style="font-size:15px;"> The other therapist watched her closely. “Or maybe something specific about Frank Chambers gets to you.”
Jenny thought of the anger in his voice, the strength in his shoulders, the coiled intensity she had sensed just beneath the surface. Then she thought of his eyes and the wounded, bemused look in them that he fought so hard to hide. He was getting to her all right. Like no patient—or no man—had in a very long time.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Carolanne persisted. “Want me to see him tomorrow? I can take over the case.”
Jenny hesitated. That would be the smart thing to do, run while she had the chance. Then she thought of the lost, sorrowful expression in those compelling blue eyes.
Because she understood that sadness and fear far better than he or even Carolanne could imagine, she slowly shook her head. “No,” she said finally. “Thanks, but I’ll see him.”
How could she possibly abandon a man who so clearly needed her—even if he couldn’t admit it yet?
“When am I getting out?” Frank demanded as his doctor bent over his bandages first thing in the morning. Nathan Wilding was one of the top burn specialists in the nation. In his fifties, he was compulsively dedicated, returning to the hospital at a moment’s notice at the slightest sign of change in any of his patients. Occasionally gruff, and always demanding, he insisted on excellence from his staff. Because he accepted no less from himself, his staff respected him, and his patients elevated him to godlike stature. He’d been featured in almost as many San Francisco newspaper stories as any 49ers quarterback, and treated with much the same reverence. Frank considered himself lucky to be the patient of a true expert, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hang around this place any longer than necessary.
“When I say so,” Wilding mumbled distractedly as he carefully snipped away another layer of gauze. When the nasty wounds were fully exposed, he nodded approvingly. Personally Frank thought they looked like hell. He stared with a sort of repulsed fascination.
“Am I going to be able to work again?” he asked, furious because his voice sounded choked with fear.
“Too soon to say,” Wilding replied. “Have you been doing your therapy?”
Frank evaded the doctor’s penetrating gaze. He sensed the doctor already knew the answer. “Not exactly.”
“I see,” he said slowly, allowing the silence to go on and on until Frank met his eyes. Then he added, “I thought you wanted to get full use of your hands back.”
“I do.”
“Then stop giving Ms. Michaels so much grief and get to work. She’s one of the best. She can help you, but only if you’ll work with her.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I can’t promise you’ll have any significant recovery of dexterity.” He pulled up a chair and sat down. “Let me spell it out for you, Mr. Chambers. Your injuries are severe, but not irreversible. Maybe even without therapy, given time, you’d be able to hold a glass again or grasp a fork, if the handle is wide enough.”
He waited for that to sink in. Certain that he had Frank’s full attention, he went on, “It is my understanding, however, that you are a craftsman. In fact, my wife bought one of your cabinets for our den. The workmanship is extraordinary in this day of fake wood and assembly-line furniture production. The detail is exquisite. If you ever hope to do that sort of delicate carving again, there’s not a minute to waste. You’ll do Ms. Michaels’s exercises and follow her instructions without argument. She’s a damned fine therapist. Cares about her patients. She doesn’t deserve any more of your abuse.”
Frank could feel an embarrassed flush creep up his neck. “She complained that I behaved like a jerk, right?”
“She didn’t tell me a thing.”
“Then she wrote it in the chart.”
“The chart mentioned that you were uncooperative and unresponsive.” Amusement suddenly danced in the doctor’s eyes, chasing away the stern demeanor. “It also mentioned that you told her to write that.”
As the doctor rewrapped each finger in solution-soaked gauze, he said, “Listen, I know you’re frustrated and angry. It’s understandable. I’d hate like hell being in your position. A doctor’s not much use without his hands, either. But the fact of the matter is that you’re the only thing standing in the way of your own recovery. If you think it’s bad now, just wait a couple more days until the pain starts full force. You’re going to hate the bunch of us, when that happens. There’s not one of us you won’t think is trying to torture you. You’re going to be downright nasty. You’d better hope you’ve made a few friends around here by then. We can walk you through it. We can remind you that the pain will pass. And Ms. Michaels can see to it that you don’t let the pain make you give up and decide to find a new career that doesn’t demand so much of your hands.”
“In other words, it’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get to work.”
“That’s about it.”
The last time Frank had had a straight, no-nonsense lecture like that he’d been a teenager similarly hell-bent on self-destruction. Angry over his father’s death, terrified of the sudden, overwhelming responsibilities, he’d gone a little wild. He’d been creeping into the house after three in the morning, staggering drunk, when his mother had stepped out of the shadows and smacked him square on the jaw. For a little woman, she had packed a hell of a wallop.
Having convinced him just who was in charge, she had marched him into the kitchen and poured enough coffee to float a cruise ship. While he’d longed for the oblivion of sleep, she’d told him in no uncertain terms that it was time to shape up and act like a man. He’d sat at that table, miserable, unable to meet her eyes, filled with regret for the additional pain he’d inflicted on her.
And then she had hugged him and reminded him that the only things that counted in life were family and love and support in times of trouble. She’d taught him by example just what that meant. She was the most giving soul he’d ever met. Some instinct told him that deep down Jennifer Michaels might be just like her.
If he’d learned the meaning of love and responsibility from his mother, Frank had learned the meaning of strength and character from his father. Until the day he’d died of cancer, his body racked with pain, the old man had been a fighter. Reflecting on his own behavior of the past couple of days, Frank felt a faint stirring of shame. He resolved to change his tune, to cooperate with that pesky little therapist when she finally showed up again.
“She’ll have no more problems with me,” Frank assured the doctor. “I’ll be a model patient.”
Unfortunately that spirit of cooperation died the minute she walked into the room pushing a wheelchair, her expression grimly determined. He didn’t even have time to reflect on how pretty she looked in the bright emerald green dress that matched her eyes. He was too busy girding himself for another totally unexpected battle.
“What’s that for?” He waved his hand at the offensive contraption.
“Time
