The Thorn Healer

by Pepper D. Basham

  She took the offering and raised it to her lips, the soda pop almost too sweet to her taste buds—but so good. “Thank you, Mr. Kimper. And how is Frank?”

  Mr. Kimper’s face fell and he finished ringing up the woman waiting before he answered. “Sent a letter that he’d arrived safe in France.” He hesitated, leaning against the counter. “Is it really as bad as they say?”

  Jess paused, contemplating her answer. Soften the blow? She pinched her eyes closed and sighed out a long stream of air before meeting the man’s gaze. No, families needed to know the truth. “I won’t lie to you, Kimp. It’s worse.”

  Kimp looked down and braced his palms against the counter. “Oh, God, help him.”

  She covered one of his hands with her own. “But with America joining, this war should be over much more quickly, and then Frank and our other boys can come home. We need them there so Germany wouldn’t take over the whole world like it’s taking over our town.”

  Too late. She hadn’t caught her bitter response in time, and Kimp’s brows responded to the fury.

  “I’m sorry. You know me. I speak before I think sometimes.”

  “Seems only right, you having a hard time with them being here. Especially since they left you crippled.”

  Jess reached for her braid and bit back a verbal tirade against his choice of words. She wasn’t crippled. Wounded, but not crippled. Those were two very different things. “How’s the town handled them?”

  He shrugged his big shoulder. “We had a little trouble in the beginning—nothing big, but enough to bring attention—but for the past eight months, nothin’. Been good for business, in fact. I’m sure it practically saved the Inn from closing down as much money as it was losin’ before the war.”

  Jess ignored any thoughts of good coming from Germans invading her little town. “Well, I’m glad the Inn is safe.”

  “But it’s a wonder your grandpa can serve as a doctor for them folks, knowing what you and your brother have been through. Even hiring one of ’em to help in the clinic? He must be closer to God than me, ʼcause I don’t reckon I could stomach helping any of ʼem if they hurt one of my kind.”

  Jess took another drink of the Dr. Pepper and avoided meeting Kimp’s eyes. As much as Kimp’s statement burned a deeper line in her own resentment, she couldn’t harbor ill will towards her Grandpa. His sturdy, consistent kindness and ready generosity beat against her anger like a steady rain, cooling the flames.

  “Grandpa’s always tried to look for the best in people. I can find fault in many things, as you well know.” Kimp’s smile returned, no doubt conjuring up memories of his many childhood exploits in correcting all the wrongs of Hot Springs. A warm rush blushed her cheeks. Saving the world turned out to be much more painful than a ten-year-old could imagine. “But I can’t fault with his goodness.”

  Kimp shook her head. “No, I reckon not.”

  Jess offered him the list her grandmother provided. “I’d like to pick up Granny’s order.”

  Kimp quickly gathered the items together and placed them in a small box, glancing down at her cane again. “Are you certain you don’t need help with these?”

  The warmth in her cheek brightened. “No, thank you.” She released a stream of air through her clenched smile, calming herself. “But I appreciate your offer.” She toasted him with her Dr. Pepper bottle. “And thank you for the pop.”

  “I’ll keep a stash for ya, Jesse-girl, rations or not.”

  The previous irritation fled with her grin. “Like I said, Kimp, you are one of my favorite people.”

  His chuckle followed her to the front of the store where a stranger appeared from the left and pushed the door wide. A brown Fedora, tilted in a fashionable way, topped his wealth of wavy hair. He’d loosened his tie to release the tension on his white collar, and his well-made suit jacket hung open. He wasn’t from Hot Springs.

  Jess looked up into eyes as dark as fresh molasses. His swept-back hair ran a shade darker, bringing out rich black rims around his irises. “Thank you.”

  He touched the tip of his hat, his grin sloped in the flattering way she’d witnessed among hundreds of soldiers. She squelched an eye-roll and maneuvered through the doorway, only to wobble at the threshold between managing her cane and the box of supplies, spilling two items to the floor.

  “Let me get those for you.” He swept down to retrieve them. “I wouldn’t envy you returning home without this.” He held out her coveted bag of sugar as if he offered a glass slipper. “Your husband will miss his sweet bread.”

  Oh, he oozed charm like an expensive cologne, and his accent only enhanced the air of sophistication. English. But why on earth would an educated man from across the globe show up in her little town? She’d play his game to find out. “Probably not, since I haven’t met him yet.”

  “How unfortunate for him.”

  She stepped outside and turned back to face the handsome stranger. “I have every hope he’ll make up for his tardiness.”

  “If he doesn’t, I’d say he wasn’t meant for you.” The stranger stepped out of the shop along with her, closing the door behind him.

  “Clever.” She propped her cane against her leg and offered her hand. “Jessica Ross.”

  She looked down, expecting him to take her offering, only to see he didn’t have a right hand—amputated, full up to his elbow.

  She lowered her palm. “I’m sorry.”

  “German shell.” He shrugged. “A nasty by-product of war, as you are keenly aware, I hear.”

  His gaze dropped to her cane. Charming and an eavesdropper? The faintest hint of warning rose its ugly head. For months, maybe even years, she’d fought a battle with an undercurrent of paranoia. Ever since one of the doctors she worked with at the Front turned out to be a German spy, capturing her and her brother, strangers produced an unsettling suspicion. Having a whole internment camp of them nearly stabbed like hundreds of knives into her nerve-endings.

  “Jasper Little, at your service, Miss Ross.”

  She surveyed him with fresh eyes. A soldier and Englishman? Already they had an entire backstory in common.

  “What happened?” Her directness might have put off a civilian, but not those who’d seen the terrors of war. Candor came as a welcome alternative to uncomfortable stares and nervous glances.

  He breathed out a sigh and removed his hat, running a hand through the dark masses of his hair. Despite his obvious and life-altering wound, he bore an easy confidence. Charismatic. A noteworthy accomplishment, at any rate.

  Or maybe it cloaked some insecurities.

  War left many scars, unseen.

  Another commonality.

  His dark eyes gave nothing away. Steady. Unswerving, with a certainty she admired.

  “Gangrene set in from a wound to my palm. There was nothing else to be done.”

  She nodded and turned, beginning her walk to her grandfather’s clinic. He kept in step. “And how did an Englishman find his way to our small town?”

  His eyes widened with the first sign of authenticity she’d seen in his face. “You know the accent? From your work in the war effort?”

  “My father is English.” The question in his gaze urged her to explain. “My mother was from this town, but my great aunt bestowed on her the gift of education. My parents met when she studied abroad.”

  “I can see how the mountain culture can bring with it a certain appeal.”

  His attention never left her face and another uncustomary blush stole into her cheeks at his poignant perusal. “I doubt the mountain appeal is what brought you to our particular part of Appalachia.”

  He chuckled and placed his hat back on his head. “You do get back to the point, don’t you?”

  “Makes it easier to dodge bullets when they’re coming at you.”

  His dark gaze zeroed in on hers, serious and unreadable. “True.” He looked ahead of them as they came to the Spring Creek Bridge. “It’s rather an interesting story, really. Before the war, I
was a history professor. American culture, particularly Southern American culture, was a unique interest of mine. I’d started studying the works of various researchers on the topic, its music and language—which mirrored much of the English culture.”

  “Older English culture.” Jess added with a grin.

  “Exactly. When I was called up to serve in the war, my history degree was little help, but I worked with one of the medics and began serving in some ways with him. It was difficult work, but rewarding in its own way.”

  She stopped to cross the street, studying him for a hint of duplicity or any authentic emotion whatsoever. “So you’ve come to the tiny town of Hot Springs to... be a medic?”

  He pulled her arm through his and started across the dusty road. Jess stiffened against his touch, uncomfortable at his quick familiarity. Though she’d spent years among young men of various personalities and types, she’d packed any dreams for romance behind a myriad of disappointments. With her wounds, the dreams evaporated into forever. But she couldn’t deny the pleasant warmth accompanying his touch and attention. After all the doubt from being damaged goods, could there be romance in her future?

  Hope proved a precarious perch at best, a path to despair at worst.

  “Actually, I’ve resorted to my previous interests. Your culture.” He helped her up the curb. “I stumbled upon Cecil Sharpe’s recent publications and am trying to follow up on his research.”

  It was her turn for surprise. “On balladry?”

  He nodded, his smile coming unhinged once again and drawing hers out. He continued walking with her as she maneuvered down the side street to her grandfather’s clinic. “It’s an easy transition. Your English background should strengthen your knowledge of the history. Most of the ballads woven into the fabric of our culture stem from our English and Scottish ancestors.”

  “Exactly.” His dark eyes glinted with excitement. “And should Mrs. Jane Gentry still be alive...?”

  “Oh, she’s very much alive and running a boarding house down the street.” She stopped in front of the clinic.

  “Excellent.” He tipped his head toward her. “And I’d like to be of assistance to your grandfather, if I may. I don’t have formal training, of course, but I’m willing help.”

  A smile shifted from an evolving idea directly to her lips. Perhaps a little encouragement for her grandfather to accept Mr. Little’s help might naturally lead to a cessation of German influences in her family’s life. Particularly August Reinhold’s presence.

  Perhaps Jasper Little was the perfect excuse to keep Germans, and their influences, behind their blessed fence and out of her life for good.

  Chapter Five

  August finished wrapping a fresh bandage over Mr. Buchanan’s leg wound. The man’s deep, even breaths gave no indication of the healing taking place within... or not. It had been a long night for the good Dr. Carter, and August moved quietly across the wooden floor as the doctor snored from a chair in the corner of the room. Though August attempted to fix his attention on the work at hand, Luther’s warning cast a shadow over his thoughts. Eleven months ago, when the train first deposited him in this tiny town, he’d craved a way out, even contemplated escape, but not now.

  From the welcome morning sky rising over a wall of blue mountains to the friendly townspeople to the hushed evening birdsong and cricket calls, this place breathed of home, of life.

  He stood from his place, careful to keep his movements quiet to ensure Dr. Carter’s continued rest, restoring various bottles to their places on the shelf. As he lifted the last container to its designated location, a movement outside the window caught his attention. A couple, arm-in-arm, walked down the lane toward the clinic.

  He tightened his grip on the bottle in his hand. Jessica Ross looked dazzling in a pale blue frock, her large white hat tilted to one side so that only a section of her face brimmed from beneath. She smiled—a small smile with a clever twist to one side, but more than she’d offered to him.

  And who was this stranger? A medium-sized fellow, lean, smartly dressed, and extremely close to August’s future bride. August’s fingers clattered over the bottles, sending one nearly toppling to the floor.

  “I’m not liking the look of this head wound, August.”

  August pulled his attention away from the pair in the window and back to Dr. Carter, who stood over the pale patient fighting for his life.

  “Maybe, if he makes it through one more night, we shall see a change, but I dare not leave him yet.”

  August glanced back over his shoulder at the pair getting closer to the clinic and his agitation burned in the pit of his stomach. But what right did he have for jealousy? Nein. He could claim no hold on her interest or her future, let alone her heart.

  “I’m sorry for the prolonged anxiety, good friend.” August would not succumb to the failures in his past. God had brought him beyond those glaring accusations and supported him with acceptance beyond his flaws. “You have worked tirelessly and there may yet bear fruit from your labors.”

  Dr. Carter bestowed his kind smile, a welcome balm over August’s agitation. “And there you go, as usual. Bringing sunshine into the storm.”

  And yet, still left in the rain alone, it would seem. What a fool! To imagine there could be a romance between the two of them? He’d known her, through those letters, for months, but she had no idea who he was... and even more, hated him because of his Fatherland. How could he win with such an offense against him?

  He shrugged off the melancholy and braced himself for the ensuing thunder with lovely blonde hair.

  “Patience is certainly the miracle-worker at times, this is true. Patience and consistent care.”

  And a miracle seemed the only option for Mr. Buchanan’s survival and August’s intentions for Jessica Ross. Patience and consistent care? Oh, God, help him!

  The door jingled with its opening, bringing Jessica, the stranger, and a cool breeze inside. Her emerald gaze scanned the room, taking inventory, it seemed, and finally landed on him. A frown slipped the previous smile away.

  “Good morning, Grandpa.” She graced August with another look and tipped her head. “Mr. Reinhold.”

  August responded in kind but Dr. Carter moved across the room, wiping his hands off on his apron as he approached. “Granddaughter.” Dr. Carter turned to the stranger. “And this is?”

  “Jasper Little.” Jessica continued, her welcome smile returning.

  August nearly dropped another bottle. Her smile lit her entire face... entrancing. Oh, to have it land on him.

  “We met over at Kimp’s. He’s only now arrived in town and I wonder if Mr. Little might not be useful to you.”

  Dr. Carter exchanged a glance with August and then placed his palm to his chest. “To me?”

  Something about newcomer bit into August’s optimism like a storm cloud in a blue sky, and it had to be more than a bout of jealousy at the way Mr. Little looked at Jessica.

  “He assisted medics at the Front and now he’s come to follow up with Mr. Cecil Sharpe’s balladry research,” Jessica said.

  “The Englishman who recorded Jane Gentry singing all those folk songs?” Dr. Carter gestured toward the wall on the same side as Sunnybank Boarding house, where the kind woman lived as proprietor and Hot Springs’ vigilant storyteller.

  “Precisely.” The man spoke for the first time, stepping forward and sweeping his cap off his head. “Before the war, I was a history professor, you see, but I’m certain to have spare time as I interview some of the mountain folk. I’d be happy to offer any assistance I can.”

  Mr. Little’s voice pearled with culture and the beloved accent of the English. No, he’d not be shunned or ridiculed as the Germans. All he need do was open his mouth with silver-tongued elegance and see women melt into a ridiculous swoon. August swallowed a groan. English!

  “August has been a great help to me.” Dr. Carter’s smile curbed some of the edge in August’s internal monologue. “But he has a new project
to see to, so this might be the perfect time to take some more help.” Dr. Carter reached out a palm to the stranger, which was when August noticed Mr. Little’s absent hand. Dr. Carter hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Little grinned and offered his left hand. “I still have one useful hand the Germans didn’t steal, Dr. Carter, and am keen to serve. The war didn’t steal my determination to do the right thing.”

  The man’s gaze met August’s with like-suspicion, his lips twitching into a smile that failed to reach his dark eyes. Unruhestifter. Trouble maker. Why would this stranger hold such venom against August—a man he’d never clapped eyes on until this very moment? The pinch in his spirit twisted more tightly.

  August hated intimidation. He offered his left hand and smiled his greeting, without looking away. “August Reinhold.”

  The slightest hestitation caught in Mr. Little’s greeting before he grasped August’s hand. “Reinhold?” The stranger pinched August’s hand before releasing, never breaking eye contact.

  Trouble.

  “August has been working with me for a good eight months. One of the best assistants I’ve had since Jess left.”

  “You’ve always been a supporter of free labor?” Jessica’s brow arched with a pinpoint of purpose all too clear in her entreaty.

  Dr. Carter placed his hands on his hips and nodded. “I do my regular rounds on Tuesdays and Thursdays. What say you come with me Tuesday next?”

  Jessica’s brow crinkled with her frown. August pinched his lips to keep his grin from sliding wide. Frontlines or not, traipsing through the wilds of Western North Carolina was not for the faint of heart. He slid Dr. Carter a glance from his periphery. The clever doctor knew how to test the sincerity and stamina of strangers. He’d taken August on the same journey when he’d first shown an interest in providing assistance—a welcome alternative to staying behind the tall fence of the camp.

  “I shall be there.”

  Dr. Carter’s moustache twitched, but otherwise, his expression gave nothing away—and August admired the man all the more. Clever.