternity having come to such a conclusion about his life on earth? Would he be glad for a chance to try again? Or would he resent being sent away from that better place? And what would he do differently? Would he plunge into his second chance with enthusiasm and confidence, knowing immediately how to proceed? Or would he hesitate, uncertain about which pieces of his old life were worth keeping and which, indeed, had been a waste of time-or, worse, genuinely wrong?

And suppose the man returned from death with some special gift? For Sam was not alone in this, either, she discovered. Telepathy, visions of the future, uncanny knowledge of subjects never studied, and, yes, healing: Not all near-death survivors acquired such skills, but many did, in varying degrees. How would the man who felt his life had been a waste view such a gift? Would he feel compelled to use it to make his "second" life into something better, something worthwhile? Would he experience it as a burden? Or would he simply feel confused?

Kate was tucked in a corner of the couch, her eyes closed in thought, when a rough male voice, coming from behind her, whispered something in her ear that made her blush furiously.

"Sam Reese, you are-"

"Hot." His hands slid down the front of her jumpsuit to cover her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Hot and hard, from thinking all day about you and . . ."

He muttered something else that made Kate gasp-not in shock but at the instant arousal he sent coursing through her. Her head turned toward him, her fingers curling around the back of his neck, but she caught only a glimpse of windswept hair and clear gray eyes before his mouth covered hers and she was wrapped in a greeting that was both intensely erotic and achingly tender.

Finally, with his lips still nibbling at hers, he said, "I'm sorry I'm late. How was your day?"

Kate smiled. "Fine, but why do I get the feeling I'm supposed to ask you that question?"

"Because knowing what to say is one of the things you do best."

"You think so?"

"I know so." Giving her another quick kiss, he put a leg over the back of the couch and rolled across it, ending up on his back with his head in her lap. Bending a knee to lay the lower half of one leg along the top of the couch, he got com pletely comfortable, then prompted, "So ask me."

Kate chuckled. "How was your day, Sam?"

"Good," he said. But then his eyes narrowed. "No. Make that great. I had a great day. Now, ask me- " "Why did you have a great day?" "I healed a kid with braces on his legs." At her burst of laughter, he tugged on her braid. "What? You think that's funny?" She couldn't have said what she thought it was. With his head in her lap, her hand resting on his flat abdomen, and his fingers leisurely unbraiding her hair, she was suddenly struck by the absurdity of the cozy scene.

And how was your day, dear?

Oh, the usual. I healed a kid.

That's nice. Now, what would you like for supper? Meatloaf or stew . . .

"I'm sorry," she said, unable to wipe the grin from her face.

Sam's eyes sparkled as he reached up to tap the dimple in her left cheek. "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?"

No, I think I'm in love.

"Where did you find this lucky child? Tell me about it."

His shoulders moved against her thighs as he shrugged. "Well, it wasn't a big deal-that was the great part. I went fis.h.i.+ng over at Gogebic, and he was sitting by the lake in a folding lawn chair, with a fis.h.i.+ng rod in his hand and a tackle box beside him. His mother was sitting a ways off, reading. He and I got to talking, and a couple of times I unhooked his line when it got hung up in the gra.s.s. We both caught a couple of pike, and I had one good size ba.s.s-" He stopped to give her a quick look. "I've been throwing them back."

"I figured that out." Her finger traced a line down the front of his blue T-s.h.i.+rt. "So, you and this boy were fis.h.i.+ng together. How old was he?"

"About ten or eleven. When it came time to leave, his mother came over, and I realized this little squirt of a woman was going to carry the boy the whole two hundred or so yards to their car, because he couldn't handle his crutches in the tall gra.s.s and soggy ground."

"And you offered to do it for her."

Sam's eyes closed briefly. "It was perfect. I put him on my shoulders and held on to his legs, and . . ." His eyes opened, his mouth slanting in a crooked grin.

"And by tomorrow he'll be walking by himself," Kate concluded.

"h.e.l.l, no. His muscles'll have to develop first."

Her brows drew together. "Then how do you know it worked?"

He started to answer, but hesitated.

"Don't tell me," she said. "You just know."

"Right. I usually know pretty quick when I touch somebody if I can help them or not." He gave her a wink. "The really good part is, by the time they realize the boy's better, they'll have forgotten all about me."

That made him happy, which made her happy. She relished those moments of happiness as he pulled her down to lie next to him, his mouth coming together with hers in a kiss that promised much more. Lying there, with her arms around him and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and belly and thighs being pleasurably crushed by the provocative movement of his hard, muscled body, she would have given anything to let the moment end as it was meant to end. There was a small problem, however, in the area of her conscience.

"Sam, I have to tell you something."

"Hmm?" His mouth was trailing in the wake of his fingers as they unb.u.t.toned the front of her safari-style jumpsuit. He'd gotten as far as her belt and was hooking his finger under the front clasp of her bra when her hand covered his to stop him.

"Doc knows," she said.

Chuckling, he went for the clasp again. "Honey, don't kid yourself-by now, the whole town knows. But we're both a little old to be sneaking in through back doors and-"

"That's not what I meant."

She held her breath as he went utterly still. Then, slowly, he moved his hand away from her bra and lifted his head to look at her in disbelief.

"You told him?" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

She shook her head. "He guessed. After phone calls from the audiologist and the surgeon who treated Ray c.o.o.ney- who both said what they saw was a miracle-he thought about my ankle and decided they were right. Three in a week was too much for him to pa.s.s off as an interesting coincidence."

"Ah, come on!" He levered himself up on an elbow to look down at her. His face was rigid, and his body radiated tension. "n.o.body could have guessed without-"

"Sam," she interrupted. "I think you've been around big-city doctors and hospitals too long. Old country doctors don't have as many ways to solve their problems, and that probably makes them more inclined to take a leap of faith when the occasion arises. Doc knew you'd been in all three places at the right time, with me, and he knew darned well that I didn't do it."

"But still! If you'd just played dumb, he couldn't-"

"I did. He was convinced before he talked to me." She drew a shallow breath. "Something else happened that clinched it. Martin Anderson called, looking for you."

The slight widening of his eyes was the only sign of shock he displayed; yet Kate saw the emotion flickering through those crystal-clear pools, and there was no mistaking it for anything but fear.

"He was worried about you, and-"

"s.h.i.+t!" Sam was off the couch before she could finish her sentence. He stood with his back to her, a hand on his hip and the other rubbing the back of his neck. "Of all the . . . How the h.e.l.l did he find me?"

"The postmark on the letter you sent your dad last week." She sat up, b.u.t.toning her jumpsuit. "Sam, it's all right. Listen to me a minute." He wasn't listening; he was pacing wildly, muttering curses under his breath, but she went on anyway. "Anderson asked Doc to give you a message. He's worried about you. That's all. He wanted to know if you were all right. And he swore he wasn't going to tell anyone where you are."

Sam's mouth twisted in a look of derision. "Yeah, sure. And he said that right after he told Doc Cabot that he had the answer to all his problems living right under his nose."

"But he didn't tell Doc," Kate persisted. "Doc guessed. The things Anderson said-like how he was sorry for his part in making things so bad for you in California, and how he hoped they were better now, how he didn't want you to worry about him calling or knowing where you are-those things only confirmed what Doc was already thinking. Sam, the man's your friend!"

"Yes, he's my friend. And he's done things for me no one else could do. He's also a d.a.m.ned good doctor who cares about his patients and who works like h.e.l.l twelve hours a day trying to make them well. He's a good person." Pivoting to a stop, he leveled a look on her. "But he's human."

"That's right," she returned, "and human beings learn from their mistakes."

Sam drew back, his look becoming suddenly, frighteningly calm. He stared at her for a moment, then, very quietly, he said, "They sure do." And without another word, he strode toward the bedroom.

Kate knew what she'd find before she stopped in the doorway to the smaller room. Still, seeing him haul the large duffle bag from beneath the bed, shake it out, and unzip it made every muscle in her body knot with panic.

Her heart was racing in her chest as she said, "And this is learning from your mistakes?"

"No," he muttered, "this is correcting one before it's too late."

"What mistake was that?"

The only answer she got was a harsh laugh as he dropped the bag onto the bed.

"I'd really like to know, Sam. What have you done wrong that leaving is going to fix?"

"How about everything?" He walked to the dresser and yanked open the top drawer. "I went looking for a quiet, out-of-the-way place where n.o.body knew me. And when I found it, instead of leaving it that way, I wrecked it."

"I see."

s.n.a.t.c.hing a stack of T-s.h.i.+rts out of the drawer, he headed toward the bed, where he dumped it, saying, "Everything I've done since I got here was a mistake. It was a mistake to talk to people or to try to get to know them. It was a mistake to get involved with anything or anybody. It was a mistake to pretend to myself I might be able to have something like a normal life."

"How do you know you can't have a normal life? You haven't tried."