Dream Mender. Sherryl Woods
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an informed choice, don’t you?”
“I knew I should have insisted that you work your way through law school by cutting lawns for little old ladies instead of driving a MUNI bus.”
Tim stared at him thoughtfully. “I wonder if I could get them to bandage your mouth shut for a couple of weeks.”
Frank sighed. “You and most of the staff around here.”
“Yeah, that’s what your therapist said.”
Immediately interested, he searched Tim’s face for some indication of his reaction to the conversation. “You talked to Jennifer Michaels?” he prodded.
“Listened is more like it. That woman can talk a mile a minute. She had plenty to say, too. I’d say you got under her skin, Brother. What did you do? Try to steal a kiss? Ma’s out there trying to calm her down and convince her that at heart you’re a good-natured beast worthy of saving.”
“She’s just frustrated because I won’t do her damned exercises.”
“I wouldn’t mind doing a little exercising with her. She’s a fox.”
The observation, coming from an admitted connoisseur of the fair sex, irritated the daylights out of Frank for some reason. “Stay away from her, Timmy.”
A slow, crooked grin spread across his brother’s face. “I knew it. You’re not dead after all. Just choosy. Actually, I think you’ve made an excellent choice.”
“I didn’t make any damned choice.”
Tim went on as if he’d never uttered the denial. “Redheads are passionate. Did you know that? Fiery tempers and all that.”
Frank thought about the therapist’s absolute calm. “I think our Ms. Michaels may be the exception that proves the rule. She’s unflappable.”
“Are we talking about the same woman? Not five minutes ago she told Ma if you didn’t get your butt out of this bed and down to therapy in the morning, she was going to haul you down there herself. I think she has plans for you.”
The first faint stirrings of excitement sent Frank’s blood rushing. “I’d like to see her try to drag me out of here,” he said, a hint of menace in his tone. The truth of the matter, he suddenly realized, was that he really would like to see her do just that. If nothing else, going another round with Ms. Miracle Worker would relieve the boredom. Maybe if he tried her patience long enough, he’d witness a sampling of that fiery temper Tim claimed to have seen.
Before he could spend too much time analyzing just why that prospect appealed to him, the rest of the family crowded into the room and filled it with cheerful, good-natured teasing and boisterous arguments. Once he’d finished the tedious task of eating tasteless chicken and cold mashed potatoes with the help of his nagging sister, Frank leaned back against the pillow and let the welcome, familiar sounds lull him to sleep.
Tonight, instead of the horrible, frightening roar of a raging fire, he dreamed of a fiery redhead turning passionate in his embrace.
* * *
Jennifer Michaels could feel the tension spreading across the back of her neck and shoulders as Frank Chambers’s chart came up for review at interdisciplinary rounds. The doctors and nurses on the burn unit had their say. Then it was her turn. It was a short report. In a perfectly bland voice she recited his status and his refusal to accept therapy. At least she thought she was keeping her tone neutral. Apparently she was more transparent than she’d realized.
“You sound as if that’s something new,” Carolanne said when rounds had ended and the others had left the therapy room. “Almost every patient balks at first, either because of the pain, because they’re depressed or because they refuse to accept the seriousness of the injuries and the importance of the therapy.”
Jenny sighed. She’d delivered the same lecture herself dozens of times. “I know. My brain tells me it’s not my responsibility if the patient won’t begin treatment, but inside it never feels right. It feels like failure.”
“Must be that Catholic boarding school upbringing again. You haven’t developed a full-fledged case of guilt in months now. You were overdue.”
“Maybe.”
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,