Free Paper Roses by Amanda Cabot Page A

No wonder his hands weren’t as callused as Sarah had expected.
    Being a doctor was wonderful. It meant easing pain and saving lives. It also meant accepting responsibility when things went wrong. A doctor’s family wasn’t supposed to die, yet Clay’s had. What had he done? How had he felt? If Sarah had been filled with remorse after her parents’ deaths, believing she should have saved them, how much greater must Clay’s suffering have been? He was trained to preserve life, and he’d failed those closest to him.
    Another sip of water did nothing to dissolve the lump in Sarah’s throat. Poor Clay. The thought was becoming an endless refrain. Though the death of his wife and brother was a heavier burden than anyone should have to carry, that was not the full extent of Clay’s suffering. Every day he had to face his father and admit that all his schooling and the fancy diploma that impressed Ladreville’s citizens hadn’t been enough to cure him. It was no wonder Clay was angry.
    If only there were something she could do to assuage that suffering. Sarah pushed back her chair and rose, stumbling ever so slightly. As she did, she nodded. Perhaps that was the answer. She couldn’t restore Clay’s wife or Austin. No one could. But maybe, just maybe, she could help his father.
    “I want to spend some time with Mr. Canfield,” Sarah told Martina as she wiped her sister’s hands. Clay had not joined them for the meal, but that, Martina had explained, was normal. When he was riding the ranch, Clay was gone from sunup to sundown. That was just as well. Since Sarah doubted Clay would approve of her plans, she was glad she could start without him knowing. Thea’s nap was the ideal time.
    “I don’t want to leave Thea alone in the cabin,” Sarah explained. She gestured toward the closed door on the opposite side of the main room. It was, she guessed, a second bedroom. “Can Thea nap there?”
    “Oh no, Miss Sarah.” Martina shook her head vigorously, lest Sarah misunderstand her words. “That was Mrs. Canfield’s room. The younger Mrs. Canfield,” she clarified. Sarah nodded, realizing that the housekeeper was speaking of Clay’s wife. “Mr. Clay won’t let anyone go in there, not even to clean. Why, he took to sleeping in the barn loft the day Mrs. Canfield died.”
    Martina’s words confirmed what Sarah had feared, that Clay’s grieving continued unabated. If, as she suspected, he blamed himself for his failure to save his wife, it was understandable that he didn’t want to face daily reminders of that failure by entering the room they’d once shared. And so Thea slept on the floor of the main room where Sarah could hear her when she stirred.
    Straightening her shoulders, Sarah took a deep breath. The next hour would be a difficult one. She knew that. But she also knew it was something she had to do. She took another deep breath, mustering her courage. It was one thing to dream of helping Clay’s father, another to make those dreams come true.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Canfield.”
    Sarah walked briskly to the wheeled chair. Today, since it was daylight, Clay’s father was facing the window. Though the view over the rolling grassland was beautiful, Sarah turned the chair and, wanting no distractions, closed the heavy drapes. Mr. Canfield murmured something that might have been a greeting. Sarah couldn’t distinguish any words, but she did see curiosity reflected in his eyes. That was a good sign. Yesterday when she and Thea had stopped in to see the older man, he’d barely looked at them.
    She pulled a chair next to his. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re feeling. My injury was much less severe than your illness.” Sarah gestured toward her right leg, wishing she dared show him how poorly it had healed. “Still,” she continued, “I remember how I hated being confined to bed or a chair. I wanted to walk and could think of little else, even though the doctors told me I’d never be able