Return to Rosewood. Bonnie K. Winn

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      “Aren’t you staying for dinner?”

      Bret grinned. “The way Janie was waving that spatula at the kids, I’m sure it’ll be a gourmet feast, but I’ll pass.”

      “Coward.”

      “You betcha.”

      “Hey, Bret.” Herb’s gaze turned soberly sincere. “Thanks.”

      “Sure.”

      The next morning Bret took a critical look at the crude porch ramp at Sam’s house. It wasn’t very attractive, but it was sturdy. The temporary threshold adapter he’d fashioned out of a few pieces of wood worked. And it would do until the one he’d ordered from the hardware store arrived.

      He rang the bell, then tried the door. Since it was unlocked, he walked in. “Sam? I’ve got your breakfast.”

      Dropping the breakfast on the dining room table, he headed into the kitchen. Wasn’t any easier to look at.

      Charred black, the remains of the cabinets no longer resembled their original design. He could replace them with something easy that wasn’t nearly as beautiful, but he was fond of Sam’s parents. When he and Sam had dated, they’d treated him like a son. And they were always kind when he saw them at church, or anywhere in town. He sensed they felt guilty about the way Sam had ended the engagement.

      Rolling toward the table, she looked at him tentatively when he walked back into the dining room.

      “Do you know if your parents have any pictures taken in the kitchen?”

      “Good morning to you, too.” Sam glanced at the ignored food. “I imagine there are some pictures. We always had lots of suppers at the kitchen table.”

      “Where do you think the pictures are?”

      “Um. Good question.” She turned toward the built-in bookcases flanking the tall, wide fireplace, craning her head to see. “Mom has some albums there.”

      Knowing she couldn’t reach that high, Bret searched the shelves.

      “The leather-bound album to your right,” Sam directed. “That one should be full of pictures.”

      He pulled the volume down, then carried it to the dining room table. “Let’s take a look.”

      Although Sam wasn’t accustomed to navigating her wheelchair, after a few tries she got in place at the table. Bret picked up one of the dining room chairs and placed it next to her. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”

      As the pages of the book turned, the years fell away. Shots of Sam’s family were bittersweet memories. Many of the photos captured the closeness of brother and sister.

      Sam gently touched a picture of Andy standing alone, proudly showing off his Eagle Scout award.

      Bret swallowed. Andy had been an example to him as well. Three years older than he and Sam, Andy had been the golden boy, destined to do good. From early on, Andy knew he wanted to be a teacher so that he could improve the fates of underprivileged kids. While in high school, he’d volunteered for a summer in Africa. He fell in love with the land and its people. He decided to return, to build a school and make sure “his” kids had better lives. But five years earlier, a doomed flight during a monsoon had ended his life and his dreams. Until his parents stepped in to make them happen.

      Glancing surreptitiously at Sam, he swallowed.

      Head down, hands covering her cheeks, she was trying to hide her tears.

      Remnants of feelings he’d long put aside stirred. Despite them, he couldn’t abandon her. Not until she recovered her once unstoppable tenacity. Then he could walk away, forget she’d returned.

      Bret turned a page—to a photo of himself and Sam at college graduation with grins as wide as the state of Texas. The picture hit him like a fist to the gut. Back then, full of youthful optimism, he’d been sure she would reconsider leaving Rosewood. He’d believed it until she boarded the bus out of town.

      “Were we ever that young?” she asked in a quiet voice.

      Bret knew he couldn’t give in to his own emotions. “We’re not exactly approaching Methuselah time.”

      Sam laughed, a humorless, brittle sound.

      Silence blared between them. Feeling the tension in every muscle, Bret flipped another page in the album. The lone sound of it turning echoed. Unwilling to look at Sam, he studied the photos, then turned another page. And saw a picture taken in the kitchen. “Here’s one.” He tapped the photo. “We can get this enlarged for detail. It’s a good angle on the cabinets.”

      She looked down. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. And you’re right. I can’t expect people I haven’t seen in years to help me. It’s a massive project and—”

      “Did your parents have any renovations done since this picture?”

      “I don’t think so.” Distracted, she shook her head. “Mom was always talking about upgrading, but she didn’t want to lose her cabinets.”

      Sitting close to Sam, he felt the brush of her arm, the accidental graze of her hands as she reached for the album. Not moving, his gaze slid sideways. Her creamy ivory skin was just as he remembered. And the way her dark hair fell forward, just brushing her cheek. Wanting to sweep it back, to feel the softness of her cheek, he stood up abruptly.

      As soon as possible, he’d hand over the responsibility for the kitchen to someone in her family. They could find the volunteers, get the renovations going. Without worrying what Sam’s presence would do to them.

      Startled by his sudden movement, Sam looked up at him.

      Bret paced the floor, deliberately not looking at her. “I’ve talked to Matt Whitaker. He’s agreed to work on the cabinets.” Matt was a local artisan who designed furniture and other works of wood so remarkable he had a national following.

      “His work is beautiful,” she agreed. “But since he’s become famous—”

      “Nobody in Rosewood gets so famous they can’t help a neighbor.”

      She swallowed.

      Making himself study the photo and not Sam, Bret held it up to the light. “So, what did your mother not want that’s in the kitchen now?”

      “A fire.”

      Her wit had always captivated him. Nearly as much as the way her blue eyes could deepen, then capture him and not let go.

      “Bret?”

      He brought himself back to the planet with a jerk. “Yeah. Um, she still want a table in there or something more modern like an island?”

      Samantha pushed the midnight-colored hair from her forehead. “She said something about updating, modernizing the kitchen, but not losing the integrity of the house’s time period. I know she wants a refrigerator that doesn’t stick out any farther than the counters and a bigger stove in an alcove sort of thing.”

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