“Very good.” The younger woman beamed him a warm smile—impressed, he imagined, with his ability to deal with a difficult situation.

Sam did his best to return the friendly gesture. He had a reputation for working well with unreasonable patients, but Marjorie wasn’t that, only confused and miserable.

And he’d made a mess of things.

—

Marjorie heard Sam tell the nurse’s aide that she would be eating her meal and glared after him, half tempted to toss the liver gelatin at his arrogant backside. She didn’t, though, because he was right. Once again she’d made an idiot of herself in front of him and the hospital staff. She didn’t like herself when she behaved this way, yet she seemed powerless to change.

The moisture on her cheeks felt like burning acid, and she brushed the tears aside, thoroughly embarrassed by their appearance. She wasn’t a crybaby—at least she hadn’t been until Sam Bretton walked into her life. Then everything had quickly fallen to pieces. Whatever it was about that insufferable, wonderful man that reduced her to this state should be outlawed.

The tea was only lukewarm, but at least it was strong enough to satisfy Marjorie’s need for caffeine. The dry wheat toast was surprisingly filling, and the oatmeal passable as long as she dumped three sugar packets over the top. The gelatin she ignored.

In order to avoid the triumphant look on the nurse’s aide’s face, Marjorie pretended to be asleep when the woman returned for the tray. To her surprise, she actually did fall into a restful sleep and woke midmorning with a game show blaring from the TV positioned against the wall.

“I see you’re awake.” The mud-wrestling star was back. Bertha Powell, RN, looked stiff in her scrubs. “Dr. Johnson wants you up and walking today. Ten laps.”

“Laps?” Marjorie repeated, still caught in the last dregs of sleep. Did the hospital provide a running track for surgery patients?

“The corridor,” the muscular woman informed her primly. “Ten times up and back. That’s your goal for today. But don’t do too much at once. Two or three round-trips at a time. No more.”

Marjorie resisted the urge to salute. Bertha Powell seemed to be looking for a few good men—or women—to gleefully whip into shape. Marjorie didn’t doubt that the nurse would count every single lap.

To her credit, the nurse aided Marjorie into an upright position and helped her on with her robe. There was some confusion with the IV, but Bertha figured it out, and after only a few minutes, Marjorie was on her way.