Return to Rosewood. Bonnie K. Winn

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      “Going to Africa’s been their dream since…well, before they retired. The kids in their school need them more than I do right now. We agreed we wouldn’t ruin that for them.”

      Ethel sighed. “You’ve always been determined. Ever since you were a little thing. You could barely toddle, but you were relentless.”

      Swallowing, Samantha tried not to think of those days, a time when she believed anything was possible. “My days of toddling are in the past.”

      Bret came up behind them. “I’m going to open the windows, let the house air out tonight. That’ll help the kitchen cool down sooner, too.”

      Samantha squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment, not wanting her emotions to spill over in front of him. But the lack of control, the inability to do things on her own anymore…. The pain was so intense she felt it pierce her chest. Instinctively, she pulled off the oxygen mask.

      “I can come back in the morning for a few minutes before work,” Bret continued. “Check out the house and take you back.” He turned off the oxygen tank and placed the mask on top of it.

      Not allowing Samantha to agree or refuse, he again took charge of her chair, wheeling her toward the house next door. Logically, she knew the elderly Carruthers would have a difficult time coping with her chair, but she hated when others simply took over as though her mind didn’t work any better than her legs.

      The Carrutherses trailed a good distance behind. Bret chose the back door of their house, tipping and then lifting Samantha’s chair over the threshold in two efficient moves. “I’ll wait till tomorrow to ask why you’re back.” He pushed the chair through the kitchen and into the living room. “And why you lied.”

      Startled, she stared up at him. Hearing the Carrutherses entering the house, Samantha didn’t try to explain. But she knew the reprieve wouldn’t last past the night.

      The morning air still held the bitter aroma of charred wood. Inside Samantha’s house, though, the fire was completely banked, no live embers hiding beneath the wreckage.

      Bret Conway knew Samantha so well it was clear she was hiding something. Even though he shouldn’t be, he was bothered by the defeat he’d glimpsed in her eyes. There’d never been an ounce of defeat in Samantha Shaw.

      Just the opposite. She had been set on becoming a botanist and discovering new species. She’d traveled the globe, searching out varieties never before cataloged. Universities lined up, requesting her lectures. And as a plant pathologist, she was in constant demand. Even though Bret had gone after the same degree in school, he’d never had the same aspirations. There were wanderers and there were stayers. Samantha was a wanderer. But he needed his roots in Rosewood, to stay connected to what mattered.

      So he’d used his horticulture degree to specialize in native species, in efforts to make them thrive again, to help his own corner of the planet. Or at least his corner of Texas.

      And he’d known that when Samantha left Rosewood, it was for good.

      Holding the newspaper he’d picked up on the lawn, Bret knocked on the Carrutherses’ front door. Hearing the slow shuffle of feet, he waited patiently.

      Albert didn’t bother to check who was standing on the porch, pulling open the door as soon as he reached it. “That you, Bret?”

      “Yes, sir. How’re you doing this morning?” He held out the paper.

      “Same as every other day.” Albert accepted the newspaper, but didn’t glance at it. The biggest local news would be the fire next door. “Come have some coffee.”

      Bret followed the older man into the kitchen. Ethel stood at the stove and Samantha was at the table. “Smells good.”

      “If that means you want a waffle, pull up a chair,” Ethel replied. “I don’t guess young men cook for themselves.”

      Amused, at the age of thirty, to be included in the young people category, he sat down across from Samantha. “If you don’t plan to stay here, I will. Last time I had a waffle for breakfast…well, I don’t know the last time I had one.”

      “Your mother must make them,” Ethel chided.

      He grinned. “I live in the apartment over the business, but I don’t go to their house for breakfast.”

      Samantha fiddled nervously with her fork, but her plate was almost full. Looked like she’d only eaten a bite or two. The Samantha he knew ate with gusto, lived with even more. And she’d rarely been nervous. No, she followed her own path even when it meant breaking his heart.

      Bret’s appetite vanished. He shoved back his chair. “Ethel, it pains me to say this, but I’ve already eaten. Sam, you ready to look at your place?”

      Relief flooded the delicate features of Samantha’s face. “Yes.”

      “But you’ve barely touched your breakfast,” Ethel fussed.

      “It was delicious, really.” Samantha’s smile was strained. “But I need to see the house.”

      Albert’s brow furrowed, his long, gray eyebrows pulling together. “There shouldn’t be much damage from a little grease fire.”

      “No, no. Of course not,” Samantha’s words tumbled out too quickly. Then she took a breath. “But you know how my mother feels about her house.”

      Ethel wiped her hands on a small terry towel. “Like any woman. Go on then. You probably won’t get a decent meal ’til you’ve seen the kitchen.”

      Samantha wheeled back from the table. Bret stepped forward and opened the door. She tried to push herself over the threshold, but the chair stuck. He tipped it, lifting the wheels over the low barrier.

      Bret waited until they were on the grass, heading away from the Carrutherses’. “I see you’re still trying to push past anything that gets in your way.”

      Surprisingly, she didn’t pop back with a quick retort.

      The front door to her house was the only one open, since the back entry was a mess. He pivoted her wheelchair around so that she faced away from the house. “Hang on.” Lifting the chair carefully up the steps, then over the threshold, he rolled her inside. They headed down the hall toward the kitchen.

      As they got within viewing distance, Samantha gasped, hands flying to cover her mouth.

      When she didn’t speak, he pushed the chair slowly toward the center of the carnage. The beautiful, hand-carved pine cabinets were charred beyond recognition. The tall ceiling, once graced by stamped tin tiles, was now scorched, the tiles barely hanging on. Limestone counters had fallen into the remains of the lower cabinets after they’d collapsed.

      The damage was exacerbated by the steady supply of air that had coursed through the shattered window. With the exception of the appliances and counters, the kitchen had been ideal fuel.

      Despite opening all the windows the previous evening, the acrid smell still permeated the house. But Samantha wasn’t coughing. Instead, her head was bent, face in hands.

      “Sam?”

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