“You worked wonders, I’ll say.” Mrs. Carter waved a fried chicken leg at him before depositing it in the sack. “I gave that chair and table up for scrap.”
“I’ve always enjoyed creating with wood.” The admission faltered, shrouded in darker memories. “But a skill not encouraged by mein Vater.” He bowed his head in apology, and quickly corrected to English. “My father.”
Mrs. Carter’s understanding smile smoothed away some of the residual sting of his father’s harshness. “Well, it’s appreciated here.” She placed the sack up on the counter. “I have some fresh cookies you ought to take with you on the walk back to town.”
“How is it you have sugar in this time of no sugar?”
Mrs. Carter dusted off her hands and turned to the cookie jar. “Molasses.”
August looked to Jessica for clarification, which she gave with a reluctant shrug. “We have a molasses tree on our property, so Granny will leave the jar of molasses open and the top crystalizes into sugar.”
“Which allows me to have just a little extra on those ration days.”
“You are amazing, Mrs. Carter.”
The woman’s eyes sparkled. “No, I’m just a woman desperate for sugar. We all have our secret passions.”
“Or not so secret,” Jessica interjected, the faintest hint of a smile lighting the corners of her pink lips in response to her grandmother’s infectious mirth.
The softening produced a beautiful breach in the frown he’d come to recognize as commonplace and kindled a desire to uncover the smile lost behind all of her brokenness.
She looked over at him and the hint faded, and the disapproving frown returned.
It was a good thing August believed in miracles.
Chapter Four
“You were right.”
Cliff Carter looked up from his post at the front gate of the internment camp and tipped his grin. “This should not be a surprise, August.” He patted August’s shoulder as he passed beyond the barbed wired fence into the Lower Lawn of the Inn’s grounds. “But to which of my many predictions do you refer?”
“Your lovely cousin.”
Cliff’s lips took a downward turn and he winced. “Bad?”
August folded his arms across his chest and sighed.
Cliff tipped his hat back and whistled, his gray eyes lighting with their customary twinkle. “Can’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
“I had hoped for a different outcome. Especially after I saved her life.”
“What?” Cliffs question burst with humor.
August shrugged away the disappointment and reminded himself of the bits Dr. and Mrs. Carter had shared of Jessica’s tragedies in the war, particularly her brother’s near-death at the hands of a German, no less.
“She threatened me, too.”
Cliff’s chuckle turned into a full laugh. He removed his cap to reveal his dark ginger hair. “Yep, that sounds like my cousin. I tried to warn you, friend.” He waved the cap toward August before returning it to his head. “Does Jess’ warm reception change your plans?”
The teasing tilt of Cliff’s smile sparked August’s grin. “No, but I should have liked it to be easier.”
Cliff gestured toward the expansive complex strewn across the lawn and the remains of a golf course. The inn rose in front of them, overlooking the grounds like a sentry, its mossy green roofs blending into the lush leaves completing the forests on the surrounding mountainsides. “I don’t think anything worth having is going to be easy, August.”
“I shouldn’t mind a few easy conquests for a change.”
Cliff’s laugh rang out and he thumbed over his shoulder in the general direction of the Carters. “Then you should have chosen a different blonde in town.”
August chuckled, shaking his head and walking toward the inn across the massive front lawn of the Mountain Park Hotel. Jessica Ross brought a swirl of contradicting visions to mind. Her stubborn silence during the surgery paired with her calm logic. Her double-edged humor. The softening of gentleness over her stoic expression at her first glimpse of her grandfather.
That look told him more than words. More than wounds.
The breeze whispered warm against his cheeks, ushering in hints of summer on the honeysuckle air. August glanced up into the waning sky, humming with the orange and red hues of sunset. He paused to breathe in the beauty, a new view each evening as the Blue Mountains framed the sky on every side of the small town. Home? Yes.
Rising above a crop of aged trees and the clutter of surrounding barracks, an elaborate complex of board and wire fencing contrasted with the elegance of the elegant inn. August paused in his steps to appreciate the three-story structure as the fading hues of daylight haloed its whitewashed walls with a golden glow. The rich green roof capped the top in pointy spires at each end of the long, window-lined structure, giving it the faintest appearance of a castle.
Though August’s home failed to match the size of the 200-room inn, he knew the finery in such a distinguished lifestyle. Servants, the newest amenities, and a father who favored wealth and expectation over family. In hindsight, it was good his elder brother fit the mold his father carved with an iron grasp, leaving August freedom enough to disappoint the patriarch in almost every possible way.
The slow-healing wound awakened the familiar ache, the longing for what might have been. His father fell prey to a generations’ curse of wealth, power, and the ultimate corruption—a pattern August used an ocean and a thousand hate-filled words to sever.
Lovelessness.
The pale stone of his family’s ancestral home, an estate conquering an entire landscape near Frankfurt, displayed the picture well. Powerful, intriguing, cold... a dying hope. A white-washed tomb.
August bathed the pain in a prayer, accepting the scars left behind from a family life as war-torn as any battlefield, and finished his walk up the lane to the inn. Only the ships’ officers enjoyed the accommodations of the inn, but August’s service to one of the captains allowed him a place in the barracks near the inn on the Lower Lawn. And though sharing three or more men to a room in the beautiful inn, with its electric lights and steam heat, might have been an adjustment for some of the officers, it was a vast improvement over the bunk-lined barracks heated with stoves. Especially in an Appalachian winter.
August slid in the side door of the inn and donned an apron to assist in serving the officers, a routine duty which also kept him abreast of pertinent information. The white-columned dining hall stretched before him, still with its original elegance though now housing seamen instead of guests. A variety of officers occupied the black leather chairs, mostly men from German and Austrian ships detained in port when America joined the war over a year before. A year as an ‘enemy alien,’ exchanging the cage of a ship for the wire fencing of the internment camp. His grin curled. The rolling hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains provided a sweet comfort to him the mighty waves never had—healing through the kindness and friendship of the Carters.
“They mean to move us. Soon.”
The quiet conversation drew August closer to a table where Captains Nisse and Luther sat in close proximity.
“Bah.” Captain Ruser waved away the words, his white brows crimped. “And where would they send us. Why? We’ve done nothing to bring trouble.”
“Most of us did nothing to bring capture on our heads either, yet here we are.” Captain Luther gestured to the room. “Prisoners.”
Ruser’s laughed echoed up to the elaborately ornamented ceiling. “Prisoners? Here?” He patted his belly and caught sight of August bringing fresh coffee to their table. “What say you, Reinhold? Do you think this is the way prisoners live?”
August’s grin twitched as he took another glance over the mahogany furnishings and elegant room.
“Ah, see. This is a palace compared to Oglethorpe where the true prisoners go. We are not prisoners. We are...” He waved a hand in the air. “Guests on a leash.”
Luther slammed his hand against the table.
“I tell you, Ruser, I heard Polk say it himself. The government is making plans to move us, and soon.”
The previous calm in August’s chest fisted tight. Move?
“Don’t fret, Reinhold. Luther’s creating a thunderstorm on a clear day. We are safe from Oglethorpe and the other prison camps for now. Let the storm come when it will, but don’t seek it.”
August met Luther’s dark eyes but quickly turned to help in the kitchens. After years of searching and praying for a place to belong, he’d found it nestled between these quiet mountains, and the last place he wanted to go was somewhere else.
***
A shell burst to Jess’ right, knocking her to the soggy ground and sending a shudder throughout her damp body. She pressed her hands into the clammy soil and pushed up to her feet, only to quake again at another explosion. Bursts of light flashed in time with the deafening thud of detonation, but she pushed forward, determined to make it to the shelter of the Casualty Clearing Station.
She wiped the mud against her filthy apron but the dampness remained, clinging to her skin more than it should. In the light of the next blast she looked down at her palms. Her skin rushed cold. Bright red stained her hands. Blood. She stumbled back, the light of another explosion glowing off the pale, lifeless faces of hundreds of corpses strewn across the war-torn field. Some she could name. Others blended in to the thousands covered in the memory and mud of a senseless war.
Smoke rose around her, before her, in an unearthly cloud of sickening green. She pulled her apron up to cover her nose and mouth, stifling a scream, but a vision appeared through the cloud. The haunting figure stepped from the smoke, the face free of any mask to protect him as if, by some supernatural power, he withstood the mustard gas. His black eyes bored into her, igniting a tremor and shaking her to her knees. Perhaps he’d always been inhuman. A demon. The shadow lingering in the darkness behind every choice, every fear.
He stalked toward her and she felt his touch while he was still out of reach... his rancid breath, hot and horrible against her throat, his forceful lips against hers. His cold hands moving over her skin, scratching and pawing like the monster he was.
His fingers, stained with the same death-hue as hers, reached out to her, a warning, a promise of the violence to follow. A scream lodged in her throat, dying against the fear snatching her breath. With steel fingers, he gripped her arms, pinching into her flesh. She squeezed her eyes closed to avoid his heated gaze, flailing against his hold as his talons stabbed more firmly into her.
“Jessica.”
She fought, but the hands held fast.
“Jessica, honey. Wake up.”
The voice, firm but ever so familiar, pierced into the shadows, lighting her mind. A rescuer? The hold on her arms loosened, and she worked to open her heavy eyelids.
“Come on, sweet girl. No one’s going to hurt you.”
Granny? The darkness dispersed as light seeped beneath her lashes. Her granny’s face came into view by lantern light. Sweat dampened Jessica’s skin with a sticky chill. She shivered and drew the blankets in to her chest as her granny’s palms wiped cool tears from her face.
“It was a dream.”
“A nightmare. The same nightmare. Over and over again.” Her words dissolved into a trail of sobs and she fought against another chill squeezing between her shoulder blades. “So many faces.”
Granny’s arms wrapped around her, warm and safe, a comforting respite from the gnawing fear. The weakness—the bone-tired weakness—peeled through her body and pushed her further into her granny’s arms.
“I need to be strong, to get through this. Why can’t I be strong? Why...” She clutched her granny’s arm, a new wave of tears blurring her vision. “I’m anxious all of the time. My heart... it’s never quiet. I want to run away from my own skin, but I can’t escape.”
Her granny’s rough palm smoothed back her damp hair then rested on her cheek, guiding her attention into those knowing, compassionate eyes. “You’re broken, girl. Filled with so many wounds and scars.”
Jessica reached to cover the wretched mark down her neck, but granny shook her head.
“Those aren’t the scars that bind you as much as the ones on the inside.” She spun a golden lock of Jess’ hair around her finger. “You need time and love to help you heal.”
Jess pulled back, wiping her fingers over her damp face. “I just want one ounce of peace. One hour of restful sleep. One night without...” A sob closed over her words. “One night without... without the fear.”
“Home and love are good places to start with your fight against fear.” Granny gave Jess’ cheek a gentle pat. “And a way to find your faith.”
“Faith?” She bit back a very uncharitable retort and wiped at her face with her hand. Pushing back the blankets, she reached for her robe and sent her granny an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
Granny grinned, but her eyes kept a sober stare. “Don’t worry about me. When you reach a certain age, you don’t sleep no how. Or at least not the same hours you did when you was young.”
Jessica tightened the belt around her waist and allowed a smile to settle on her face. Despite the wrinkles from age and trouble on her grandmother’s face, an aura of welcome surrounded her—like a warm hearth on a snowy day... or a refuge in a heart-wrenching storm.
“You know what your grandpa would suggest under such circumstances?”
Jessica’s grin twitched a little wider, welcoming the distraction and terrified to release the hope Granny offered in the face of such darkness. How could Jessica grasp such a slippery hope when its promises appeared so fleeting and inconsistent? “A midnight snack sets the appetite to rights, both in body and mind.”
Granny chuckled, linking an arm through Jessica’s and stepping to the door. “Not much sense in it, I suppose, but it’s served your grandpa well these many years. I think we ought to try it.”
Jessica stopped at the stairs, the lingering shadows calling her from the darkened bedroom. Moonlight paved the stairway in a beautiful halo of white. “Thank you, Granny.”
Granny’s jaw took on a fighting tension in the pale light and she tightened her grip on Jessica’s arm. “We’ll get through this together, girl.” Her gray gaze bored deep, holding strength and promise Jessica couldn’t find. Couldn’t grasp. “You’re not alone. Never have been. Never will be.”
***
Jessica hadn’t taken much notice of the little town when she’d left the train depot in such an angry state the day before. So focused on speaking her mind to her grandfather and placing as much distance between the infernal Germans and herself, she’d failed to notice a fully repaired bridge crossing the French Broad. Grandpa had spoken of how the Flood tore it down, but there it stood, connecting tiny Hot Springs to the other side of the river.
In the two years since her mother’s death, Hot Springs remained the same—a few buildings huddled together along a dusty main street encapsulated by a hedge of mountains. The impressively large depot topped the hill from the Inn, and the street made a gradual decline into town. The Mercantile stood ceremoniously as the most recognizable feature except for the Iron Horse Tavern and the Presbyterian church steeple, the latter two on opposite sides of town for the good of both parties... and the spouses who claimed them.
The smell of fresh-hewn pine—no doubt from Mr. Kimper’s widdling habit—and a conglomeration of spices mixed with tin greeted her as she stepped into the familiar shop. A sweet warmth pooled through her at the faithful consistency of the scene. Other than a few new items on the shelves, Kimper’s Mercantile looked exactly the same as she’d left it—a grab-bag of necessary items all in one place.
Shelves to her left displayed canned food of all varieties, with the coveted flour and sugar housed safely behind Mr. Kimper’s counter. A few ready-made garments hung on a rack to the right. Nothing like Madame Rouselle’s famous boutique back in her father’s childhood town of Ednesbury, but impressive for the small mountain to
wn. Jessica’s sister-in-law, Catherine, would love the opportunity to revolutionize the fashion of rural little Hot Springs.
Hot Springs wasn’t prepared for that sort of fiery revolution.
Jess’ smile spread at the thought of her spirited sister-in-law and her gentle brother. What a combination! A perfect complement of personalities in the most unexpected of ways.
A toy fighter plane hung by a string from the ceiling, encouraging little American boys to play the war from home. Jessica grimaced. Too many boys lost that game in real life.
Only a few people shopped in the mercantile. The top of a man’s head rose over a shelf in the back, and a woman waited by the counter. The quiet, predictable small-town life unwound the tension in Jess’ shoulders.
“Jessica Ross?”
The thick-shouldered clerk, Mr. Enoch Kimper, gave an enthusiastic pat to the counter which caused the waiting woman to jump.
“Good morning, Mr. Kimper.”
“I heard you’d arrived. Why, Stanley Donaldson’s already spread the news from Marshall to Asheville, if I know him.”
Jess had often heard other people refer to Kimp as a gruff sort, but she’d only known the welcome side of the mountain-of-a-man. Grandpa said it was because Jess tutored Kimp’s son, Frank, in reading and math while they attended the little two-room school.
“I’m certain you exaggerate.” Though most likely not.
He laughed, a loud, hearty sound filling the shop, and then he tipped his head in her direction. “I have something for you.”
The glint in his eyes gave his intentions away and unfolded Jessica’s smile in anticipation. Kimp reached into the icebox and unveiled an ice cold Dr. Pepper. Jess mouth watered from the sight. It had been two years since she’d tasted the sweet fizz of her favorite drink. An unexpected laugh bubbled from her throat.
“Mr. Kimper, you are my current favorite person.”
He popped the top of the glass bottle and handed it over the counter. “You’ve done too much for my son. This is the least I can offer.”
The Thorn Healer Page 5