[Desert Roses 02] - Across the Years

by Tracie Peterson

  “Come on, I was just finishing for the day. We can go look at the garden if you like.”

  “I really want to get an ice-cream cone. I have enough money to buy you one too,” Natalie offered. “Would you like to go with me?”

  E. J. considered the matter for a moment. “Wouldn’t it seem rather strange for you to go there with a grown man who isn’t a member of your family? I wouldn’t want your mother to worry.”

  Natalie whirled around and gazed at the ceiling overhead. “I go have ice creams with lots of grown-ups. People are really nice around here. I don’t have to worry ’cause they’re all good people. Grandpa says you can always tell good people, and I know you’re one of them.”

  E. J. rubbed his chin. Having had a good portion of his lower face ripped to shreds by the explosion of an enemy potato masher, his jaw periodically ached and caused him pain even after all these years. Today had been one of those days when the dull ache seemed more intense.

  “I suppose some ice cream might very well hit the spot,” he finally answered. “But it will be my treat.”

  Natalie shrugged. “If you want to.”

  They ambled out of the building and headed toward town. “So tell me about your family, Natalie,” E. J. said, still not exactly certain that he should be making this trip with the girl.

  “My mama and I live here with my grandpa. She moved here before I was even born.” Natalie waved to a couple of older men as they ambled along on the opposite side of the street. “Hello, Mr. Braxton, Mr. Lynn.” She looked back at E. J. and smiled. “They always walk down to the Harvey House and have supper at exactly five o’clock. My mama says they’re always very punctual.”

  “So you were telling me about your mother. Where did she live before coming here?” E. J. asked innocently.

  “Baltimore. She lived there with my daddy before he went to the war. My grandma and grandpa didn’t like my daddy, so they were real mean to my mama.”

  E. J. looked down at the child as if she’d spoken Greek. “Why didn’t they like your daddy?”

  “He wasn’t rich. They wanted Mama to marry a rich man, but Mama said she only loved my daddy and would never love anyone else. And you know what, she never has,” Natalie said, looking quite serious. “She says that’s what it’s like with true love.”

  E. J. felt his mouth go dry. The child was giving an uncanny account of his own life. How could this be?

  “Here’s the store I like,” Natalie said, rushing into the ice-cream parlor and drugstore without waiting for E. J.

  “Hi, Mrs. Nelson,” Natalie called as she came to the counter. “I’ve come for ice cream.”

  A plump woman stood behind the counter. She put her hands on her hips and smiled. “I suppose you’ll be wanting the regular, eh?”

  Natalie giggled and nodded. “Chocolate.”

  The woman then looked to E. J. “Is this man a friend of yours, Natalie?” She eyed him suspiciously.

  “Yup. He’s working over at the new Harvey House. His name is E. J. Carson and he’s an architect like my daddy was. Mr. Carson has been showing me all around the Harvey hotel and he even introduced me to Miss Colter. She’s the one who designed the entire place.”

  The woman’s expression relaxed. She smiled, revealing crooked teeth. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carson. Any friend of Natalie’s is always welcome here.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” E. J. replied uncomfortably. He hated to be under anyone’s scrutiny, but worse yet, he couldn’t stop thinking of what Natalie had shared with him only moments earlier.

  E. J.’s mind moved in a hundred different directions. It’s just coincidence, he told himself. Just one of those flukes of time and nature. That Natalie’s mother should have lived in Baltimore and married against her parents’ wishes was just ironic. It wasn’t so very extraordinary. E. J. ordered a vanilla cone and paid for the purchase before following Natalie to a small table for two.

  “I love to come here. I like to watch the big fans go round and round,” she said, pointing overhead. “On a hot day, it’s the best place in the world to be.”

  E. J. nodded and ate absentmindedly. He pulled himself out of his thoughts and looked hard at the child sitting opposite him. Dark brown eyes gazed back at him. Eyes so much like . . .

  “My mama likes to come here too, but she’s usually too busy,” Natalie stated, happily devouring her cone.

  “Your mama sounds like a very nice lady,” E. J. said, his voice trembling.

  “She is. She’s the best in the world.”

  E. J. forced himself to ask the question that wouldn’t let him be. “What . . . what is your mother’s name?”

  “Ashley,” Natalie replied. “Ashley Murphy Reynolds.”

  E. J. stared at the child for a moment, then quickly got to his feet. “I need to get back. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Natalie said, following him to the door.

  “No, that’s all right. I forgot something at work.”

  “There you are!” a familiar voice called out.

  E. J. forced himself to look up. It was her. She was alive. His wife was alive.

  Ashley moved toward them and smiled. “I figured I’d find you here, Natalie. Who’s your friend?”

  She didn’t recognize him. But why should she? He wore glasses, had a full beard and mustache, and had endured multiple surgeries to set his jaw and lower face in order. There was no reason she should see him for the boyish man who’d gone off to war only a few weeks after their wedding.

  “This is Mr. Carson,” Natalie told her mother.

  “E. J. Carson,” he said, extending his hand. He didn’t know what else to say. How could he simply introduce himself as her long-dead husband? Furthermore, why did she believe he was dead? Who had told her that? Anger burned inside. Perhaps the same person who had told him she was dead had masterminded a scheme to make her believe he’d perished upon the battlefield.

  Ashley’s smile was just as he remembered. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Carson.”

  “Mr. Carson works building the Harvey hotel,” Natalie explained, finishing her ice-cream cone. “He was just going back to work.”

  “Well, don’t let us keep you, Mr. Carson,” Ashley said sweetly. “Come along, Natalie, I’ve been on business for Grandpa and we should get right home. I hate to leave him alone too long.”

  Natalie nodded and took hold of her mother’s hand. “Can Mr. Carson come have dinner with us sometime?”

  E. J. cleared his throat uncomfortably. He knew the little minx was playing matchmaker. But he was the only one of the trio who knew there was no need. He was already married to the woman.

  Ashley met his gaze and replied, “Of course he can, but not tonight. We have too many things to take care of.”

  E. J. breathed a sigh of relief. He could barely stand to be this close to her and not pull her into his arms and declare his identity. The only thing that stopped him was the past. A sickening sensation crept over him; the images of his nightmares came to rest on his heart. He was of no good to this woman and her child. Her child. Was she also his? His mind reeled. A child? Could he be a father? It was all too much to fathom.

  “I really have to go. It was good to meet you, Mrs. Reynolds.”

  He hurried away, not giving either one of them a chance to reply. With his world crashing down around him, E. J. felt rather like Pandora. He’d opened a box that he’d thought long ago sealed and forever closed to him. His heart begged him to look back over his shoulder—to catch a glimpse of her face once more. But the demons of the past would not let him. How could he saddle a wife and child with the horrors that lived inside him now? He wasn’t Ethan Reynolds anymore. In many ways, Ethan Reynolds had died on the battlefields of France, just as they presumed he had.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  E. J. stretched out across his bed and stared up at the ceiling in his hotel room. He’d isolated himself from everyone after learning the truth about Ashley. How could
she be alive?

  He thought back on every word Natalie had told him. Her grandfather was dying. Would that be Ashley’s father? E. J. had never had much to do with the man, but the image of the man’s wife, Leticia Murphy, was clearly etched in his memories. As were so many other images.

  “She didn’t recognize me,” he murmured. But why should she? He took off his glasses and laid them aside. He looked completely different now. He even shocked himself sometimes when he looked in the mirror. Of course, there was also the fact he’d changed his name. Ashley was introduced to E. J. Carson—not to Ethan Reynolds.

  He’d changed his name shortly after learning Ashley was dead. The journalists were hounding him for comments and interviews, for he was heralded as a hero and everyone seemed to want the intimate details of his experiences. When he was stuck in the hospital, there was little he could do to escape the attention. But once he was out, he wanted only to be free from the memories that were stirred every time someone mentioned his deeds. Pity that changing his name hadn’t also altered the dark images in his mind.

  So he had become E. J. Carson, using the initials of his first and middle names, Ethan James. Carson came compliments of his mother’s maiden name. And now he was here in Winslow, where the woman he had long believed to be dead had lived her life for the last decade.

  Ashley. He moaned softly and covered his eyes with his hand as if to block out the picture of her standing there in the afternoon sun.

  “How can this be happening?” He’d given up hope so long ago. She was dead, they had told him. Dead to influenza. It was reasonable to believe; after all, his own parents had succumbed to the illness, as had vast numbers of other victims. He’d managed to catch it himself after coming home that winter of 1918. Weakened from his injuries, he’d nearly died—so many times he’d wished he had.

  He sighed and folded his hands together behind his head and again looked at the ceiling as though it might offer some answers for the questions in his mind.

  Ashley’s mother must have lied to him. She hated him from the very beginning.

  He remembered the night Ashley had first brought him to meet her folks. They were having a celebration of sorts. Ashley’s oldest brother had just been made a partner at the bank where he worked. Friends and family had gathered to wish him well and applaud his good fortune. Ashley had insisted on bringing Ethan to the party. Her parents were clearly not pleased, although they had not made a public scene over the matter.

  That wasn’t true, however, of the next visit he made to their plush Baltimore home. Ashley’s mother had made little effort to hide her displeasure. In fact, she’d made more than one comment alluding to Ashley being spoken for—of their plans for her to marry well.

  By the time Ashley brought him around for a third visit, Leticia Murphy was willing to speak quite frankly and tell him that he was to leave her daughter alone. When Ashley had gone upstairs to change her clothes, her mother had even offered him money to never see Ashley again. He’d been deeply offended; so much so, in fact, that he’d told Ashley what had happened. Shortly after that incident, Ashley agreed to marry him and on March twentieth they had done exactly that.

  Ethan had never known such happiness. He could still see Ashley standing there, her beautiful chocolate brown hair done up in a loose bun. . . .

  “She’s cut her hair,” he murmured, recalling how her hair was bobbed in a fashionable cut. He had never wanted her to cut her hair, but he had to admit the cropping did nothing to take away from her beauty. If anything, it only enhanced her delicate features. No wonder Natalie had appealed to him so much. She looked just like her mother.

  Sweat trickled down the side of his face. He wasn’t perspiring from the heat, however—it was more a nervous energy that had built inside him since seeing Ashley again. Now, in the quiet of the night, he could scarcely believe the events of the day.

  Why hadn’t he just told her who he was? Why hadn’t he taken her in his arms and . . .

  Because you’re a coward, that’s why, he told himself.

  But it wasn’t that simple. If it were, that would be easy. Ethan had always found ways to muster up his courage for the moment. No, this was much more difficult and so very complicated.

  First there was the obvious problem of letting Ashley know he was alive and well. But then, perhaps she knew that already. Perhaps she had agreed with her parents that Ethan was no good for her and had annulled the marriage. But if that were the case, why had she raised Natalie to believe her father had died in the war?

  But was he Natalie’s father?

  The questions poured in around him like sand through a sieve. What possible good would it do to come back into Ashley’s life after all these years? Even if he were Natalie’s father, wouldn’t it be more harmful than helpful to suddenly make that announcement?

  As the night wore on, sleep overcame him and with it came the nightmares that always haunted him. Tossing fitfully, E. J. fought the war all over again. The smell of death permeated the air around him and blended with the heady scent of raw earth. The battle raged and Ethan, with his Springfield rifle, bayonet fixed, waited for the whistle signal that would send him over the top of the trench and into the embrace of eternity.

  Suddenly the artillery barrage that had begun at seven that morning stopped. The silence was uncanny, almost deafening. Then without warning, the shrill metallic scream of their advancing signal rent the air. A battle cry rose up from a hundred soon-to-be-dead men as the forces moved up and out of their protective trenches.

  Ethan looked to the man on his right—John O’Malley from Boston. They had bonded easily because of an interest they shared in architectural studies. Ethan saw the sheer terror on John’s face—and it was as if Ethan stared into a mirror. The man’s expression reflected his own heart. They stalked the no-man’s-land together, and although hundreds of other uniformed men did likewise, it was almost as if they were alone.

  Ethan felt the sweat run down his back and chill him to the bone. The anticipation of enemy fire . . . waiting for the adversary to move from their bunkers to the machine guns . . . waiting for that first spray of deadly rain. It was like a madness—an insanity. How was it that they should find themselves here, like this? How was it that farmers, painters, teachers, and architects were now bearing arms against one another—fighting a war of kings?

  Ethan forced himself to keep stride with John and the others as they moved out across the crater-ridden landscape. Someone had mentioned how beautiful the landscape had once been, but Ethan saw only the scars and ugliness. This was the third major battle the area had hosted, and the damage from the artillery had left a desolate and barren land. Even the grass was gone and what trees had existed were now charred, wraithlike figures that rose in ominous fashion—almost as if they were skeletal guards of what had been left behind.

  And then the machine guns began their staccato symphony. Bullets zipped past their heads, and the men dove into the nearest crater. All around them soldiers did likewise, some making it without harm, others crying out in pain as the bullets ripped into their flesh.

  “For sure it’s gonna be a long day,” John called over his shoulder. Already he was heading out over the top of the crater. Digging his elbows into the ground, he crawled away from Ethan, pausing only momentarily to raise up his rifle and fire.

  Ethan followed, all thoughts of patriotism and bravery faded. All around him men were dying, dropping to the ground with stun-faced expressions. It was almost as if they hadn’t expected the possibility of death.

  “Help me,” one soldier, looking to be only a boy, cried out. He reached out to Ethan in sheer misery. Then his expression changed, the pain vanishing in the noiseless sigh of his last breath. Ethan pushed back the boy’s arm and pressed on. The haunting expression stayed with him, however. What had the boy seen on the brink of death? Ethan and his buddies often sat around discussing their lives back home, and every once in a while someone would bring the topic back to the war a
nd the possibility that they would be killed.

  John had voiced the question just the night before. “Do you suppose you hear the bullet coming when it’s for you?”

  Ethan wondered that also as bullets shot past his head.

  The danger grew as they closed the gap between their trenches and those of the enemy. The air was thick with smoke and cries of wounded men. With more of the desolate stretch of empty no-man’s-land behind them than in front, the men of Ethan’s unit and others pushed forward. A charred scarecrow of a tree offered them the tiniest defense. They paused to catch their breath, then saw their comrades moving out.

  A sudden thud caused the hair on Ethan’s neck to rise. He tasted blood and realized he’d bit his own lip. Then, as if time stood still, Ethan froze in place. A potato masher landed only a few feet away. There was no time to yell out a warning. No time to seek cover or turn away. The explosion blasted, sending shrapnel ripping through the lower half of Ethan’s face. For a moment there was nothing but the searing heat and sensation of something gone terribly wrong. Then the pain radiated throughout his entire body.

  Ethan rolled to his side and touched his face. His hand came away wet with blood. Looking across to his friends, he saw one man’s hand torn away. Another man suffered a leg wound. The agony of their pain rose up like a banshee cry on the winds. John was nowhere in sight.

  “Oh, God, help us,” moaned the man with the leg wound. “Oh, help us, Jesus.” The man groped around him for his rifle.

  Someone screamed in the distance as another explosion of machine-gun fire cut the air. The scene was unreal; slowed in motion, it seemed to take forever for the unit to move even a few feet.

  Ethan struggled to sit up. The rapid-fire barrage of bullets poured over and around him. Across the field, men were struggling to advance, struggling to stay alive. The sight caused something to snap inside him. He was tired of being afraid. Tired of spending his nights in trenches. Tired of this war. Without warning or even stopping to see if he could help his friends, Ethan got to his feet and stormed across the remaining distance to the machine-gun nest.