Miracles. Part 14

She looked up at him and caught a brief glimpse of his shock at her question. He recovered quickly, but his tone was clearly defensive as he replied.

"What for? The guy was okay."

"True, but"-she hesitated, her gaze falling-"I didn't know that."

"I told you he would be."

"Yes, you did, but-"

"Katie, are we going inside-or do I have to kiss you out here, with Sarah Winfield sitting at her window, taking notes?"

Her gaze flew back to his, and when a corner of his mouth curved in that familiar, half-teasing, half-seductive smile, she grimaced. "You heard about Sarah?"

Sam nodded slowly. "I carried a box of groceries over there for Mr. D. on Tuesday, and that nice old lady spent a good half hour filling me in on the men you've dated in the past three years. All one of them. So unless you're out to liven up her evening . . ." His gaze fell to her lips.

Kate groaned, pulling the screen door wide. "You'll give Sarah vertigo."

"What?"

"Never mind. Just come inside. Anyway, I baked a cherry pie for you to take home, and I want to give it to you."

The living room was bathed in a soft amber glow from the Victorian lamp on the table beside the front window, and Kate didn't bother to turn on any others. As she tossed her shawl and purse over the back of an armchair, she was aware that she and Sam had different ideas about what would happen next. If he couldn't be honest with her, though . . . well, then, neither of them was going to be satisfied with the outcome of the evening.

"Can I fix you a cup of coffee?" she asked.

He ambled into the small living room, stopping in front of the mantel to examine a photograph. "No thanks."

"A piece of pie?"

"I'm still full from dinner. Who're these people? Your grandparents?"

"Yes. My mom's mother and father. Would you like to sit?"

He gave her a glance over his shoulder, let his gaze drop to the sofa facing the fireplace, then turned back to his examination of her picture gallery. "In a minute, maybe."

He moved on to look at a picture of her parents while she stood gripping the back of the sofa. She felt as if she had a stick of dynamite in one hand and a lit match in the other. Only a fool would light the fuse. Or a woman set on loving a man who wasn't sure that he wanted-or knew how-to let her.

"Sam, were you afraid?"

His back stiffened, and he went very still for a moment. Then he moved to look at the anniversary clock in the center of the mantel. "Afraid of what?"

She took a shallow breath. "Last Friday. Were you afraid to ride in the police helicopter?"

He laughed, a short, rasping sound. "What kind of crazy question is that?"

"It doesn't seem crazy to me."

The seconds ticked by, and when he didn't say a word, didn't look at her, simply stood there, unmoving, she asked again. "Were you afraid? I'd really like to know."

"Dammit, Katie, what is this?" The words burst out of him as he whirled from the mantel. "Haven't you had enough of playing mother hen for one day? You think you've got to turn me into another one of your permanent infants?"

The shot struck home, and her jaw clenched. Sam stopped in front of the window and pivoted to face her, and she prepared herself for an attack. But when their gazes met across the room, she heard his breath catch, hold for an instant or two, then rush out in a groan.

"Katie, I'm sorry." His gaze slid away from hers. "That was stupid talk. I say things I don't mean sometimes, because-" He shook his head, turning to face the curtained window. "h.e.l.l, I don't know why I say them. You shouldn't put up with it."

Her answer was quiet and clear. "Why don't you let me decide what I want to put up with?"

"You put up with too much," he murmured, his voice soft and low, like the muted light from the lamp in front of him. Staring at the lamp, he added, "You're probably the most generous, unselfish person I've ever met, and I wouldn't want you to be any different. But I'm not used to having somebody worry about me, and it. . . . Well, I'm not comfortable with it."

She smiled. "I know." But I'm going to do it anyway.

Pausing, her gaze fastened on his angular profile, she asked the question one more time. "Sam, did the crash make you afraid of flying?"

His jaw tightened, and he spoke through clenched teeth. "You don't give up, do you? I told you I don't want to talk about it." Then, without a glance in her direction, he headed for the door, muttering, "And maybe I'd better get out of here before I say something else I'll regret."

He stopped with the door half open, one hand on the k.n.o.b, the other braced on the frame. For what seemed an eternity, he simply stood there facing the shadowed darkness beyond the screen door, his shoulders rising and falling with his rapid breathing. She closed her eyes, clamping her mouth shut against the urge to beg him not to go, to give himself-and her-a chance. Just one chance, that's all she wanted, to show him that he didn't have to handle everything alone.

When the door clicked shut, her eyes flew open, and she nearly cried aloud to see that he hadn't left.

"Ah, s.h.i.t," he muttered. "Who the h.e.l.l am I kidding?" Then, with his hands still on the door, he drew a shuddering breath and spoke over his shoulder. "Katie, you don't want to hear this."

She spoke very softly. "Sam, I care about you. I do want to hear it."

Still he hesitated. "I don't want you looking at me like you do your brothers and sisters."

"Believe me, I do not feel even vaguely the same about you as I do about them."

That made him turn around. She was not surprised to see him struggling to put his armor in place- squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin, planting his feet wide, all the signals she'd come to recognize. He wasn't going to be able to do it this time, though, and she didn't know if the tears that kept lodging in her throat were ones of heartbreak for him or of tentative hope that, after all, she might be more important to him than his pride.

The first words he spoke threw her.

"I got grounded."

Kate frowned. "You mean, you lost your pilot's license?"

Sam shook his head. "The final medical report I got from the hospital said the nerve damage in my spine would screw up my reflexes, and that my body couldn't take the stress of high speeds or alt.i.tudes. The FAA medical examiner wouldn't give me a medical certificate, and without one, you don't fly."

Her frown went from puzzled to worried. "But you told me you're all right now."

"I am."

"So-"

"I fought for three months to get the certificate back, but I wasn't about to tell them why the hospital report was worth-less-too many people already knew about the healing thing. Then I told Marty Anderson about the trouble I was having. I didn't know he was doing it, but he started talking to the FAA, and somehow, about a week before I left Mojave, he got them to issue me a clean certificate."

"Then you could-" She broke off, biting her lower lip. He could-but then, he couldn't.

"Yeah, how about that?" he muttered, moving away from the door. He only went a couple of steps, though, back to the lamp table, as if to say he still might decide to leave. With his gaze directed once more at the lamp, he asked, "How did you figure it out?"

Her voice quavered a little as she replied. "Your face. After dinner, when Steve asked you to go up with him, you were . . . well, you looked like you did last week, over the fish."

"You mean I was green." Having been backed into the corner, he wasn't about to show himself any mercy. "So your whole family knows."

"I doubt it. You're not an easy man to read."

"You seem to be doing a d.a.m.ned good job of it."

"I've had a chance to practice." But I'd rather you told me what you're feeling.

He was silent for a minute, his finger batting absently at the fringe that hung from the lampshade. Then, he said, "Up until now, I've had excuses I could give myself. I didn't have a medical certificate. I don't like flying commercial. I wanted to have my Jeep with me when I got wherever I was going."

He hesitated, stuffing both hands into his pockets. "Last Friday night . . . that was the first time since the crash I really had to face it-where I've been in a situation I couldn't rationalize my way out of. Katie, I knew you were scared. I wanted to go with you, but-"

"It's all right," she said quietly. "It's enough to know you wanted to."

His reply was hard and grim. "It's not enough for me."

"But, Sam . . ." She started toward him, got as far as the end of the sofa, then hesitated; she didn't want him to feel any more crowded than he already did. "A lot of people are afraid of flying," she said, "people who've never been near a plane and don't have a single real reason to be scared of one. And you have the best reason in the world."

"Come on," he grated. "'A lot of people' aren't jet pilots with thousands of hours of logged flight time. Being scared of what you don't know anything about isn't the same as wanting to throw up just at the idea of doing what you've been doing for over seventeen years."

No, it wasn't, she had to admit. Still . . .

"You may be a pilot, but you're also human," she reasoned. "For heaven's sake, you died in that crash. Any man has a right to be scared of something that killed him."

For a fraction of a second, she thought she saw his harsh mask waver, his face lose a trace of color, his jaw slacken.

She spoke in gentle tones. "Please, don't be so hard on yourself. It's a normal reaction. You must know you'll get over it."

His countenance hardened again instantly. "I'm not being too hard on myself . . . and I'm not going to get over it."

"How can you say that? Sam, it's only been a year since you crashed that plane, and you spent most of it in the hospital. At least give it some time before you decide it's hopeless."

"Time isn't going to make a difference. And it's not a matter of deciding." His voice dropped to a low rumble. "It's just part of the price."

Kate's eyes widened. "The price for what? Your life? That's . . . Sam, that's ridiculous."

He shook his head slowly. "No, it's fair. I got a second chance. But it's not free. There are things-lots of them- I've had to give up."

She stared at him for a moment. Then, suddenly, as the strange logic of his reasoning began to make sense, she whispered, "Meat."

"And coffee and any kind of alcohol and cigarettes," Sam added. "I can't put anything in me that slows me down or speeds me up or feels . . . dead."

"And the fish," she concluded.

He shrugged. "Catching them was fine. It was trying to clean them that did it. I couldn't cut up living flesh and watch it bleed."

Her gaze remained fixed on him as she moved around the sofa and sank onto a corner of it. It was finally hitting her that the man she was falling in love with was truly, fundamentally different than he had been prior to a year ago.

She couldn't quite see why Sam would miss the things he'd given up, or why he would resent the heightened aware-ness-the enlightened conscience-he'd acquired. But then, the changes in his life weren't the result of some spiritual discipline or radical social beliefs. They'd come as a total shock, the result of one profound, devastating experience. And unlike someone who might decide one day to "try out" a new lifestyle and the next day give it up, Sam couldn't simply set aside the changes in him-and in his life -not even for a little while. They were irrevocable. He had to learn to live with them. All of them . . .

"And you think flying's been added to the list," she concluded. "Like a . . . a sacrifice."

"That's not what I'd call it," he murmured. "It's just a payment, plain and simple."

A payment. And he thought it was a fair payment, at that.

Kate couldn't accept it. Something was very wrong here. The other things he'd given up made a kind of sense. It seemed right that a person who had the power to heal would find it hard, even impossible, to take a life, any life, or to do harmful things to his own body. But to be afraid of something-to be afraid of flying. No, it wasn't the same thing at all. She didn't believe he had to pay for the second chance he'd been given. Nor did she think there was anything fair about a man forfeiting the thing he loved most in the world. No, this was no payment. In fact, it seemed more like punishment. But for what? And who was doing the punishing?

Calculating her words, she settled back on the couch, pulling a throw pillow onto her lap and placing her hands flat upon it. "Well," she sighed, "I've seen a lot of men lose their jobs- farms go under, mines close. They've found other things to do. You can too, I guess. I mean"-she lifted one shoulder-"there are other things in life besides flying."

When Sam didn't respond, she turned her head to see him staring at her, and the expression on his face said she might have suggested there were other things besides breathing.

"Would you quit nursing?" he asked.

Her gaze dropped to watch her fingers toy with the tatted lace edge of the pillow. "Well, no, but-"

"No buts," he retorted. "You wouldn't. Period. Not as long as you had your hands and all your faculties. Well, I've got the same kind of one-track mind. Flying's the only thing I ever wanted to do, and I' m d.a.m.ned good at it. And you said yourself that a person ought to do what he likes and does best. Remember?"

Yes, she remembered, and she didn't mind his using her words as an argument. Still, she couldn't help saying, "You know, there's at least one other thing you do very well."

He understood immediately what she meant, and he reacted exactly as she'd expected he would.

"Forget it." Taking a few long strides to stand at the mantel in front of her, he gave her a warning scowl. "Don't you start getting ideas, because I'm not about to make a career out of curing people. In the first place, I'd never take money for it. And in the second place, I don't like being a"-his mouth twisted in disgust-"a bona fide healer. Most of the time, I downright hate it."

"But you did tell me you were glad you could help those people."

"I didn't say I liked doing it."

"You don't?"

"h.e.l.l, no, I don't! You saw me with that man, c.o.o.ney. Did it look like I was having fun?"

Turning sharply, he set to pacing in front of the hearth. "Katie, you help people all the time. And it's obvious you get a lot of pleasure out of it. But you've been doing it all your life- you're used to it. And I'm not. It's like"-his hand searched the air-"like waking up one day and finding out you've turned into a sponge. It seems like my only purpose in life anymore is to absorb pain." He shot her an incredulous look. "And you think I ought to make a career of it? Lady, you're out of your mind. I'm looking for ways to make this thing livable-not to make it worse."

Kate's gaze followed him as he continued to pace. She was about to tell him that she hadn't really been suggesting he make a career of healing when he came to a halt, leaning an arm on the mantel and letting out a frustrated sound.

"Ah, h.e.l.l," he muttered. "I don't know why I should expect you to understand this when I don't understand it myself."

"But I think you do," she said.

He was rubbing the bridge of his nose, but as she spoke, he stopped, clearly listening.

"It must be horribly disorienting to have your whole life turned inside out, and if it were me, I'd resent it like mad-for a while, at least. But underneath all the confusion-the day-to-day things that keep cropping up to upset you-I think you do know what's going on. I think you understand it very well."

He turned his head to give her a scowl. After a few seconds, though, the lines of his face and the set of his shoulders slowly relaxed, the defensiveness and the frustration appearing to fade.

"Maybe I do understand it," he said quietly. "Maybe I understand why having this . . . this gift changes everything. And maybe I even see that what I do with it is more important than whether I ever fly another plane. But so far, understanding hasn't made living any easier. Sometimes, it just makes it harder."