She pushed down the wires of the fence and stepped over it, then reached back for her suitcase. The barbed wire caught her coat. Miko jerked it away from the snag and rolled her eyes in frustration when the fabric ripped.
Anger, at herself for her own arrogance and stupidity as well as the circumstances that left her walking through the woods in the rain at night, fueled her steps. Indignation lent her spent body strength as she hurried across the pasture. A few cows tossed uninterested glances her direction, but none moved her way.
Relieved when she reached the far end of the pasture, she hurried over the fence and along the edge of the trees that circled the vast acres her grandparents owned.
The first fingers of dawn stretched across the drab sky as she stepped from the trees and swallowed back a sob at the sight of her grandparents’ produce stand. As long as Miko could remember, her family had sold produce from the red-painted structure filled with shelves and bins to hold every type of vegetable and fruit the fertile soil would grow.
A hundred yards behind the produce stand, a white picket fence surrounded the cheery yellow bungalow home her grandparents had built in the mid-1920s. With a wide porch and a plethora of flowers surrounding all four sides, the house appeared welcoming. Beyond the yard, a barn and large storage building, along with a collection of outbuildings, alluded to a prosperous farm.
With a prayer to find her family waiting inside for her, she raced up the front steps of the porch and tried the door. The knob rattled but didn’t turn, locked from the inside. Miko set down her suitcase and rushed around to the back door. In her haste, she tripped over the body of a man as he sprawled across the back step.
Unconscious, the uniformed soldier shuddered against the chill in the air, his clothes every bit as wet as hers. At least his jerky tremors assured her he wasn’t dead.
Panicked, she pounded on the door. “It’s Miko! Open the door! Please!” Fist banging against the wood, she called out to her grandparents, willing them to be there.
All remained eerily silent in the house. Single-minded in her efforts to enter the dwelling, Miko stepped over the man and lifted a brick from the border edging the flowerbed. With a spare key in her hand, she jammed it in the lock and pushed the door open, rushing inside.
She flicked on the lights in the kitchen and walked through the house, stunned by the empty stillness. On the verge of hysteria, she even checked the basement, but no one was there.
Back in the kitchen, she noticed an envelope on the table with her name written across the front in her father’s bold script.
Fingers clumsy with trepidation, she opened it, heartsick as she read the words.
Dear Kamiko,
I’m glad you made it safely to the farm. We waited as long as possible for you to arrive. I’m sorry we couldn’t wait a moment longer. The transportation we arranged to take us to the assembly center has arrived and we must go.
The orders say anyone not at the center by noon tomorrow will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. For your sake, I hope you make it before the deadline. You need to come to the Pacific International Livestock and Exposition Center on the north end of town on Swift Boulevard.
In the flurry of selling my business and our home, of packing up our belongings and moving them here, we simply put off contacting you. Now, I realize the grave error of that decision. I’m very sorry, daughter, that we didn’t contact you sooner and give you ample time to travel home.
We all hope to see you soon, my beloved girl. No matter what happens, know that we love you. I admire the beautiful, strong, independent woman you have become.
Regardless of what the future brings, take care and do what you think is best, Miko.
All my love,
Papa
Miko reread the missive and laid the sheet of paper on the table. She had several hours to figure out a way to make it to the assembly center before the deadline.
Suddenly, she recalled the man outside and dragged him into the house using the last ounce of strength she possessed.
Worn beyond endurance, she sank onto a kitchen chair and glared at the handsome soldier as shivers besieged his body. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
Chapter Two
May 4, 1942
Portland Veteran’s Hospital
If he possessed the strength to do it, Rock Laroux would have punched his doctor in the nose. Instead, he remained prone in the hospital bed, glaring at the doctor as he repeated what Rock didn’t want to hear.
“I don’t know what else to do for you, son,” Doctor Ridley said, looking through Rock’s charts a third time. “Your arm continues to gain mobility, your sight is nearly back to normal, the scars on your side are healing, but you aren’t well.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Rock muttered under his breath.
Doctor Ridley lifted one bushy eyebrow and stared at him. “For a man who can barely get out of bed, you still seem to have plenty of sass.”
Rock grinned. “That’s about all I have left, Doc.” He sobered as he lifted a weak hand and pointed to the chart the doctor held. “What’s going to happen to me?”
The doctor set aside the chart and sat in the chair near the bed. He clasped his aged hands together and studied Rock for a long moment. “You want the truth or what will make you feel better?”
Rock pushed himself up against his pillows. “The truth, Doc. The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
The older man released a long breath and leaned forward. “You’re dying, Rock, and I don’t know how to fix it or stop it. You’ve been here two months and each day you get a little worse instead of better. Your blood pressure is low, you struggle to breathe, you fight against dizziness, and twice you’ve had seizures. You’ve experienced several bouts of stomach cramps and nausea the past few weeks. Nurse Brighton said if you don’t start eating better, she’ll come in here and force-feed you.”
“I’d like to see her try.” Rock glowered at the doctor, causing the physician to laugh. The petite nurse wasn’t capable of forcing Rock to do anything, but it wouldn’t stop her from trying. He gave the doctor an observant look. “Honest, Doc, I’m not ready to die. I didn’t survive crashing my plane just to have a mystery illness steal my life. What can we do?”
Weary, the doctor rose to his feet and moved next to the bed. “Honestly, I don’t know, Rock. I really don’t know. I’ve put out a few inquiries with colleagues and have been consulting medical texts. My hope is that we’ll find the answer before it’s too late. In the event things get worse, you may want to prepare yourself to meet your maker, son. Despite your determination to survive, I can’t make any guarantees.”
“That’s quite a pep talk,” said a nurse from the doorway, her words laced with a hefty dose of sarcasm. The buxom little blonde swept into the room, capturing the gazes of the two men. A snappy white uniform highlighted her curves while the cap on her head accented the golden curls bouncing around her face.
From past encounters, Rock knew the woman’s enticing appearance and friendly smile belied a backbone of steel. Her sharp tongue would take him to task if he didn’t make at least a halfhearted effort to obey her orders. Nurse Billie Brighton was exactly the type of girl he’d ask for a date, if he lingered somewhere other than at death’s door.
The last real date he’d been on was almost a year and a half ago, before he shipped out to Panama.
The incentive of regaining enough of his health to tease Billie into going out with him made him wish he could snap his fingers and be instantly well.
“I see your bedside manner hasn’t improved, Doctor Ridley, but Rock isn’t bright enough to realize you’ve practically given up on him.” Billie winked at Rock, then lifted the chart and read the latest notations.
She shook her head at the information noted there, sending the curls around her face into a coy dance. How Rock wished he could reach out and feel the silky wheat-colored strands in his fingers.
“You
know I won’t give up on helping this stubborn soldier, but he needs to know the truth and be ready for what may come.” Doc rose and patted Rock’s leg before moving to the door. “Try not to tire him too much, Nurse Brighton. He’s always exhausted after one of your visits.”
Billie fisted her hands on her curvy hips while her eyes snapped with humor. “Darn tootin’, he is. I’m the only one he can’t charm out of doing his exercises.”
The doctor chuckled. “I’ll let you get to it, then.”
After he left the room, Billie took Rock’s temperature and checked his pulse, adding notes to his chart. She lifted his left hand in hers, forcing him to stretch it out. “You know the routine, handsome.”
Rock plastered on a smile as she helped him move his injured arm through a series of exercises meant to strengthen the weakened limb. When his plane had crashed near Waller Army Airfield in Trinidad, several pieces of metal had embedded in his arm, causing severe damage. One jagged piece of metal had sliced into his forearm, leaving him unable to bend his fingers or control movement of his hand.
Due to the necessity of having two good hands to be a pilot, the U.S. Army Air Corps had honorably discharged him. Grateful the military had at least seen to his care, Rock hoped he didn’t die in the hospital. Even with the doctor’s dire predictions, he was too young to give up on life just yet.
“Are you ready to accept my offer and marry me, Nurse Brighton?” Rock teased the nurse as she helped him out of bed. She always made him go for a walk during her shift. Some days he made it all the way outside to the path in the courtyard. Other days it took all his strength just to shuffle to the end of the hall and back.
The frosty glare she shot him would have frozen lesser men, but Rock wasn’t easily disturbed or dissuaded. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, Captain Laroux. I don’t date my patients. Not ever.”
“That’s a shame, doll. I’d show you a real good time,” he said, feigning a rakish look while fighting back a wave of nausea. Swallowing hard, he sucked in a deep breath, inhaling the scents of the hospital, which had become all too familiar. Medicine, disinfectant, and sickness created the underlying stench that permeated every inch of breathable air. An odd combination of fear and hope added another layer of unmistakable aromas. Occasional whiffs of tainted desperation mingled with desolate resolve in a strange, unsettling odor.
Rock took another breath, catching a hint of Billie’s perfume, a tantalizing fragrance called Tabu that reigned in popularity the past several years. Many girls he’d dated wore it and gladly accepted the bottles he gave as gifts.
Although the nurses weren’t allowed to wear perfume, Rock appreciated Billie’s willingness to bend the rules. The fragrance defied detection unless she stood close during his arm exercises. Spice flirted with a citrus-laden bouquet and just enough soft femininity to stir Rock’s dreams of the day he would once again hold a girl in his arms and lavish her with kisses.
As though she sensed his thoughts, Billie pinned him with another glacial scowl. “You better not get any wise ideas, Captain, or I’ll make sure Nurse Homer is assigned to you every single day from here on out.”
Rock stopped in the hallway, right hand clutching the walker that kept him upright. “I can’t believe you’d subject me, your favorite patient, to such cruel and unusual punishment. No one deserves ol’ Horrid Homer, especially not in a daily dose.” He shuffled forward a few steps, then gazed down at Billie. A boyish, engaging smile transformed his face as he moved a little closer to the nurse and lowered his voice. “Why don’t you quit playing hard to get and agree to run away with me tonight? Be my bride, Billie. I’d take good care of you.”
The nurse laughed and gently nudged him forward. “I’ve got enough problems without a hound like you for a husband. No, thank you.”
“Why, Nurse Brighton!” He affected a shocked expression that morphed into a playful grin. “How could you insinuate—”
“Billie! I need your help in here,” a nurse called, stepping out of a patient’s room. Pain-filled groans grew louder, followed by the sound of metal clanging, like a tray hitting the floor.
Billie nodded, then looked to Rock. “Can you make it to your room?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll head back right now.” Rock turned and slowly made his way along the long corridor. Overcome with dizziness, he shifted most of his weight against the wall as he leaned his head back and caught his breath.
Unintentionally, he’d stopped outside his doctor’s office. Through the open door, he heard the man engaged in conversation with a colleague. Rock listened in shocked silence when Doctor Ridley brought up his case.
“I don’t know what to do about Rock Laroux,” the doctor said in a voice heavy with worry.
The sound of shuffling papers drifted out the door to Rock’s eager ears.
“Is this his case file?” the other doctor asked.
“Yes,” Doctor Ridley replied, followed by a long sigh. “That poor boy will die soon if we don’t figure out what’s wrong with him.”
More papers shuffled before the other doctor spoke again. “I can’t think of a thing you haven’t already tried, Ralph. How long do you think he’s got?”
“At the rate he’s deteriorating, I’d give him a few weeks, maybe a month at the most.” Doctor Ridley sighed again. “I hate this, hate feeling helpless to help him. He’s served our country with honor and bravery, yet the best we can do for him is to hand him a death sentence with no specified date or reason.”
Rock didn’t listen to the rest of the conversation. He forced his feet to carry him back to his room, where he collapsed on the bed. Although he hadn’t wanted to face the truth, he’d known all along his condition progressively worsened instead of improved. He’d held out hope Doc would figure out the problem and remedy it before it was too late.
Faced with the grim outcome before him, Rock mulled over his options. He could continue lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by unpleasant odors and unable to enjoy the warmth of the sun or the blue spring sky. The possibility existed that he could figure out a way to end things in the near future rather than wasting away.
However, that thought barely entered his mind before he cast it aside. He might be able to do any number of things, but ending his own life wasn’t one of them.
An idea, one that held a great deal of appeal, trickled through his overwrought mind, bringing a sense of calm and purpose. By gum, if he was about to die, he’d do it at home.
The little acreage his parents owned, located west of Portland, had passed to him on their deaths. There was no place else on earth he’d rather spend his last moments than the farm where he was born and raised.
The more he entertained the idea of going home, the more determined he became to leave the hospital.
Nevertheless, with his health completely compromised, Doctor Ridley would never agree to release him. Rock realized if he wanted to go home, he’d have to sneak out of the hospital and figure out the rest later.
Nurse Brighton stopped by his room an hour later with his dinner tray. Although Rock’s stomach twisted and gurgled at the sight of it, he ate every bite, knowing he’d need strength to carry out his plans.
Once she left, he slid out of bed and shuffled over to the little closet. A neatly pressed uniform hung from a wire hanger while a duffle bag of his belongings rested on the floor.
As fast as a dying, dizzy man could dress, Rock pulled on his clothes. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face as he finished, but he brushed it away with the hospital gown. Hastily, he penned a note and left it on the nightstand before he lifted the duffle in his good hand and peeked into the hallway.
With no one in sight, Rock left his room and snuck onto the elevator. He pushed the button that would take him to the ground floor and prayed he’d make it outside undetected.
The moment the elevator opened, he kept his head down and crossed the lobby to the front doors.
Outside, he breathed in several gulps o
f clean air, filling his lungs. Afraid to take time to rest, he walked in an uneven gait to the street, where an older couple got into a car.
“Wait, please!” Rock called, drawing the man’s attention.
“What can we do for you, sir?” the man asked.
Rock did his best to hurry over to their car. At least he rushed over as fast as his quivering legs and troubled lungs could get him there. When he reached them, out of breath, it took a moment before he could speak.
The couple looked at him with kindness, waiting.
“If it wouldn’t be too much bother, would you give me a lift?” He tilted forward slightly and spread his legs wide to maintain his balance.
“We’d be happy to,” the older man said, looking encouragingly at his wife.
“We most certainly would. Let’s get you in the car, young man,” she said, opening the back door of their black Packard. Her husband took the duffle bag from Rock and set it on the floor behind the driver’s seat.
Once they were all in the car, the man turned around with a hand extended in greeting. “It might be nice to know your name. I’m Ernie Smith and this is Madge, my wife and reason to get up in the morning.”
“Captain Rock Laroux,” Rock said, shaking the older man’s hand and tipping his head politely to the woman. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Do you have a son at the hospital?”
“No. Ernie had to see his doctor today for a regular checkup. He served in the Great War in France.” Madge placed a gentle hand on her husband’s arm, squeezing it as though she needed a reminder he’d come home from the war in one piece.
Ernie smiled at her with a soft light in his pale eyes, then glanced back at Rock once he pulled into traffic. “Where can we take you, Captain?”
“Please, call me Rock. If you wouldn’t mind leaving me at the bus station, it would be dandy.”
Garden of Her Heart (Hearts of the War Book 1) Page 2