Miracles. Part 18

Apparently, he wasn't going to try to answer her, either. Her short fingernails dug holes in the palms of her hands as she watched him pa.s.s back and forth from dresser to bed, emptying the drawer. But when he removed the pile of white briefs, the last items in the drawer, she spoke on a quavering note.

"I suppose last night was a mistake, too."

His hesitation as he closed the empty drawer was slight, but she knew the question had hit home. The next drawer sc.r.a.ped open, and he gathered up several pairs of folded jeans, turning to carry them to the bed. But after he'd dropped the clothing onto the growing pile, he simply stood there for an instant, his shoulders rising and falling in a single shuddering breath.

"No," he murmured.

But that was all he said. And the stoic lines of his face were in place when he walked into the bathroom, returning a few seconds later carrying comb, brush, razor, shaving cream, and bottle of shampoo.

She bit her lower lip. "It wasn't a mistake," she said, "but you can just walk away from it like it didn't happen."

"Dammit, Katie!" The things he held bounced on the mattress as his hands sliced downward through the air. "Do you think I want to?"

Her eyes flickered to the bed, then back to him. "I don't know, Sam. I only know you're doing it."

With a crude, violent oath, he flung himself away from the bed, halting with his back to her to run both hands through his hair. "Why? Why do you need to hear me say what we both know? So you can suffer a little more?"

"No, so I can suffer a little less." She hesitated, then added, "Or don't I matter to you at all?"

"That's crazy."

"Is it? I didn't ask you for promises or commitments, but it seems as if you might take a minute out of packing to"-her throat tightened-"to say you're sorry you're leaving."

"Would that make you feel better? If I said I was sorry? All right. I'm sorry. I'm sorry as h.e.l.l."

With that, he pulled open the closet door and s.n.a.t.c.hed a handful of shirts and slacks off the rack. And he went on emptying the closet, the nightstand drawer, and the bathroom medicine chest, dumping everything in a heap on the bed, as he continued. "What do you want, Katie? You want me to stick around a while longer, see how far we can stretch this out? Well, forget it. I'm not going to stay another day, another week, just so we can agonize a little longer over what we aren't going to have. You want to cry? Fine. That's the way you handle things. But it's not how I handle them."

"Oh, that's right," she returned, the bitter tears running down her face. "You're a man, aren't you? And men don't cry. And they don't get scared. Men don't feel. So, tell me something, Sam Reese, what does that make you?"

His hand hovered over the traveling alarm clock beside the bed for all of three seconds before he picked it up, snapped it closed in its case, and dropped it into the canvas bag.

Kate was beyond caring what he thought of how she handled things, as she sobbed, "How long is it going to be before you admit that men-real men-are human beings, and that they do get hurt and scared? Or aren't you ever going to admit it? Maybe you plan to keep running away from it forever."

"I'm not running from anything," he mumbled.

"Oh, yes, you are." Taking a step into the room, she insisted, "You're running from me-like you ran from Marty Anderson and everybody else you cared about-because you're afraid I'm going to let you down. I know you've been hurt and that you've had to learn to take care of yourself. But, Sam, can't you trust anybody?" As he scooped up a couple of paperback books from the dresser top and started toward the bed, she stepped into his path, grabbing his upper arms, as she pleaded, "Is it really so hard to imagine trusting me?"

He met her pain-blurred gaze for a moment with eyes that were dry and unrevealing. His voice was especially rough, though, and not quite steady as he said, "I think I've made it pretty d.a.m.ned clear how much I trust you. But I don't trust Marty. And I don't trust Doc Cabot."

Breaking free of her grip, he walked away, and she whirled to follow on his heels.

"That's not fair. You don't even know Doc. He's not going to use you, and he's not going to tell anybody."

Sam gave her a cynical look, then began stuffing items into the empty duffle.

She let out a slightly hysterical cry. "For pity's sake, Sam! Look around you! There's n.o.body here but you and me. n.o.body beating at your door. n.o.body begging you for help. You healed a little boy today, and you said yourself, by the time they realize it, they'll have forgotten you. And you could go on helping people like that for years without anyone knowing!"

"Like Doc Cabot went all of two weeks?"

"He's the only doctor in a hundred miles! He was bound to find out!"

"Yeah, and I'll keep that in mind when I look for another place to stay."

With a groan she turned away. An instant later, though, she turned back, saying, "Don't you realize the same thing's going to happen no matter where you go? Sooner or later, some smart doctor is going to figure it out. And other people probably will, too. Wouldn't you be just as well off having it happen here as any place else?"

Apparently not. He was going to leave without saying a word. He was going to walk out as if none of what had happened between them meant anything to him. As if she didn't mean anything to him. And she couldn't stop him. She couldn't reach him.

Pacing the distance to the window and back, Kate stopped at the foot of the bed to watch as he jammed his belongings into the canvas bag. Jeans, toiletries, shirts torn off hangers and given a cursory fold, item after item carelessly thrown in without a moment's hesitation. As she watched, she felt the cold fingers of hopelessness steal over her, drying her tears and numbing the raw, tearing pain in her heart.

"You're not listening to any of this," she said with almost nerveless calm. "You're not listening because you think I don't understand. You think I can't possibly know what it's like for you. Well, you're right. I'm not ever going to understand how it feels to live with a gift that comes from a place-or a power- that I know only through faith."

Shaking her head slowly, she added, "But, Sam, there are a few things I do understand-like how it feels to ache inside for other people's pain, and how it feels to be exhausted from trying to meet everybody' s needs, and what it's like to wonder if you're ever going to get your own needs met." She paused, her gaze taking in the sight of him silently proceeding with his task. "And something else I understand is that the only mistake you've made since you got here is what you're doing right now."

The last pair of socks was stuffed down the side of the bulging duffle, and he pulled the top edges together, tugging at the zipper. Her lower lip trembled, the pain overcoming her numbness, as she watched him lift the bag from the bed and sling the strap over his shoulder.

"But you're not going to believe me," she said. "You're not going to let anything I say matter. So, go ahead. Leave. Go . . . go live on some Arctic ice floe, where you don't have to worry about people messing up and hurting you. Or maybe"-her voice cracked as she lashed out-"maybe the hotshot test pilot can find some big, fast plane and fly away and never have to see another living soul, ever again!" She met his scowl with defiance. "Oh, but, wait! He can't just fly away from his problems anymore, can he? Because along with everything else that terrifies him, he's scared of flying, too. Scared of the thing he likes and does best. And he's so scared, he'd rather blame his fear on the curse he got in heaven sooner than even try to get over it."

"That does it." The canvas bag landed with a thud on the floor beside the bed. With his fists planted on his hips, Sam demanded, "Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are, lady? Seems to me you're the last person who ought to be accusing me of being too scared to go after what I want."

"Am I?" she retorted. "Well, at least I'm honest with myself about what scares me-which is more than I can say about you."

"Honest! Ha!" His gaze raked her from head to toe. "What's honest about you? Here you are, stuck in this little backwoods town, fixing old ladies' dinners and handing out advice on teething rings and looking after women with babies in their bellies. You fill up your days taking care of other people-playing mother -just like you've been doing all your life. But out the side of your mouth, you say you want your own family. And it's so d.a.m.ned clear you want one-that you were made for one-that even a stranger can see it! So where is it?" His mouth twisted in mockery. "And don't tell me you thought you were going to get it with that ball-less wonder I met at the garage last week. No, while you're busy accusing me of being too scared to go after what I want, you tell me why you wasted a year collecting tight-lipped kisses from some limp-d.i.c.k moron who wouldn't know what to do with you in bed, if he ever figured out how to get you there." Shaking a finger at her, he raged, "If you're not scared of going after what you want, tell me why it took six years after that sonofab.i.t.c.h f.u.c.ked you over for another man get to you. And then tell me why you picked the man who looked least likely to give you what you really want."

Kate fumed at his arrogance, her eyes flashing as she spoke through clenched teeth. "Is that what you think? That the reason I'm not married and raising a family is because I'm scared to go after it?"

"You got a better reason?"

"How about sterility."

Silence rolled through the room like a thunderhead, and the force of it made him step back, the breath rushing out of him, his face going chalk white. But his shock soon turned to horrified regret.

"Oh, Katie, I'm-"

"Don't tell me you're sorry." She spun away, her long hair swirling in a protective cloud around her shoulders. And with her arms tightly hugging her waist, she stood shaking-shak-ing with anger and pain and the strain of keeping the secret for so many years.

But there was no reason to be silent anymore. Sam had melted through every barrier she'd put up around her once-broken heart, and now he was breaking it for her again. And it seemed very important at that moment that he know exactly what his leaving would do to her.

Drawing a shallow breath, she said, "I was involved with a man, another graduate student, during my last year in Ann Arbor. I wanted to marry him. But when I found out I was pregnant and told him, it turned out he didn't want to marry me. And when I wouldn't take money from him for an abortion, he walked out."

Behind her, Sam swore. "Honey, you don't have to-"

"Yes, I do." The simple statement stopped him, and she went on. "I've accused you, more or less, of being a coward, and you've accused me of the same thing. And it may be a case of the pot calling the kettle black, but at least you'll know the facts-as many as I know about you."

"I don't need to know any facts to see that either of us accusing the other of anything is about the dumbest thing we could be doing right now."

"You're probably right," she replied. "But I'm going to tell you, anyway-and you're going to be quiet and listen." And, lifting her chin a little, she went on. "After Rick left, I was . . . well, it was pretty bad. But it tells you something about how much I loved him-or didn't love him-that after I'd cried for a couple of days, I didn't care that he'd left. He was expendable. But the baby . . . the baby wasn't."

When she heard Sam start toward her, she took a couple of steps away from him, stopping at the dresser. She avoided looking in the mirror, though, not wanting to see him behind her, watching her, as she continued. "For four months I walked around trying to figure out what to do. I was close to getting my master's, and I didn't want to quit. I wanted . . . I wanted to come home, at least to have the baby. But in a small town, being pregnant and unwed is about as scandalous as it gets. And my family-" She broke off, shaking her head. "You've met them. They'd have been devastated to think I'd ever do something wrong. But I didn't feel as if I'd done anything wrong, and I wanted that baby more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life-except my mother, when she died."

With a fl.u.s.tered gesture, she explained, "So, I felt like I couldn't go home. And I didn't want to quit school. And it got to be pretty hard, trying to go to cla.s.ses and worrying about what I was going to do. But then"-she hesitated, her vision blurring as she watched her fingertip trace a knot in the pine dresser top- "the problem solved itself. The baby died. I was a little over five months pregnant, and one day, it just . . . stopped moving."

Lifting her shoulders a little, she murmured, "It happens sometimes, for no apparent reason. And when it's early, it's harder to feel the movements anyway-especially with a first baby, when you don't really know how it ought to feel-so it's easy not to notice for a long time. Then, when you do start to miss the movement, you think at first, 'Oh, the baby's just sleeping, and in awhile it'll wake up.' But it doesn't wake up, and finally you start worrying."

She closed her eyes, but the memories became too chilling that way, and she opened them again. "I walked around for weeks, not knowing-or, at least, not admitting it-until I went for my six-month prenatal visit, and the doctor couldn't find a heartbeat. He wanted to do a sonogram right then, and I made up an excuse about not having the time. I was afraid. I knew in my heart what had happened, but I wasn't ready to face it. I just couldn't accept that my baby was dead because . . . well, I'd spent most of my life taking care of my mother's babies, and those babies had grown up and were starting to have babies of their own, and . . . and it felt as if I had to have one of my own or . . . or, somehow, my existence wouldn't be justified." With a tiny wave of one hand, she admitted, "It wasn't a good reason. It wasn't rational. But that 's how it felt-like my life would be meaningless if I didn't have that baby."

She sighed, a broken, quiet sound. "A week after that doctor's visit, I started having contractions. Then I couldn't pretend anymore. Still, I waited until my water broke before I did anything about it."

Swallowing her tears, she uttered a tiny, humorless laugh. "It was stupid. I knew I was risking infection, but I guess all the information and training in the world don't guarantee a person will do the right thing when they're as emotionally upset as I was. Anyway, I eventually called an ambulance, because I couldn't drive, and about twenty minutes after I got to the hospital, I miscarried. The baby . . . it was a boy."

Raising her watery gaze to the mirror over the dresser, she saw Sam standing an arm's length behind her. He was watching her with eyes that held a world of sadness, and she held his gaze as she continued.

"That should have been the end of it, but it wasn't. The antibiotics they pumped into me didn't keep me from getting an infection-a bad one. And after it was gone, I kept having problems. So my doctor sent me to a specialist, who did some tests, and, finally, they told me . . ." She drew a sharp breath. "They told me the problems I was having were related to the infection. They recommended a hysterectomy. I said no, because I couldn't face that, either-the idea of never having a baby. Okay, they said, but I had to understand, there wasn't anything else they could do. I could expect my life, until menopause, to be about pain management. And they figured, before too long, I'd get pretty sick of that and come to see it their way. After all, I didn't need my uterus anymore, anyway, be-cause"-she hesitated, then finished in a rush -"because with all the scar tissue the infection had left in me, the chances were zero to none that . . . that I'd ever be able to get pregnant again."

Watching in the mirror, she saw Sam's gaze rake over her back, then snap up to meet hers once more -crystal-clear eyes that couldn't hide the spark of hope that suddenly flared in them, a spark followed immediately by a look of intense urgency. It was exactly the look she'd expected to see.

"But, Katie," he began, "if it's scar tissue, maybe I-"

"No!" She jerked away when he reached for her, spinning to face him as she backed toward the doorway. Every nerve and muscle in her body was trembling, and her voice had a hysterical edge to it as she insisted, "I don't want you to touch me."

"But you could-"

"No!"

"Honey, at least let me-"

"Don't!"

Her back hit the door frame, and she shrank against it, her hands splaying wide across her belly as if to hide it from him. She had to tilt her head to look up at him as he stopped mere inches in front of her. "I'm going to tell you what I told Rick Sommers to do with his money for an abortion. Keep it. I wanted him, not his money. And I want you-not your almighty gift."

He stared at her for an instant with a look of baffled disbelief. Then he spoke almost desperately. "Katie, please, don't do this. I know you're mad, and you've got a right to be. But if you let me-"

"I said don't touch me!"

His hands lifted to her shoulders. "But, honey, I want to-"

"No!" And when he took a breath to argue further, she added quickly, "If you ever put your hands on me again, Sam Reese-for any reason-you had better be ready to marry me."

It was all she could think of to stop him, and it worked- like a fist in the gut. He looked at her in open-mouthed astonishment, and, an instant later, his hands fell to his sides.

Shaking inside and out, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, she nodded. "That's right. Marriage. As in building a good, normal life together. If you want children, I'll let you try to make it so we can. And if you don't, well, I've spent six years thinking I wouldn't ever have any, and I guess I can go on thinking it. But I'll tell you what I can't do." She shook her head slowly. "I can't let you fix it so I can have another man's children. Because after last night, the only babies I'm ever going to want are yours."

The silence that followed her statement was total. They simply stared at each other, Kate feeling as if she'd been cut open and left to die, Sam looking as if he'd been drop-kicked into h.e.l.l. For several long minutes they watched the other suffer, and she read in his eyes all the things he couldn't put into words. The disbelief and the loneliness and the aching emptiness that longed to be filled. And the struggle-hope against fear-and, finally, the gut-wrenching ambivalence.

"Katie, I . . ." He shook his head. Then, with a softly muttered oath, he turned away, taking a few steps out of the doorway, into the main room, before turning to face her. And, again, he tried. "I don't know-" But he broke off, his chest heaving with the rapid pace of his breathing.

He didn't know what to say, she thought, because he couldn't say what she wanted to hear. He cared. He cared a lot. But he didn't care enough. And somehow, that hurt worse than if he hadn't cared at all.

She started to say she was leaving, and he began to say something, too; but then, his breath caught, and his gaze flashed across the room toward the door. She'd heard it, too-a car door slamming. A second later, someone banged on the door.

"Forget it," Sam growled. "I'm not talking to anybody until we've finished this."

"It is finished. Besides"-Kate shook her head when he started to protest-"I've got a patient up the road, in the hunter's lodge. I told her husband I'd be here."

The pounding came again on the stout pine door, and he bit out an angry curse as he strode across the room to answer it.

She stayed where she was, wiping the tears off her face while he opened the door, but the sight of a wild-eyed Erik Nielsen sent her hurrying across the room.

"Kate!" Relief washed over Erik's youthful face when he saw her. "I'm sorry to bother you, but-"

"It's not a bother." She quickly introduced him to Sam, standing stone-faced and silent beside her, then asked, "What's happened?"

Erik stepped through the doorway, and she could feel the panic vibrating from him. "Something's wrong," he said. "I went in for dinner, and Lynn was crying and saying she needed you, and-"

"Is she bleeding?"

He shook his head. "No, but everything-her clothes and the sheets-everything is drenched." Running a hand through his blond hair, he rasped, "She just keeps crying and saying it hurts and that she's scared she's going to die, and-"

"Erik, slow down." Kate took his hands and gave them a squeeze. "It sounds like Lynn is in labor, and women say some pretty crazy things when-"

"But she can't be in labor! She isn't due until-"

"I know, but the thing you've got to do is-"

"Won't the baby die if it's born now?"

Kate struggled for an instant with her own fear and raw nerves. Then, by act of sheer will, she shoved everything else aside and spoke as calmly as she could. "Thirty-four weeks is early, but these days, babies born even earlier can be just fine. Lots of factors are involved, and we don't have time for me to explain them. We'll get Lynn to the hospital, and a neonatologist will be right there when the baby's born. But Erik" -her brow furrowed in warning-"no matter what happens, I want you to keep yourself together in front of Lynn. She's already scared enough. Is that clear?"

With a shudder of his big Nordic frame, the young man nodded, his shoulders slumping a little as some of the tension drained out of him.

Kate gave him what she hoped was a rea.s.suring smile. "Okay. I'll follow you in my truck."

But when she started out the door after him, Sam's arm blocked her way.

"Sam, I don't have time for-"

"What didn't you tell that kid?"

"I didn't tell him much of anything. You heard me-"

"You know what I mean."

Her gaze flashed upward to his.

He cast a quick glance at Erik, climbing into his battered pickup, then looked back at her. "Do you want me to come with you?"

She returned his troubled gaze steadily. "I did my job alone before you got here, and I'm going to keep doing it after you're gone. So whether or not you take the time, in your hurry to leave, to maybe solve one more of my problems is up to you."

And with that, she brushed past him, out the door.