of the care he’d taken with it. He rested his hand on his thigh and began rhythmically opening and closing the hand. The exercise made it hurt more, of course, but the pain was easy enough to ignore. What he couldn’t ignore was the impairment. His fingers still wouldn’t close tightly.
It’s been less than two weeks since the surgery, he reminded himself. He refused to believe he wouldn’t regain any more function than this.
Thunder rumbled off to the west. It was early April, and spring meant storms in this part of the world. His gaze returned to the town at the foot of the hill, and he thought about the future and his plans.
Jane Smith was down there. Jane Desirée Smith, he thought, smiling as he remembered the report he’d read, which had given her full name. Her middle name suited her. On the surface, she was wonderfully ordinary, but there were surprises inside. He thought about pretty Jane of the innocent eyes and delicious body, practical Jane who had climaxed with such amazement Jane, who hated snakes and rescued beetles and kept walking without complaint while her feet bled into her lacy socks.
What was she doing right now? Was she with her family? Was she laughing or sad or worried?
Had she thought about him today?
Determination clenched inside him. She would think of him soon. And soon, he would have an answer to the question that would determine the shape of his future.
The sudden, hot pain startled him. He looked at his hands. He was holding the steering wheel tightly; his knuckles were white. The left hand hurt fiercely, as if struggling to obey, but would not close fully.
He didn’t even remember gripping the wheel.
Shaken, he relaxed his grip. It was definitely time to retire, if his emotions could control him that way. He took one last, lingering look at the town below. Long habit had him evaluating it in tactical terms, matching what he saw to the map he’d studied earlier, but the feeling that welled up in him as he put the Cherokee into gear had little to do with tactics.
He didn’t have a name for what he felt. The gentle tugging deep inside was nothing he recognized. It didn’t seem strong enough to disturb his control, however, so he ignored it as he had ignored the pain, and pulled away from the rest stop.
It was no wonder the feeling was unfamiliar. The man who was now named Samuel had never come home before.
“Jane!”
“Hmm? Oh.” Jane realized she’d let her thoughts drift off. That had happened too often lately. Hastily she closed the notebook where she’d jotted down the minutes. “Sorry. I was thinking.” Glancing around, she saw that she was the only one still seated in the conference room, though a number of people were milling around, chatting or making their way to the door. “Did you ask me something, Sandy?”
Sandy Clemmons was the local Red Cross director. She was a plump, pretty woman several years older than Jane whose calm temperament disproved the stereotypes about redheads. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Jane pushed her chair back and stood.
“Are you sure? It’s none of my business, but I can’t help noticing that you’ve acted different ever since you got back from that trip.”
“I said I’m fine.” Jane grabbed her purse and her coat.
Sandy’s eyebrows went up. “Heard that sort of comment a little too often, maybe?”
Jane’s mouth twitched in reluctant humor. “Have you been talking to my mother? She wants me to consider therapy. And eat more vegetables.” The suggestions were typical of Marilee Smith, who had also mentioned a CAT scan, earlier bedtimes and Saint-John’s-wort as possible cures for whatever ailed her youngest child.
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