Return to Rosewood. Bonnie Winn K.

Samantha hadn’t seen a glimpse of the feelings she’d once shared with him. He acted as though they’d just been casual acquaintances. “He’s not.”

      Rachel checked the contents of her gym bag, making sure she had everything they needed. “Have you made any progress with that broth?”

      Samantha ignored the still full mug, looking for another way to distract her cousin. “You can’t keep taking off this much time from your job.”

      “Bret and I have it worked out. For now, we’ll alternate taking you to the pool. After I’ve learned the aqua stuff well enough, I’ll get someone else to help us. Until we get reinforcements, we’ll split the regular therapy sessions, too. Mom wants to help, but I’m worried about her rheumatoid arthritis. The latest treatment hasn’t been all that successful—and she hates taking the shots. She could go with you to the water therapy class, but I’m not sure she’d be much help. At home, Dad helps her in and out of the hot tub.”

      “But—”

      “If you don’t cooperate, I have Bret standing by.”

      He was outside, waiting to talk with Matt about the kitchen cabinets. Samantha didn’t want to go to therapy, but she wanted a confrontation with Bret less.

      It was the futility of the therapy that disturbed her. Sure, she’d heard of people who overcame the odds—walking despite doctors’ predictions. But she hadn’t made an iota of progress. Something she couldn’t get across to anyone. And she hated being mollycoddled as though she were mentally incapacitated as well.

      “Sam?”

      Her energy faded, and along with it, her defiance. “Whatever.”

      “That’s the spirit,” Rachel teased.

      Between them, Sam may have been the tenacious one, but Rachel had always been the cheeriest. There were more giggles than grinches in her world. Maybe that’s why they’d always gotten on so well. No matter what Sam thought up, Rachel figured out a way to make it fun. But Samantha was convinced this stupid therapy was going to blotch her cousin’s pristine record.

      Once Sam was outside, Bret lifted her into the car, noting the mutiny on her face, trying to ignore the effect of her soft limbs in his arms. “No apple for the teacher?”

      She thinned her lips even more. “Isn’t it enough that I’m going?”

      Seeing she was safely inside, he closed the door, then packed her chair in the back. One of the aides at the hospital would help Rachel with Sam, getting her in and out of the car.

      It was an important day. J.C. had received many of Sam’s records from New York, and he also had results from the tests done locally. Based on the combination, he had assigned a physical therapist, Harold, to her case.

      J.C. and Harold put together a comprehensive program of treatments and exercises meant to rebuild her body, concentrating on the atrophied leg muscles. Bret guessed Sam’s stubbornness was because she didn’t dare believe the program could work. If she didn’t believe, didn’t hope, she wouldn’t be devastated if the therapy failed.

      As they drove off, he spotted his friend Matt Whitaker approaching in a Dodge Ram pickup. Matt designed all things wooden, including furniture—pieces so unique collectors around the country waited in line for his work. But true to his hometown roots, he donated both his time and some of his creations to Rosewood fundraisers. And he hadn’t hesitated when Bret had asked for help with the kitchen.

      “That Samantha with Rachel?” Matt asked, stepping down from the tall truck. “Looks different.”