They stumbled down the hallway, passing rooms where some of the furniture had turned over from the explosions. She grabbed Michael up in her arms as they descended the stairs, but another explosion sliced through the corridor separating the hospital from the East Wing.
A massive dust cloud blasted toward them, blocking her vision. She placed Lance on the ground and tossed her apron over his head in an attempt to keep his airway free of the particles. She tried to stifle her breathing, but the dust cloaked her throat, suffocating her and burning her eyes.
She coughed and stumbled forward, trying to make her way to a safe haven, but how far was she from the back door? Dear God, help me. Corrupted oxygen squeezed into her raw airway, resulting in more coughs.
Another high pitched whistle pierced the intermediate silence, a preemptive warning to another explosion.
“Ashleigh.”
Someone grabbed her arm and drew her out of the cloud. A door slammed behind her and engulfed her in immediate darkness, but she emerged into clean air…and safety?
Where was she? A closet? She collapsed to the floor, coughing to clear her lungs but keeping a hand to Lance. He shuddered against her with a whimper.
She bent forward, tears wetting her face, each smoke-stained breath a battle. The debris slid deeper than her cough could reach, into her lungs.
A massive explosion shook the room, followed by a crash outside. Lance screamed and she pulled him close, shielding his head with her body. A thud rattled the door. Ashleigh tried to make out the other adult in the dark room, but her blurred vision combined with the darkness didn’t help. She rocked from side to side, trying to force deep breaths into her saturated lungs. Dizziness hinted at the edge of her consciousness, seeking control. She couldn’t give in.
Lance whimpered into her chest.
She closed her eyes and held the crying child closer. “It’s all right, sweetheart.” Her hoarse words sounded eerie in the dark closet. “We’re going to be fine.”
“You could use something to drink from the sound of it.” A woman’s voice came from the darkness, familiar…and surprising. Were Ashleigh’s ears as clogged with dust as her throat?
“Catherine?” She tried to clear away the dust scratching her throat. “You’re still here?”
“Dr. Ross needed extra help in surgery, so I stayed.” A shudder accompanied her words. “Amputation.”
Another round of coughs shook through Ashleigh body, followed by a sting of pain in her lungs. She swallowed hard. “I could have taken that one. You didn’t have to—”
“You’d worked hard enough for one day, Ashleigh.” Her words held an edge of reprimand tinged with…concern? Catherine was concerned for her? Maybe her ears were clogged. “But instead of rest, we all received the benefits of a gentle German goodnight.”
Her ears weren’t too clogged. She caught every ounce of Catherine’s sarcasm.
Lance’s body slowly relaxed. “Why didn’t you go to the bunker? I heard Michael mention it to you last week.”
Ashleigh’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness. Small hints of light strained through a window anchored above them, perhaps large enough to crawl through, if necessary. She made out Catherine’s silhouette and the faint glimmer of light against her face.
“I was on my way there, but I heard you calling for Lance, so I…” She shifted and leaned back against the wall. “You should have been in the bunker too.”
Quiet swelled into the darkness. Catherine had worked long hours the past two weeks, proving her capabilities. They’d shared short, simple conversations since their talk in the garden, but nothing of much consequence. Their relationship had shifted since their garden-discussion – in both of them. Catherine’s edge softened, Ashleigh’s apathy disappeared. They were trying.
“You’ve worked a lot this week too.”
Catherine stood, her shadow moving toward the door. She gave it a shove, but it wouldn’t open. Something must have fallen against it in the explosion. She beat it a few times and then turned with a sigh. “It’s safe to say I have no excuse for not writing letters now.”
The full impact of Catherine’s declaration hit a few seconds later and Ashleigh laughed, encouraging another round of coughs. “I should think you’ve gotten plenty of practice?”
“Everything from sweetheart letters to children to grandmothers.” She slammed her hand against the door again.
“You’ve become a fairly impressive amateur nurse too.”
Catherine shook her head. “I’d rather leave the messy parts to the professionals, but…”
“It’s sobering, isn’t it?”
She nodded and hugged her stomach. “Seeing all the suffering and loss, it…it changes things. You’re a good nurse.”
The unexpected compliment took Ashleigh’s response. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a kind word from her sister. The little girl in her almost wept – longing to find a connection they’d never experienced.
Catherine turned her head back to the door, her body going straight. “I hear someone. Do you?”
A muffle of noise rumbled outside the door. Male voices. Catherine slammed her fist against the door again and called out. Ashleigh stood and pulled Lance with her. She stepped close enough to Catherine to see her face.
“Ashleigh.”
“Yes.”
Catherine’s shoulders fell forward and she braced her palm against the door. “I can’t talk about it yet.”
Ashleigh squelched another cough, igniting a sharp pain in her chest. “There’s plenty of time, Catherine. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”
She nodded. The voices were louder and something scraped against the closet door. Her gaze met Ashleigh’s. “Soon, but I…I’m not as brave as you.”
Ashleigh hadn’t seen her mother hold her head with such confidence in years. Roth Hall teemed with soldiers in the previously closed up East Wing, nurses roamed the back stairs to the kitchen, and solitude was a commodity for a few private rooms at the far edges of the house. Despite David’s request to use Lady Cavanaugh’s grand house as a temporary hospital due to the Zep’s damage to their current building, the grand lady refused to allow anyone except officers for convalescence, which left David pulled between two facilities. Ashleigh took over some leadership in the makeshift surgical theatre, while one of the newer nurses, Margarite, managed control at other times, when David visited the officers at Dothan.
The relationship with Lady Cavanaugh was tedious at best. Her bitterness against the Dougall’s provided a solid threat of continued financial support as long as the wounded stayed in Roth Hall, but since she wasn’t willing to open up Dothan for all the soldiers, there was little else to do. New wounded arrived every week and needed attention, with or without a new facility. The sheer acknowledgement of her mother’s service to the wounded had her mother strutting about town sharing her magnanimity to anyone she met. Interesting how tragedy brought a sort of restoration to her family. The memory of a few shared smiles with Catherine from across the dinner table deepened the understanding.
God truly worked all things to her good.
Ashleigh pushed her tears away. Would He break the long silence from across the Atlantic too? Each week unraveled another thread of hope, and a deeper sting of rejection. Would she always long for him like a part of her was missing?
Michael’s gaze asked questions, her heart wouldn’t answer. He could give her a family, the children she longed to mother -- and there would be contentment…mostly. Her body sagged against the surgery door, exhaustion weighing her shoulders. Weariness left her on the edge of tears, and a pulsing headache kept her seeking snippets of solitude to quell the ache.
Stifling her coughs during the day became more difficult, especially with the jabbing pains in her chest. The wheezing had grown more pronounced, like the cancerous breaths of a dying patient. She was sick, possibly pneumonia, but there was little time to focus on it. Kara needed help adjusting the children to their new
home on the north side of Roth, wounded needed medical care, and David wasn’t as readily available as he’d been at the hospital.
A flush of heat moved from her neck to her face, confirming her earlier hints of a fever. Her eyes watered in response. Helping in surgery wasn’t an option with her mind making foggy choices, but she could still assist with basic care, couldn’t she? Perhaps if she rested a few moments. She stepped toward the stairs and the shift sent her vision spiraling.
“Ashleigh?”
David’s voice came from the surgery. She turned to him, but went off balance. Her body moved forward; a cloud of darkness framed David’s advance toward her. The haze in her periphery darkened out the sight of everything except the sound of her cough and a voice calling her name.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Guilt was not a healthy bedfellow. Sam rubbed his aching head, another restless night forcing fingers of pain over his skull. He couldn’t get Ashleigh out of his thoughts, and he hated waiting for letters. He’d spoken a few times with his father, sharing bits and pieces of what had happened in England, and his father’s response was to pray about it.
Pray about it. His solution to everything. Having Mother back had probably driven Father to his knees more than usual, so practice must be worthwhile because his father seemed the very picture of contentment.
Unlike Sam. And sleepless nights. And the gnawing ache guilt left behind. Finally writing to Ashleigh gave him a sense of peace, even if the letters felt awkward and impersonal. He was trying. Desperately trying to sort out what his next step needed to be. He couldn’t throw away their friendship, if nothing else, but he didn’t want to settle for friendship either. He loved her, with each day the strands of guilt, love, and longing tightened the cluster of pain in his chest.
He’d resorted to sending a telegram yesterday in hopes of some sort of resolution. Some word.
Would she write him back? Would he be too late?
He crossed the footbridge over the creek on the path to Faith Church. Its rock frame, built from the field stones of the mountains, stood as a beacon of confidence Sam had trusted since childhood. Life wore a hole in his faith, which probably accounted for his current sleepless nights. Just one look at the small chapel nestled among dogwoods wrung his heart. Too long. When he’d first come home, he didn’t attend because he was angry. Angry that God would bring his mother back, apparently unscathed, and even help his father forgive her!
His assumption about his mother’s life shot down his argument.
He stayed away longer because of guilt. Guilt in his behavior toward Ashleigh, his frustration with his father, and his bitterness against his mother – even his anger toward God. But as he rounded the path and stared at the afternoon sunlight casting a halo through the trees around the church, a deep longing drew him forward. A haven for lost people.
He pulled to a stop as the chapel’s dark blue door opened and his mother stepped out. Her straw bonnet shadowed her downturned face, but it seemed she’d been crying. For him? The possibility nudged a jab of guilt. She looked up then, wide eyes registering her surprise. A few tears streaked her cheeks.
He should walk past her, give a polite nod and nothing more, but his rebel feet stopped right where she stood waiting. Did God invest in glue for the bottoms of Sam’s shoes?
“Rosellyn,” he said, unable to form the word ‘mother’.
Her gaze met his, the softest smile upturning her lips. Lines carved wrinkles at the edges of her amber eyes and a few around her mouth, but her eyes glowed with an inner light. Her smile welcomed him, honest and gentle – two things he never used to describe her in his head. Caution reared its protective casing, but with a weaker grip.
“Sam.” She inclined her head and her smile bloomed. “Fiona will talk of no one else but you.”
Sam’s ducked his head with his smile. “She’s a spunky sort.”
“Yes, I believe God piled all of the energy from my lost children into her. She brings an immense amount of joy.”
Lost children? Pain anchored a line of grief behind her eyes, sobering his thoughts and dulling the bitterness. “I can imagine she does.”
He shifted his weight, unsure what to say. Why did he suddenly feel like a child who needed to be found? “Has Scott enjoyed having her about? He’s used to being the youngest.”
“He’s been charming.” She squeezed the parasol. “As has Emily Dougall. I wish so much I’d gleaned from her wisdom years ago before—” She paused, golden brows drawn. “Before I left.”
Sam’s jaw tightened. He rubbed it with his palm, a question broke free. “Do you plan to leave again?”
Her gaze rose to his, direct and intense. “If God allows me the opportunity to be a part of your life…” She drew a deep breath, but her stare never wavered. “I’ll only leave if you ask me to leave.”
Sam tried to make the demand, but couldn’t. The joy in his father’s expression curbed his need. Fiona’s sweetness stole some of Sam’s bitterness and the unexpected gentleness in this woman broke something in his chest he couldn’t identify.
“Sam, I didn’t come for reconciliation. I sought forgiveness from your father…but mostly from you.” She took a small step forward, searching his face, eyes glistening. “Your father has shone grace to me by seeking more than I ever asked, by offering me a chance I don’t deserve.” Her voice grew raspy and she paused. “I would be a better wife now. I would love him in the right way – because now I know what the right way is.”
Sam studied her, breath as uncertain as his emotions. His father had told him over and over his mother had changed. She’d given her heart to Christ, he said. All the evidence pointed to it. His soul lured him to believe.
She pressed a handkerchief against her eyes and cleared her throat. “But I won’t stay if it will cause a break between you and your father. If you want me to leave--” Her chin tilted as if ready to take whatever verdict he handed down. “--I will leave.”
With her admission, the doubt clenching a fist around his faith loosened. His eyes burned. His heart ached and his mind resembled a wood-scrap pile on the shop floor – jagged and mismatched. He was messed up from the inside out, a heap of broken pieces. Much like his mother used to be.
Broken.
God shows mercy to the broken. Ashleigh’s word resurrected and posed the question. Have you ever been broken, Sam?
His throat closed for a moment so he paused his response. Slow. Honest. “I don’t know what to think or feel when it comes to you, Rosellyn.”
Her lips shifted up on one side and a single tear made a path down her cheek. His lungs tightened at the love on her face. An ache started deep and worked its way up through his chest, increasing the burn in his eyes. He had little practice with a mother’s love, but the sudden craving nearly sent him crying like a baby. A lost love, found?
“That response was more gracious than I expected.” She lowered her head and turned toward the path home. “Good day, Sam.”
He watched her go, the longing in him growing. The yearning swelled into blurry vision. A few more steps and he pushed open the familiar door of the church; the strong scent of cedar its familiar welcome.
The solitude of calm quiet ushered him inside. The chapel’s stained glass windows, lining each of the side walls, filtered red and blue light over the pews. He stepped further in, the sanctuary empty except for long shadows making a pattern of rainbows against the floor.
Tears covered the burn in his eyes, but he stopped their spill. What did God want him to do?
“Sam, glad to see you.” Pastor Markson stepped from a room near the back, his words on a whisper. His dark eyes showed no surprise. Had he expected Sam to come? “Are your ears burning, son? People have been praying for you all day. First your father.” He nodded toward the closed door behind them. “And your mother just left.” His gaze locked with Sam’s. “Waiting for forgiveness is a hard burden to carry, and one she’s borne for a long time.”
Sam looke
d down at the rock floor. “So I understand.”
“She cares about you, you know.” Pastor lifted one shoulder. “And your father comes nigh every day to pray for you, seeking God’s guidance for your heart and your future.”
Sam had hundreds of memories of his father praying by the bed, seeking God’s peace and direction on behalf of his son. Even praying for his mother’s forgiveness? Why hadn’t he trusted his father? Why had he fought so hard against what he knew was right? His pulse beat in his throat an answering rhythm.
Why haven’t you trusted me, Sam? The question sliced to his spirit.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“’Tis the business of the Almighty to change people. You and me.” His dark eyes leveled Sam. “And your mother. Circumstances broke your mother and tempered her hard heart to clay for God’s work. He does that to us, Sam, my boy. He loves us enough to break our hardness.” Pastor Marksman placed a hand to Sam’s shoulder, a Bible clutched in his other hand. “Perhaps it’s time to realize how much you’ve been loved – and how much you’ve been forgiven, so then you can give back.”
“How can I take her back as if nothing ever happened?” Sam’s palms opened in defeat. “I can’t do that.”
“She doesn’t want you to love her as if nothing’s happened. She wants you to grow to love her through what’s happened.” He looked back to the front of the church. “You belong to God, but you haven’t given Him everything. You’re holding on to your pride with both fists tight, but it won’t help you. What is it your heart craves?”
Peace.
He breathed in the word. Pastor Marksman’s palm squeezed Sam’s shoulder then released it. He pushed his own Bible into Sam’s hands. “You’re sick for His peace, Sam. Dying for his reassurance and truth.”
“Sick?”
Pastor Marksman folded his hands in front of him and met Sam’s gaze with a steady challenge. “God only has use for broken people. ‘Tis for the sick he came.” He turned and took a few more steps before stopping. “I think you’d do wise to open that Book to Luke seven verse thirty-five in particular. You might find yourself and your mother there.”
The Thorn Bearer Page 28