“Are you a long way from home?” Madge asked.
“No. I grew up near Gales Creek. That’s where I’m headed.” Rock rested his head against the seat. The sensations produced from being fully dressed and riding in a vehicle seemed foreign to him after so much time spent at the hospital in bed. “Where do you folks live?”
“Troutdale,” Ernie said over his shoulder. “But we’d be happy to drive you home.”
“No, sir. That’s a long, long way out of your way. The bus will do.”
Ernie turned and merged with traffic heading west. “Where were you before you got hurt?”
Rock wondered how the man knew he’d been injured, but he supposed his weakened state probably gave away the fact he wasn’t in prime condition. “In the Caribbean. My plane crashed a few months back.”
“My heavens!” Madge turned around to study him. “Why, you must have been on one of those secret missions, gathering information on German boats.” She looked to her husband. “What are they called, dear?”
The man grinned at his wife. “Submarines, honey. They’re called submarines. Is that what you were doing, Captain?”
Rock smiled. “I’m not at liberty to say, but it was exciting work.”
Ernie whistled and slapped the steering wheel. “Ain’t that something, Madgey-girl! A real live pilot hero right here in our car.”
Rock didn’t feel like a hero, especially when the crash had left his unit short a capable man and a plane.
“Here we are.” Ernie pulled the car up to the curb at the bus station. The couple both got out of the car while Rock summoned the strength to climb out and lift his bag.
“Are you sure we can’t drive you, Rock? It would be our pleasure,” Madge said, observing the beads of sweat on his upper lip and the pain-fogged glaze in his eyes.
“No, ma’am, but I thank you for your kindness. If you ever find yourself in Gales Creek, stop by and say hello. Our place is the fourth farm out of town on the left side of the highway. You can’t miss the big blue barn.”
“Blue? I thought everyone painted their barns red.” Ernie rocked back on his heels and smiled.
“My mother’s favorite color was blue, so Dad made me paint it one summer when I was in high school.” Rock shifted the bag and held out his hand to Ernie. “Thank you, sir, for the ride. I greatly appreciate it.”
“Anytime, son. If you ever need anything, you look us up. We aren’t hard to find.”
Rock took a step back. “I’ll do that, sir. Thanks again.”
The couple waved, then hurried back inside their car and left. Rock watched them go as he moved into the line to purchase a ticket. It was only when the agent asked him where he wanted to go that he questioned if he had a wallet in his possession.
His fingers reached to his back pocket. Nothing there. He opened his duffle, locating his wallet. Upon searching inside it, he turned up nothing but lint where he usually kept several dollar bills. Unable to recall how much had been in it before his plane had gone down, he couldn’t imagine anyone leaving him penniless. Further rummaging unearthed thirty-seven cents.
“Where to, soldier?” the ticket agent asked again.
“I need to get to Gales Creek. How far will thirty cents take me?”
The agent offered him a disparaging frown, making it clear the question and Rock’s lack of funds annoyed him. “I can get you as far as Beaverton. After that, you’re on your own.”
“I’ll take it,” Rock said, wondering how he’d possibly get the rest of the way home with only seven cents in his pocket. He handed over the change, accepted the ticket, and located the bus he needed to board.
He took a seat at the front and dropped his duffle bag at his feet. With an exhausted sigh, he settled back and closed his eyes. Although Beaverton wasn’t far, it would at least get him closer to where he needed to go.
The next thing Rock knew, a hand shook him awake.
“Hey, soldier, I should have let you off about four miles back, but I didn’t realize you missed your stop.”
Groggy, Rock straightened and looked outside the bus window. “Where are we?”
The bus driver regained his seat and pointed to the open bus door. “Five miles west of Beaverton. You can catch a bus headed back into town in about an hour.”
Rock lifted his bag and eased down the bus steps. He offered the driver a gratitude-filled smile. “Thank you for the ride.”
“You’re welcome, soldier. Take care.” The driver shut the bus door and pulled away from the stop, leaving Rock on the sidewalk staring at the darkening sky. Rain splashed his face as a storm rolled in overhead.
Turning up the collar of his jacket, he lifted feet weighted by worry and fatigue, and plodded down the road, heading west. If his luck held, perhaps someone would stop to offer a ride. However, the late hour coupled with the growing storm left him doubtful of seeing too many people out on the road.
Before long, another dizzy spell assailed him, nearly knocking him to his knees. He sat on his duffle, holding his head in his hands as he waited for it to pass.
Once he could stand, he lifted his bag and continued on his way. Unable to gauge the time or distance, he staggered onward. It might have been minutes or hours. Regardless, if he stopped, someone would most likely find his lifeless body sprawled across the side of the road in the morning.
At last, he reached a crossroads and struggled to see through the dark and rain. By now, his bones ached with the numbing cold that seeped down beneath his skin, leaving him sluggish and disoriented. No longer holding any certainty he traveled in the correct direction, he bent forward, straining to see anything that might guide him.
Lightning flashed across the sky and Rock glimpsed a farm he’d seen many times in his youth. He and his father had often stopped to purchase produce there on the way home from the city. A friendly oriental couple owned the place. He recalled giggling girls helping them in the summer months.
His mouth watered at the thought of the tree-ripened peaches, plums, and cherries he’d enjoyed as a boy. Memories of tomatoes as big as his fist, bursting with sunshine and hearty flavor, reminded him of simple joys from his past.
Driven by the hope the couple might be home and give him shelter from the storm, he slogged across the road. His faltering steps carried him past the produce stand where his family had purchased hundreds of red, ripe strawberries and dozens of big orange pumpkins over the years.
No lights shone from inside the house, but he worked the latch on the gate, eventually getting it open. The effort needed to climb the porch steps was almost more than he could muster, but he made it.
Hand jerking from the chill that pervaded his entire being, Rock observed his fingers as though they belonged to another while he knocked on the door. All remained silent behind the thick wooden portal.
No footsteps. No hushed voices. Nothing.
Rock knocked again, his hand making hollow, feeble thumps against the wooden surface. He tried the knob, but it refused to open.
Mind muddled with pain and desperation, he stumbled down the steps and around the corner of the house, wobbling as he made his way to the back door.
Energy depleted, and with no reserves to draw from, he knocked, leaning against the side of the house. The last of his strength flowed out of him into the puddle of rainwater he dripped on the back step beneath the overhang above the door. His legs buckled as he slid down and passed into oblivion.
Chapter Three
Rock lingered somewhere between unconscious and semicoherent as someone touched his side, rotating him onto his back. A beleaguered grunt penetrated the fog in his brain as hands slipped under him, burrowed beneath his armpits, and circled around to grip the front of his shoulders.
Huffs of exertion accompanied every inch his rescuer tugged him backward. Too exhausted to open his eyes, too weak to provide assistance, he had no choice but to allow the continued dragging of his body.
Fortunately, whoever yanked and pulled on him mo
ved him out of the biting rain. The warmth of a shelter enveloped him, even as he slid across a moisture-slickened linoleum floor.
Vaguely aware of the sound of labored breathing and the smell of something homey, he forced his eyes open and stared into the face of a Japanese woman.
Confused and not in his right mind, he arrived at the dreaded conclusion his plane must have gone down far off course. How had he crashed in the Pacific Ocean when he’d been flying in the Atlantic?
Most likely, the enemy would interrogate and torture him before running him through with a bayonet or lopping off his head.
Not yet ready to surrender, Rock prepared to leap to his feet and put up a fight.
Only the fight had seeped out of him in the rain, and the best he could do was wiggle his cold-numbed toes. Before he gave voice to a single word of protest, he passed out again.
He woke when someone rolled him onto a bed and again when the chattering of his teeth threatened to crack them a few moments before the weight of a heavy blanket settled over him. Burrowing into the comfort it provided, he let sleep claim him.
The next few days Rock slept and healed, unaware of his surroundings. Eventually, he opened gritty, stinging eyes, unable to focus. A hazy figure with dark hair soothed him, placing a cool hand on his feverish brow. She held a cup of hot brew to his lips that slid down his throat and into his empty belly with welcome warmth. After a few sips, he returned to sleep.
Hours later, the scent of something soft and floral brought to mind tropical flowers on an ocean breeze and lured Rock from slumber.
No one at the hospital carried that scent. A second breath revealed no stench of disinfectant, medicine, or sickness. The faint yet acrid, smoky hint of cigarettes didn’t hang in the air.
In fact, no hushed conversations or footsteps clacking down the tiled floors of the hall reached his ears. No one coughed, no radio at the nurse’s station played popular tunes. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.
Perhaps he’d dreamed the whole thing about being in the hospital, sentenced to die. Maybe whatever he had eaten for dinner the previous evening had caused him to have an outlandish, yet entirely realistic nightmare. Indigestion was most likely to blame for the horrific thoughts in his head.
Though he was normally up and around early, the weariness of both his mind and body kept him lingering in bed. The empty state of his stomach, though, accompanied by a few fierce growls, assured him it was past time for breakfast.
In no rush, he rested on his right side and opened one eye. A well-crafted waterfall dresser he hadn’t seen before stood in front of a wall painted a pastel hue of green.
The unfamiliar sight sent him onto his back. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, hoping he merely saw things that weren’t there. Nonetheless, when he opened them, the mahogany dresser and pale walls remained.
Light spilled through two windows, filling the room with a golden glow of sunshine. Dust motes shimmered in the ribbons of sunbeams that almost reached the bed where he rested beneath a white-and-green crocheted coverlet.
Crisp white sheets that smelled of fresh outdoors and the Oxydol detergent his mother had always favored surrounded him as he struggled to raise himself on his elbows. Lacking the strength, he collapsed against the pillows, sinking into the soft bed.
He turned his head to the left and noticed a black-haired woman asleep in a chair. Head down, her chin rested on her chest while a blanket swathed her form.
A vision of a Japanese woman hovering above him darted through his mind, making him question if he was caught in a hallucination or a dreadful reality.
As he snuggled beneath soft covers in the comfortable bed, though, it seemed more like a pleasant dream than impending doom.
Before he could give more thought to the woman or his situation, his eyelids slid closed and he returned to sleep. The next time he awoke, he looked to the chair, finding it empty.
His gaze traveled around the room, taking in the polished hardwood floor covered by a green rug accented with pink and yellow flowers. Several pieces of matching waterfall furniture sat around the room, including a nightstand near his head, where an alarm clock read seven. From the subdued light, he wasn’t sure if it was morning or night.
A cheerful set of paintings hanging above a chest of drawers featured bright pink cherry blossoms with little birds preening on the branches. The Japanese artwork seemed out of place among the American furnishings.
Rock strained to see out the window to the right of the bed. Green grass, trees, and a wooden fence made him wonder where, exactly, he’d wound up, and what had happened to the woman he’d seen earlier.
As though his thoughts prompted her appearance, she stepped into the room carrying a tray.
“You’re awake,” she said, her face expressionless as she approached the bed.
Weak, Rock nodded and pushed against the mattress in an effort to elevate his head.
With quick, efficient movements, she set the tray on a table beside the chair where she’d slept and stacked more pillows behind him, helping him sit upright.
“Better?” she asked.
“Yes,” Rock whispered in a raspy voice. Dumbfounded by the grating sound, he wondered when he’d lost the ability to speak. As he contemplated the possibilities, she set the tray across his lap and stood back, observing him.
“Eat,” she said, pointing to the tray, then turned and left the room.
Wary, Rock watched her go. Not a single doubt existed in his mind she was Japanese, but she was tall, incredibly tall, for a woman. Like so many other women of the day, she wore her hair rolled away from her face and pinned. The gemlike shade of the dress floating around her willowy form made him think of the vibrant blue-green hummingbirds he’d seen flitting around flowers in Trinidad.
After she left the room, he dropped his gaze to the tray. Two boiled eggs, two pieces of toasted bread, and a mug of broth, redolent with the appealing aroma of chicken, caused his stomach to growl in hunger.
He lifted the mug and sipped the rich, flavorful brew. If he was a prisoner, it didn’t seem as though they planned to starve him to death. The nourishing broth lent him strength as he ate the eggs and enjoyed the light, airy bread covered with fresh butter.
Appetite satiated, he relaxed against the pillows and waited for the woman to return. Once again, his eyes grew heavy and he struggled to remain awake.
He must have dozed, because the next time he opened his eyes, it was dark. A sliver of moonlight shone through the window, providing enough illumination that he could see the woman curled into the chair by his bed, covered by a thick blanket.
Fully awake, Rock felt better than he had for a long time. Quietly, he folded back the covers and swung his legs over the mattress, realizing the only thing he wore was his underwear. Dizziness threatened to swamp him, so he sat on the edge of the bed, inhaling deep breaths, waiting for it to pass.
When it did, he rose to his feet and, with painstaking effort, made his way out of the room. To his left, he noticed a doorway and stepped inside, feeling along the wall. His fingers connected with a toggle switch and he flipped it up, glancing around the bathroom.
He made use of the facilities, then stood in front of the sink, splashing tepid water over his face to remove the vestiges of sleep. He finger-combed his hair, looking in the mirror and wondering when it had grown so long. Typically, he kept it cut short, with the barest hint of a swoop in the front. Most women found it hard to resist.
Since he’d been in the hospital, he hadn’t cared whether it was long or short, although Nurse Brighton had twice cajoled him into allowing her to trim it.
Suddenly, he recalled every detail of the last few days, of hearing the doctor’s dire predictions for his future, and walking away from the hospital.
He remembered stumbling through the rain and coming upon the produce stand owned by Mr. and Mrs. Yamada. Had they taken him in? Who was the girl in the chair?
Relieved he hadn’t fallen into enemy hands, he re
leased a long breath and looked around the bathroom. Honeycomb-patterned tile covered the floor while white tiles layered the walls up to a chair rail. From there, light green walls, the same color as the bedroom, rose to the ceiling. Everything sparkled, as if someone had recently executed a thorough cleaning.
A slight floral scent wafted in the air. Relieved to smell something other than the odors of death and despair so prevalent in the hospital, he breathed deeply.
Strength waning, he flipped off the light and made his way back to bed. For several long moments, he sat on the edge of the mattress, studying the woman asleep in the chair.
A strong chin, straight but short nose, and full bottom lip complemented her oval face. Flawless skin glimmered like porcelain in the silvery moonlight. His fingers itched to reach out and touch it. Dismayed by the absurd direction of his thoughts, he shook his head and climbed beneath the covers, turning his back to her.
A Japanese woman, particularly one so tall and thin, held absolutely no interest for him. None at all.
Chapter Four
Bright sunlight streamed through the windows the next morning as Rock opened his eyes. Flat on his back, he stretched his toes and raised his good arm above his head, bumping it against the polished mahogany headboard.
He took stock of his aches and pains. It didn’t hurt to breathe as much as usual, overwhelming dizziness didn’t assail him as it normally did upon awakening, and his stomach gnawed with hunger instead of painful cramps.
Slowly, he sat up and cast a glance to his left, noting the empty chair where the woman had slept. A neatly folded blanket draped over the back of the chair.
Curious, he pondered where she’d gone and if she’d bring him breakfast. He strained to hear sounds of movement in the house. After several moments of uninterrupted silence, he wondered if she’d left.
With effort, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His foot collided with his duffle bag on the floor. He reached out with his right hand and lifted it beside him. Inside, he found clean underwear, a white undershirt, and a pair of trousers.
Garden of Her Heart (Hearts of the War Book 1) Page 3