Chapter Three
August carefully put away the surgical supplies as Dr. Carter checked Mr. Buchanan in the next room. He’d never assisted in something as delicate as a blood transfusion, but the intense nature of the procedure kept his mind distracted from the seething rage burning in the eyes of the green-eyed beauty across the surgical table —or somewhat distracted. Jessica Ross proved difficult to put completely from his mind.
Her skilled fingers had moved from one step to the next, certain, and she only hesitated when she had to interact with him. His confidence wobbled a little from her clear disdain, but thanks to the letters her grandparents had shared with him over dinner, he knew the wounds beneath her anger. Scars held power, their lingering sting bleeding into the present.
Yes. He understood. His past lay stained with them, but time left him a choice—reopen the wounds with bitterness or see the scars as wrongs forgiven. He’d chosen the latter, and as each day broadened the gap between his pain and his present, the wounds hurt less. The Carters and beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains had been God-sent balms to repair some of his brokenness into a new future. A new home.
A place to finally belong.
And Jessica Ross may not realize it yet, but August knew as certainly as the taste of rain in the afternoon air that she needed him. And he wanted her. The fire, the confidence, the family. His grin returned. He only had to convince her.
“Don’t be too put off by my granddaughter, August. She’s a good sort once she gets past her pride.”
August finished cleaning the tubes used for the transfusion and cast another glance through the doorway to the patient, so pale and weak... with new blood pumping through his veins to replace what was lost.
August’s blood.
Dr. Carter had told him his blood type was the perfect donor. O. It could be used for anyone. And so it had, three times. August always found it fascinating and rather remarkable, but from the appearance of Mr. Buchanan, not even August’s blood might save the man.
August sent Dr. Carter a keen look. “You should have told her about the camp. About me. She hurts from the shock of her world changed.”
Dr. Carter ran a hand through his thick hair and released a sigh, removing his surgical apron. “She needed to come home. I didn’t want to give her a reason to stay away.”
“She is not a child, my friend.” August’s grin peaked again. “Definitely not a child.”
Dr. Carter shook his head with a chuckle. “You’re supposed to keep those thoughts about my granddaughter in your own mind, August.”
“I have a hard time with keeping important words inside.”
“Well, you’re going to find Jess rarely keeps her words inside, important or not. And I’m afraid this war, all this loss, has loosened her tongue even more. She doesn’t always think before she speaks.”
“Anger hardens the heart and softens the head,” August whispered, the admission splintering with the regret he carried like the memories of a mother he’d never see again.
“Words from experience?”
Dr. Carter’s emerald gaze, so like his granddaughter’s, gentled with compassion. Compassion August had come to crave from this man who provided more of the image of a father than his ever had.
“I did not become a sailor out of clear thinking. I became one out anger.” He tapped his forehead. “Soft-head thinking.”
Dr. Carter grabbed Mr. Buchanan’s wrist, checking the man’s pulse again as he would do for many hours to come. “No, you don’t strike me as the sailor sort.”
“But it has taught me to give excellent sutures, no?”
Dr. Carter nodded and released Mr. Buchanan’s arm, his face sober. “Don’t you see how God can take our mistakes and turn them around? I’m grateful more than I can say for you arriving into our lives when you did. You done this old man good.”
August’s vision blurred from the swell of gratitude. He placed his palm to his chest. “And you’ve done this young man good. God has used you to soften his heart.”
“It takes one wounded, hardheaded sort to recognize another. My granddaughter got it honestly, I’m afraid.” Dr. Carter shook his head and slumped into a chair near the door to Mr. Buchanan’s room. “And it’s probably why you feel a kinship with her.”
Yes. An unusual ‘kinship’ born from meeting her through war letters read aloud, from stories told by her grandparents, and an undeniable desire to mend her wounded heart. Something as benign as hearing those letters formed an immediate bond when he finally saw her face-to-face. He’d never nurtured the notion of love at first sight, but when she turned those bright green eyes on him, he lost his heart into her hands. “I doubt the feeling is shared, but I plan to change that.”
Dr. Carter raised a doubtful brow. “Well, if anyone can test that steady patience of yours, it’s going to be Jessica. You should ask the Reverend Marshall about her. I can’t tell you how many times she would argue some point with him about the Good Book until one of them was proven wrong. He said she certainly kept him on his theological toes. There was this one time—”
Dr. Carter took off on a long ramble about how Jessica argued the fact that the Christmas’ angel who appeared to the shepherds was named Harold because every year the congregation would sing the carol Hark the “Harold” Angels Sing.
August chuckled and finished cleaning up the soiled bandages. “Her humor shone through her anger, even today. Very little, but I saw it.”
“I hope so, August.” Dr. Carter looked up from his final check, his face sober. “I hope that underneath all of her hurt we can find the girl who left years ago.”
“Or a beautiful combination of both girls, yes?”
A smile lit the older man’s eyes. “Yes, I want to believe that, son.”
Son. The endearment was laced with a mixture of warmth and regret every time, though the more Dr. Carter used it, the less the sting.
“By the way, I’m afraid you’re gonna need a clean shirt. The apron didn’t protect your sleeves.”
August followed Dr. Carter’s nod to the white arm of his sleeve and the splattering of blood making a trail from his wrist to his elbow.
“Doesn’t this make your third ruined shirt in as many weeks?”
August shrugged with his grin. “I know a good seamstress.”
***
Time and a glimmering hope failed to prepare her for the vision of the chapel’s remains. Jessica slowed as she approached the almost hallowed site of so many childhood and family memories, a place as beautiful as the past she cradled close.
But the 1916 Flood had not only taken lives from the little town of Hot Springs, it had also snatched away something else. Pieces of her past. The chapel, once a quaint white beacon overlooking the French Broad River, lay in a tangled heap of white-washed boards and time-worn debris. Once hemmed in on three sides by the forest, now saplings grew up through the center of the broken floorboards. Walls left open to the elements failed to resemble the once beautiful chapel her father had built for her mother before their wedding day. The place where she’d hoped to marry as well.
It housed thousands of precious memories, from the small services held by Reverend Marshall or even Rev Dorland, to Christmas celebrations, to Jessica’s own personal recognition of the grace of God. But now, only fragmented boards and weather-beaten rubble remained, a picture as broken and unused as her faith and a visual reminder of all she’d lost.
She stumbled forward, gripping at the trunk of a tree for stability, but her knees gave way and she crumbled to the ground at what used to be the chapel’s entrance. Visions of holding her mother’s hand at her deathbed two years earlier vied with a mental carousel of David’s lifeless face, or the myriad of other men she’d watched die from the wounds of war.
She’d known the flood threatened the building, but she couldn’t bear visiting the site after her mother’s death so the stark reality of the damage hit an agonizing blow. After all the pain, this one sweet, beautiful thing
lay in shambles like everything else? Wasn’t there anything unchanging on which to cling? Anything certain?
“Why?” Her question raked across her dry throat. She clawed at the damp ground and turned her face to the graying sky. “Why?” Her voice rose louder, piercing the tranquil forest sounds with a frantic longing. “You’ve taken so much from me already, did you have to take this too?” Her voice fell to a desperate whisper. “How can you see what’s happening and stay so silent?”
A warm wind rustled the leaves above her, cooling the tears on her cheeks, but there was no voice, no calm... no answer. She squeezed her eyes closed and pushed herself up from the ground, hardening her heart against hope. No. She was finished with holding a faith that dangled her on an imaginary thread.
She stepped forward into the rubble, the broken past. A single pew sat in the center of the mess, broken glass and ragged wooden planks scattered all around it. The life she knew in Hot Springs lay as wrecked as the church... or the battlefields of France. It was time to start over and bury the hurt along with countless men and women she’d watched die. And maybe her dwindling faith deserved a place alongside the memories too. Long gone.
Her harsh response to her grandmother came back to mind and hammered into her bitterness. Jess wiped away the remnant of tears and sighed out into the silence. Her grandmother didn’t deserve Jess’ rage. Oh no, only God should be the beneficiary... along with the entire camp of Germans on the other side of town.
Including August Reinhold.
The further she stayed away from him, the better for all involved.
She turned and started at a march up the overgrown path, ignoring the whispers of wind that called her to enjoy the birdsong serenade. Visiting the demolished chapel proved slowing down opened her heart to loss with enough force to consume her.
She forged ahead, forcing the tears to dry. The stone cottage, her parents’ haven, emerged to her right, but she ignored the pull to relax her pace at the once welcome threshold.
Her grandparents needed to become her focus, along with stepping back into the profession which filled her with purpose and occupation. The past offered little for comfort, and her faith? She shook her head. Even less.
She took the porch steps and walked through the back door of the farmhouse. Granny stood in the kitchen, almost as Jessica had left her.
“I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you.” She stopped at the doorframe of the room and ran a calming hand down her long braid. “Please forgive me.”
Granny walked over and rested her palm on Jessica’s cheek, her gray eyes brimming with enough compassion to reawaken those feelings she’d left in the forest. “Jesse, I can’t understand all you’ve endured these years in Europe, but I do know what it’s like to grieve.”
“I know you do.” Jess covered Granny’s hand with her own, pride bowing even more to the knowledge that her Granny had lost a daughter, both parents, and a son within the course of her life, not to mention a myriad of friends along the way.
Death was no respecter of persons. Neither was grief.
“You’re not alone, little girl. You’ve never been alone in your whole life.” She patted Jess’ cheek and stepped back. “Remember that, once the anger fades.”
Jess bit back a retort. Granny understood loss, but not the soul-stripping pain of watching tens of men die. Or the utter helplessness of being overpowered by a traitor. Jess couldn’t cling to the promises of a God who moved everyone around like pawns on a crooked chessboard and then expected them to still worship Him. A faith with such twisted implications only tightened the knot of acidic anger. Too many scars ripped across her heart to keep her grip on Someone who failed to stop the horrible agonies of war and betrayal. And despite her grandparents’ current admiration for the Germans, Jess could never trust them. Not after all they’d done.
But a question whispered over the hardened shell of her heart. Her granny, with all her loss? Her grandpa, with the thousands of people he’d watched die throughout his career as a mountain doctor? Neither seemed weak to cling to, and even celebrate, their faith. How could she reconcile the contradiction? Faith and loss? Strength and brokenness?
She shielded her thoughts against the hope. A deceitful light as brilliant as Lucifer himself. The tenderness in her granny’s expression threatened to undo Jess’ fragile emotions so she looked out the window, out onto the vast back lawn which reached to the tree line. A movement from the cottage drew her gaze to the inviting red door framed with the earthen hues of field stone.
A man stepped from the cottage. Jess leaned closer, examining the strong, lean form. Didn’t her granny say they’d rented the house to a woman? A widow? As the stranger turned, golden hair shining like a halo in the sunlight, his face became clear.
Jessica’s stomach pinched.
August Reinhold.
She narrowed her eyes. Someone that handsome and German had to be up to no good, and this sneaking around proved her point. She’d catch him before he slid back to town without enough sense to be ashamed of visiting a young widow unchaperoned.
Jess moved toward the back door. “Who did you say rented Daddy and Mama’s cottage?”
Granny shot her a look of pure confusion. “Widow. Come down to be close to family.”
Family, my eye. Jessica growled and reached for the back door knob, jerking it wide, only to come face-to-face with the fallen angel himself. Complete with that infuriating golden lock brushing over his forehead like a temptation.
***
August had no chance to knock before the door flung wide and he stared directly into the face that had filled his musings the entire walk. Her wide eyes, emeralds of emotion, narrowed after a moment and she crossed her arms in front of her chest.
“What are you doing here?”
“Do you play lawn badminton?”
The question served its purpose by distracting her from whatever dislike she nursed against him... or rather Germany in its entirety.
Both golden brows fluttered high. “What?”
“Do you play lawn badminton?” He gestured toward the net in the grassy field stretching between the two houses.
Her attention followed the wave of his hand and then moved back to his face, narrowed eyes zeroing in along with her whisper. “I saw you come out of the cottage, so you don’t fool me. I know you’re up to something.”
How could her misdirected fury be so charming? Why not feed the flame, nein? He lowered his voice to hers and topped his grin with a wink. “All sorts of mischief, Nurse Ross. Saving lives and visiting widows.”
He’d caught her off-guard, but it only took a moment for her to recover her fire. “Clearly, I’m the only one who can see through this...” She waved a palm in the air toward his face. “Handsome and generous façade. You might have fooled the entire town of Hot Springs, but you haven’t fooled me. I’ve been in the trenches. I know what your kind are really capable of.”
He leaned in toward the flame. “Do you think me handsome?”
She groaned and rolled her eyes. “That’s all you heard?”
He shrugged. “I like the sound of it better than the nonsense.”
Her palms landed on her hips in battle stance, but her grandmother intervened.
“August.” Mrs. Carter’s arms widened in customary welcome. “What brings you out to the farm?”
He caught a glimpse of Jessica’s glare from over Mrs. Carter’s hug.
“I came to collect some provisions for your good husband, Mrs. Carter. As well as a change of clothes.”
“And why didn’t grandpa come on his own?” Jessica tilted her chin as if she’d unraveled some secret scheme of his.
August’s grin spread wide, enjoying a boyish fascination with her ire. “Because Mr. Buchanan was afraid I would finish the job the fall started for his father. He trusts me as much as you, I’m afraid.”
“You can’t win over everyone, August. Though only the blind and foolish fail to see what a joy you are.” Mrs.
Carter shot her granddaughter a pointed look, inspiring August’s smile anew. “I’m surprised you didn’t see Jessica on your walk to the farm. She just returned from the chapel.”
“Or where the chapel used to be,” Jessica murmured, slipping away from the door and back toward the kitchen, her simple blue dress bringing out the golden hues of her hair even more. Yes, in person was much better than letters.
“The chapel? Where your daughter was married?”
“Same.” Mrs. Carter nodded toward Jess. “Jess got quite a shock from the mess of it now. A devastated mess.” She walked to a hutch by the door and took a picture from its shelf. “Here it is the summer before the flood.”
August’s chest deflated. Jessica’s mother’s last summer.
He took the picture, examining it with careful hands. The faces drew him closer. A woman, undoubtedly Jessica’s mother, stood supported by a man August recognized from a previous portrait the Carters had shown him of Jessica’s father. Jessica stood to the other side as the bookend of support for the mother. The chapel rose behind them in the background, a simple yet delicate construction of painted white wood and hand-carved adornment.
“There is strong craftsmanship.” He looked up in time to see grief marking the frown on Jessica’s face before she cloaked it behind a well-placed snarl. “Not difficult to reproduce.”
Jessica took the picture from him. “No one can replace it.”
“Now, I wouldn’t toss out the idea altogether, girl.” Mrs. Carter moved to her usual place behind the counter and began piecing together a sacked meal. “You see that chair in the corner there?”
Jess gaze slipped from his and followed her grandmother’s gesture to the oak rocking chair.
“It was in shambles before August got his hands on it. Broken pieces, torn cloth. I’d kept it in the barn loft to use for kindlin’ come winter, but August took it and fixed it up. Did the same to one of my tables and your brother’s bed. He’s got a real gift for doctorin’ up broken things.”
Jessica sliced him a look smothered in doubt, renewing the challenge to make her like him... or at the very least, help her find her smile. “It’s difficult to break something that is already broken, so of course, I appear the wonder.”
The Thorn Healer Page 4