Table of Contents
Praise for The Thorn Healer
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Plan Your Next Escape! What’s Your Reading Pleasure?
Praise for The Thorn Healer
“A beautiful, emotionally moving tale of healing, forgiveness, and love’s ability to overcome all barriers. Prepare for a late night as you near the end because this story grips you tight and wont let go.” ~ Kristi Ann Hunter, award-winning author of An Elegant Facade and A Lady of Esteem?
“A delectable love story, seasoned with war, epidemics, prejudice, faith, and the beauty of finding healing in the Lord amidst the most broken of circumstances. A book you won’t want to miss!” ~ Roseanna M. White, author of the Ladies of the Manor Series
“Pepper Basham has penned a story that not only entertains but calls readers to examine their hearts for prejudice and move toward compassion. Full of romance and sweet family, The Thorn Healer’s strongest component might just be the hero who tends to the heroine’s heart with a steadfast, pursuing love. Not only was I won over by the hero’s gentleness, but I ached for the heroine, whose wounds kept her from receiving his love, that is until... well, you’ll have to read and find out for yourself. High on romantic chemistry, tenderness, and rich historical research, The Thorn Healer will leave your heart smiling and your inner romantic swooning.” ~ Sondra Krantz Kraak, author of One Plus One Equals Trouble
Pepper Basham’s gift of storytelling comes home to the Blue Ridge Mountains in her third Penned in Time book. Intriguing history shares the page with a swoon worthy romance and soul-deep touches of grace. In August Reinhold, you will find a hero of heroes and a tender picture of our Savior’s relentless pursuit of our hearts. I’ve read all three of the Penned in Time books, and I’ve loved them all, but this one is my absolute favorite! Framed in Basham’s exquisite prose, this is a novel that will put down roots in your heart and stay a while. ~ Carrie Schmidt, ReadingIsMySuperPower.org, reviewer for Romantic Times, Blog Mistress Extraordinaire
Pepper Basham writes with a passion for story all her own, braiding timeless romance with fascinating history and spiritual inspiration; The Thorn Healer is a lovely example. ~ Rebecca Maney, Avid Reader, Reviewer and Blog Contributor
“From the first page, Pepper Basham will transport you to a different time and the conflicts of post-WW1. I highly recommend this book to lovers of historical fiction.” ~ Cara Putman, award-winning author of Shadowed by Grace and Beyond Justice
“A timely story that tackles deep issues of pain, prejudice, and trusting God through the hard times with a grace that will have your heart sighing.” ~ Sarah Monzon, author of The Isaac Project and Finders Keepers
THE THORN HEALER
Penned in Time-Book III
Pepper D. Basham
Vinspire Publishing
www.vinspirepublishing.com
Copyright
Copyright ©2016 Pepper D. Basham
Cover illustration copyright © 2016 Elaina Lee/For the Muse Designs
Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact Vinspire Publishing, LLC, P.O. Box 1165, Ladson, SC 29456-1165.
All characters in this work are purely fictional and have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
PUBLISHED BY VINSPIRE PUBLISHING, LLC
Dedication
To Carrie, Rachael, Bonnie, and Meghan
You are examples of how Christ’s hope is stronger than despair and His joy shines even brighter through suffering. Thank you for not only being my friends, but constant inspirations.
Chapter One
May 1918
Wounded soldiers returned from war as heroes. Wounded nurses returned as old maids.
Jessica Ross gripped the handle of her purse a little tighter and peered out the dusty train window, eager to catch the first glimpse of her hometown in two years. Home. The word swept a sweet balm over the ragged edges of memories rife with the devastation of a world at war.
The Great War, as some called it, held nothing ‘great’ within its muddied trenches, nothing but dying breaths and a forever-swell of hopelessness. A myriad of named and nameless faces, lost to the senselessness of battle, pinched her thoughts into the much too common headaches she’d developed over the past two years. But now, as she sighed back into the cloth-covered seat, the sweet whisper of home offered her space to breathe and a place to forget.
Her eyes drifted closed and brought visions of her mother and brother to mind, stilling her grin. Home couldn’t be the same without their presence. During her last visit to Hot Springs, she’d buried her mother. Less than a year later, a German spy almost killed her older brother, leaving him with memory loss and a mutilated hand. Not the best hope for a surgeon, but David had made it work, despite the excruciating pain of healing.
The hardened fist of hatred tightened around Jessica’s heart with a deeper grasp. Trench warfare, treachery, Kaisers?
She was finished with all of it—especially Germans. She hated them. Even German food was out of the question from this point on. All she wanted was to start over far away from the Front Lines.
“Next stop, Hot Springs!”
The clarion call of the train whistle followed the conductor’s announcement with a glorious exclamation. A waft of mountain air breezed through the window, dampening the unusual May warmth with the scent of honeysuckles and fresh rain. Hope tickled a dangerous longing, fragile and as broken as she was, but she grasped its promise. A smile bloomed awake. Even if she was damaged beyond the use of war or the makings of a wife, even if nightmares stole her sleep and fear ripped at her peace of mind, one place always promised a sense of belonging—the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The pale summer sky painted a faded backdrop behind the blue-hewn mountains lining the track. As the train curved and slowed its pace, those precious mountains opened in grand theatrical style to unveil the moss-green roof of her hometown’s pride and joy, The Mountain Park Hotel. People travelled from all over to benefit from the waters bubbling from Painted Rock Mountain, and the extravagant hotel set the stage for a first-class experience. Not that Jessica had ever benefited from the massages or treatments, or even seen the inside of the marble-pooled bathhouse, but as a child, she�
�d caught glimpses of the rich visitors and heard tales from local employees.
The white clapboard depot edged into view, and beyond it, the vast lawn of the exclusive inn. Her breath caught with the lurching halt of the train. Were those barracks? She leaned closer to the window, blinking to clear her vision. Rows of long wooden buildings littered the once-manicured lawn. She stood, her hand steadied against the window and gaze transfixed. Men—hundreds of them—moved upon the anomaly of barracks and barbed wire. Had the war followed her home?
Surely not.
This was Hot Springs. Home. Safety.
“Miss Jesse?”
The familiar voice sliced into Jess’ living nightmare. She shook off her stupor and looked up to meet the familiar smile of Stanley Donaldson, her grandfather’s best friend and station master of the quaint little depot.
“I’ve checked every train that’s come by the last two days, hoping one would bring you home.”
Jessica gripped the back of the seat in front of her and pulled herself upright, careful to keep her limp in check. “Stan, if you’re not a sight for sore eyes, I don’t know what is.”
The man blushed at the compliment. “Now, Miss Jesse, I reckon there’s a lot nicer sights to see besides my wrinkly face, but you sure do this heart good.” He patted his chest. “And your grandparents will be plum tickled to know you arrived safe.”
She tipped her chin. “Stan, you don’t think a little thing like war is going to keep me from coming home, do you?”
“Land sakes, Miss Jesse.” Stan adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses with a chuckle. “Them Kaisers were probably afraid to keep a spitfire like you too close. Afraid you might take a few of them down.”
Stan’s words doused the welcome, chilling Jessica’s skin. She’d certainly taken one of them down. At point-blank range. Her throat closed with the memory. And she’d have taken more of the Hun if given the chance. A shudder quaked her frame and she forced a quick smile. “Don’t you remember what Daddy always said about me? ‘It’s hard to put out a spitfire.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Stan’s smile grew. “And it’s a good thing too. Don’t think your family could’ve done with any more tragedy.”
Jessica shoved the grief behind a hard-won shrug, ready to leave the tender topic for a more private audience, and then turned to reach for her cane. The scene out the window provided a perfect switch of conversation. “What’s happening over at the hotel, Stan? It looks like the war followed me home.”
Stan’s gray eyebrows shot skyward as color dotted his cheeks at the corners of his moustache. “Your grandma didn’t write you about the internees at the camp?”
Internees? Her gaze flitted back to the window and the rows of young men on the Inn’s lawn. What sort of camp?
“Let me get you off the train first.” He shuffled with his pockets and then reached for Jessica’s bag, clearly avoiding her question. “No need for you to stand on that leg any longer than you have to.”
She pinched her lips into a tight smile. She’d play along for a few more minutes and then light into Stan like the spitfire she was.
“My leg doesn’t hurt much. Some of the nerves were damaged when the bullets lodged in my thigh, but—”
Stan winced.
Jess stepped out of nurse mode. She wasn’t on the battlefield anymore. “Anyway, it’s a weak leg, but not painful.” She offered some levity. “And the limp will only add swagger.”
“You know good and well you had plenty of swagger before you left.” Stan laughed and took her proffered bag. “Only one bag?”
“There were plenty of women back in France who needed my extra clothes much more than I did.”
Stan steadied his gaze on her and a sad grin poked from under his moustache. “Your mother would be real proud of you, girl.”
He turned and exited the train, but Jess couldn’t move. His gentle statement fell like a brick against her stomach. Loss brought a weight with it, no matter how distant the grief, the unexpected invasion of tears an unnerving consequence. She needed privacy... or some mental occupation, but not silence, and definitely no more talk of loss.
She raised her chin and gripped the cane with purpose, shuffling between the rows of train seats to the doorway. Navigating stairs still made her nervous, especially the narrow and steep train steps. She turned her body and lowered her cane to distribute some of her weight for the first step, then the second, but the sudden appearance of men marching across the platform distracted her descent to the third. They made two lines of khaki slacks and white shirts, the steady clap of shoe-upon-wood in perfect synchrony. She knew it well, even if the sound was dulled from her hearing loss. The men weren’t dressed like soldiers, but their stiff spines and focused attention confirmed previous military training.
Four other men, one at each corner of the row, kept in time with the men, and their uniforms set them apart. Guards?
What was happening?
Her weak leg twisted under her poised position, pitching her toward the platform and the oncoming men. She turned her body so her wounded side would take the impact, but two strong arms caught her before the wooden planks did.
Her cane clattered to the platform and her hat tumbled down over her face, blocking her view of her rescuer. Which was a mercy, since her face burned so hot from embarrassment she was pretty sure it resembled Red Delicious apples.
Strong and gentle hands moved to her shoulders to steady her. She tried to overcompensate for her limp by leaning on her right leg and with a swift touch, drew her braid around to cover her injured ear.
A fingertip emerged at the base of her hat and slowly pushed the masses of cloth and fluff back from her face. At first, she saw his firm jaw and crooked grin, then a perfect symmetrical nose which, after treating tons of facial wounds, was quite the sight, and finally, she met a pair of eyes so pale-blue, they looked periwinkle. Paired with his exquisite nose and his lopsided smile, it was the most stunning sight she’d seen since the Blue Ridge Mountains appeared over the horizon.
She fully appreciated the fact the explosion had taken her left hearing instead of her left sight, because she wanted her whole field of vision for this view. Had she ever seen such a man? His gaze searched hers as if he knew her, intimate and not uncomfortable, exactly. Energy zipped between them, taking the heat from her cheeks and sending it downward. His close-cropped hair couldn’t hide the swirls of blond curl which softened the soldier-look without diminishing his sheer manliness. Jess’ limited experience with attraction left her ill-equipped for the fireworks sizzling in her stomach and the complete loss of words from her head.
His smile softened. “Are you all right, Miss Ross?”
He knew her name? And what was his accent? She’d heard it before. English? French?
“Y... yes. Thank you.”
“I was happy to be helpful to you.”
Those eyes held such sincerity and interest, Jessica stumbled through trying to identify his voice. Was he Australian? “Well, you’ve certain done so. I’m much obliged to you, Mr.—?”
His face sobered, his gaze searching hers with an almost pleading expression. “August Reinhold.”
Reinhold?
Her heartbeat shot up to machine-gun speed and the beautiful warmth in her chest solidified to a block of ice.
German.
***
A connection of pure attraction jolted through August Reinhold at his first glimpse of Jessica Ross on the train steps. Schock. Black and white photos from her grandparents’ home gave a pale comparison to the original. Her hair, the rich gold of alpine poppies, curled up under a green hat the same shade as her eyes, and what eyes—alive and intelligent, swirling with various shades of emerald.
Eight months of stories about her from her grandparents only deepened the connection. In full color, peeking from beneath her hat, her beauty stopped his breath. The faintest touch of curiosity curved her pink lips, twisting his heart with the desire to bring a full smile. His arms st
eadied her against him, her breath sighed out with hints of peppermint mingled with honeysuckles, and August drowned in a second’s certainty. For the briefest moment, they shared the attraction, the interest, both examining each other with mutual understanding of much more than spoken words... until he said his name.
Those emerald eyes widened, and recognition dawned a painful birth.
Kalt.
As cold as the winter winds on the Alps.
He’d known rejection from Americans since the War began, but when Jessica Ross pulled back from him and sent him a look as severe as any slap he’d ever known, pain jabbed to his core.
“Excuse me.” She held his gaze and snatched the cane he lifted from the ground. “Thank you.”
The acknowledgement squeezed from between her teeth. She blinked and moved past him into the depot without a look back. August pulled his eyes from her retreating back and met Guard Cliff Carter’s thoughtful expression.
“I see you’ve met my cousin.”
“I have.” August pressed a palm against the ache in his chest. “Indeed, I have.”
“Let me give you fair warning before you start conjuring up crazy notions in that head of yours.” Cliff patted August on the shoulder and shook his head in solace. “You’ve won over a lot of folks, August, but you’ll not win the likes of her.”
August squinted in the direction Jessica had disappeared, Cliff’s consolation more of a challenge than a deterrent. After spending months with Jessica’s grandparents, he knew enough of her painful war experiences to expect little else. But life had offered him many challenges to overcome, and this one provided the most appealing package. “We shall see.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, friend.” Cliff chuckled. “Do you have your pass?”
August turned back to Cliff, his mind catching up with the question. “Ja.” August corrected quickly for the kind-hearted guard, keeping to the rules of English with the Americans, and produced the necessary paper. “Yes, I have it.”
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