Free Paper Roses by Amanda Cabot Page B

to.”
    The left side of Mr. Canfield’s face twisted, and he mumbled a few words that Sarah took to be agreement. She leaned forward. It was vital that he understood what she was proposing. “I believe you can walk again.” There was no doubt about it. His eyes registered confusion, followed quickly by hope. “It won’t be easy,” Sarah cautioned. “It will be painful, and it will take time, but with your permission, I want to try.”
    This time the mumbled words were louder. Though Sarah could not understand them, she chose to believe they signified assent.
    “The first thing we have to do is strengthen your legs. They’ve weakened from the months of not being used.” Trying not to wince at the memory, Sarah recalled the first time she had tried to stand. She had expected her right leg to trouble her, but she hadn’t anticipated that her left leg—the uninjured one—would buckle under her weight.
    “All we’re going to do today is straighten them a little.” On her last visit she had seen that both feet were extended with the toes pointing down. No one could walk in that position. She would start with the feet, trying to restore flexibility, then move to the legs themselves.
    Sarah reached for Mr. Canfield’s left foot, sliding off the carpet slipper. This side of his body, she had observed, had suffered less damage than the right. She grasped the ball of Clay’s father’s foot, then slowly, gently massaged his toes. An intake of breath was followed by a groan. Though Sarah knew pain was an inevitable part of the process, she hated being the one to inflict it.
    “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “It’ll get better. I promise.”
    Mr. Canfield grunted. When he groaned again, Sarah replaced his slipper and turned her attention to his right foot. Though Clay had told her that his father had no feeling in his right side, she kept her touch soft, massaging the ball of the foot before moving toward the toes. But when she reached his toes, Mr. Canfield cried out in pain.
    Sarah’s eyes widened. She hadn’t expected that. Her heart began to race as she considered the possible reasons. Surely it was a good sign that Clay’s father retained some feeling in his foot. Perhaps the healing had already begun. Sarah touched his toes again. Another cry confirmed that Mr. Canfield’s toes registered sensations.
    An instant later, Martina raced into the room. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, looking at her employer. Clay’s father mumbled something that the housekeeper appeared to understand. Whatever it was, she was not alarmed. Still, she did not leave, and the look she gave Sarah was filled with distrust.
    “That’s all for now,” Sarah told Mr. Canfield as she rose to stand at his side. “The next time will be a bit longer.” Sarah turned her gaze to Martina. “It might be best if you didn’t tell Clay what I was doing here.” Sarah doubted any doctor would appreciate a layman’s attempts to help, no matter how well-intentioned those attempts might be, and a man as riddled with guilt as Clay would see this as yet another proof of his failure. Since Sarah’s goal was to help, not hurt, that meant keeping him ignorant of her efforts until she knew whether they would succeed.
    She touched Mr. Canfield’s hand. “I’ll be back. It’ll be easier next time.” That was a lie. The pain would grow more intense as they proceeded. “You’ll walk again,” she said softly. And that, Sarah was determined, would not be a lie. It was a promise. Somehow, some way, she’d make that promise come true.

4
    “You see,” Isabelle said as she settled onto one of the store’s stools, “it’s not as difficult as you feared.”
    Sarah nodded, grateful for the momentary lull and the opportunity to rest her leg. Today was her third day working at Rousseaus’ Mercantile, and though she was surprised at how quickly she had become accustomed to the routine, there was no doubt that standing for long periods took its