Page 62 of Smoke River Family

“On the train, as usual. That seems an odd question from someone who’s met my train on a number of occasions.”

“I mean, why did you come?”

She stiffened. “Zane, I cannot believe you are asking this. I came because Samuel wired me you had been injured.”

“Ah,” he said.

“Oh, Zane, I came because I couldn’t bear to not be here.”

“Better,” he breathed. “Much better. Kiss me, Winifred. Gently. My head aches if I move it.”

She bent and softly pressed her mouth to his and heard him make a small noise deep in his throat.

“Now,” he murmured, “keep on talking.”

* * *

Zane had walked halfway up the hill from the hospital before he realized he’d pushed too far, too fast. He stopped and puffed hard for a few minutes.

What am I trying to prove?

That he was still young and strong and could recover from a head trauma. That he didn’t give up without a fight. That he’d be damned if he’d be cooped up in a hospital room for one more hour on this glorious fall morning.

He moved slowly forward. The air smelled of burning leaves and fresh bread from Uncle Charlie’s bakery. He dragged in a deep breath and sent up a quiet prayer of thanks that he was alive and well. Relatively well, anyway. At least he would be in a day or two.

That thought stopped him cold a scant three yards from his front porch steps. When Doc Graham assured her Zane was well, Winifred would return to St. Louis. His chest ached at the knowledge.

It was pure hell saying goodbye to her after each visit to Smoke River. After she climbed on that train and rolled away from him he couldn’t sleep for days afterward. Or eat. Or stop thinking about her.

He forced his legs to carry him up the six steps, and sank his shaking frame onto the porch swing. His pulse pounded, but at least his head didn’t ache.

Samuel told him he was lucky he hadn’t woken up blind or unable to talk or impaired in some other way from a brain injury. He wondered if he could still make love.

Might be too soon to explore that possibility.

He leaned his head back against the cushion and thought about it. Under the freshly laundered and ironed shirt he’d borrowed from Samuel he could feel sweat rolling down his chest. Elvira confessed she had burned his own shirt after the accident. He wore his own trousers; at least they hadn’t been blood-soaked. The knee was ripped, though. Wing Sam could mend it.

The smell of coffee drifted to his nostrils and suddenly he was hungry for anything as long as it wasn’t hospital oatmeal. Maybe Yan Li would make those little flavorful pancakes. He’d try standing up in another minute; if he could make it through the front door, he could feed Rosemarie her breakfast.

A smile tugged at his mouth. He slipped inside the house and dropped quietly into his chair at the head of the dining table. From the kitchen came the soft chatter of Sam and Yan Li, punctuated by the clank of pots and the hiss of the teakettle on the woodstove.

Dear God in heaven, thank You for my life.

Sam stepped in to lay out plates and napkins and swallowed a cry of surprise. “Boss! What you doing here?”

“Waiting for breakfast,” Zane said as calmly as he could.

Yan Li appeared behind Sam and gave a yelp. “Oh! Oh!” she cried. She clapped her small hand over her mouth and tears sparkled in her dark eyes.

“Missy upstairs with daughter,” Sam volunteered. “You want coffee?”

“I want coffee all right. Lots of it.”

Sam disappeared into the kitchen and after a moment Yan Li stepped forward and set a plate and a cup and saucer before him. “Very glad to see you,” she said softly. “I make pancakes?”

Zane could only nod. Damn but it was wonderful to be home, hearing his daughter’s prattle from upstairs, and Winifred’s quiet responses. One of these days maybe he’d understand more of Rosemarie’s rapid-fire sentences. Winifred’s were clear enough, but he wondered how on earth she knew what Rose was chattering about.

And then there she was in the doorway, radiant in a yellow shirtwaist and a dark skirt. “Zane!”

He tried to rise to his feet but gave up. His legs were still trembling after the climb up the hill. “I’d get up, Winifred, but I don’t think I can.”

“Are you crazy? However did you get here?”

“Walked. I’ve been practicing. Every time Samuel left the hospital I walked up and down the halls.”

Rosemarie squealed and wanted to crawl into his lap, so he bent to lift her up. She twined her tiny hands into the overlong hair at his neck and he laughed with pleasure despite his burgeoning headache.

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