14

With every tick of the clock, Geoff came to check on her injury. He wheeled into the bedroom, without his wooden legs, and perched his chair next to the nightstand.

“I’ll have your pants by tomorrow.” She needed to get back to work.

“Let it go. Isn’t a bruised jaw enough for you?”

“Apparently not.” She shifted to the edge of his bed and sat. She didn’t know how to tell him that seeing him walking gave her satisfaction. Satisfaction in her decision to stay. Satisfaction in her job as caregiver. Satisfaction for him as a recovering veteran.

“Cards will go late tonight. Won’t be much time left for sewing.”

“They only go late if you’re winning. The odds are in my favor.” She rolled up the magazine and gave him a swat on the arm.

He glanced down at the magazine.

“You’re not blushing.”

“I began with the letters to the editor. Part one of “The Regal Bachelor” can wait.”

“Be sure to show me the picture.” His voice held a hint of sarcasm. He pushed back on the wheels to turn around.

“I wasn’t looking at pictures. There’s a contest they’re starting. A writing contest.”

“Oh?” He repositioned his chair but didn’t leave.

“The stories are two-part serials and the winner gets to have their story published in the Companion next March and April.” She held out the page with the promotion. “There’s a twenty-dollar prize with a free one-year subscription.”

“Only twenty dollars?”

“The Companion goes all over the world. Besides, twenty dollars is a lot of money to some people.”

“But not to me?”

“I didn’t say that.” She stood. A jolt of pain flooded her eyes. She grabbed the bedpost to steady herself.

“Sit down before you fall.” Geoff maneuvered his chair closer to the bed.

“I won’t fall.” She was supposed to take care of him not the other way around.

“Then tell me about the contest. When’s our story due?”

“Our? You mean my story.” She gripped the wooden bedpost. “And I didn’t say I was writing one. I’d be more than three weeks behind since Tubby was late with the mail.”

He tapped his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. “You didn’t answer my question. When’s it due?”

How could she flee from his inquisition with his wheelchair blocking her escape? His chair was like a dislodged boulder on a narrow logging lane.

“The editors have to receive the story by January first. If I did enter, I probably wouldn’t win. I’m not a writer.” She placed the magazine on the nightstand. “Besides, my job is to take care of you.”

He threw his hands in the air. “I’m taken care of, see?” He lowered his hands from his head to where his legs ended. “I’m the picture of health until you get to my stubby legs.”

She held fast to her decision. “I’m not entering.”

“Open that magazine.” He pointed to the Companion. “Show me the illustration of the first story. That bachelor fellow.”

She flipped to the first serial. The black and white picture showed a man and woman standing together in a garden.

“What’s the man wearing?” he asked.

“A suit.”

“Is he taller than the woman?”

“Yes.”

“Handsome?” Geoff’s eyebrows peaked.

She didn’t answer.

Geoff waved his hand. “Flip to the next drawing.”

She fanned the pages to where the next story began.

He strained his neck to get a glimpse of the people. “What’s that man wearing?”

You just saw him. “A tuxedo.”

“Is he taller than the—”

“Yes.” She turned to the next illustration. What was his obsession with magazine models? “Aha! Here’s a man in work pants and a simple cotton shirt, pining next to the bed of a sick woman. We don’t know if he’s tall.” She showed Geoff the picture.

“That man’s legs are huge. Never missed a meal. I’ll bet he’s strong, yet sympathetic.”

“What does this have to do with my story?” She closed the magazine.

“I can’t be those men.”

“What do you mean? You could be just as handsome and well-dressed as these men.” Her words cut off sharp. Did she believe Geoff was handsome? He was healthier since the morphine shots ended. And yes, he was the sort of man a girl could fancy. She shook her head to clear the thought from her mind.

“I can’t pretend to be the men in those pictures. Without legs, I’m short and wheelchair bound.” He leaned closer to her. “Write about me. Show the world an attractive stubby man.”

Could she do that? “You’re not stubby, and I’m not an author. Someone has to keep us fed. What if I fall behind on my chores?”

“We’ll have pork and beans for dinner.”

Counting the spider webs she needed to dust off the ceiling, she stalled. Why was this so important to Geoff? She tapped her foot. “All right, I’ll try to submit a story.” She looked over at his exuberant face. “I said try. And your legs aren’t stubs.”

He laughed. “Oh, yes they are. But at least I have someone shorter than me to keep me well-dressed.”

She pressed a fist to her hip. “Then it’s a deal.”

“Cards? Now?” He backed his chair toward the door.

“Cards later.” She steadied herself and headed toward the stairs. “First, I have to sew you some clothes for walking lessons.” And she had to figure out what type of story she had just agreed to write.

~*~

Josephine stayed up past midnight constructing pants on the Singer sewing machine—a gift Mr. Chambers had sent along to the lodge. She left Geoff downstairs on the couch with a stack of Kat Wil financial ledgers spread out around him. They had agreed to wait until morning for walking practice.

Before she retired for the night, Josephine sneaked downstairs to check on Geoff. He was in bed, asleep, his clothes crumpled in a pile beside the nightstand. His ledgers remained on the couch and coffee table. She dared not move them.

Someone else required her attention. The beast. Geoff wasn’t around to object to her kindness. She plated leftover stew and set it outside the back door as a thank you to the dog for keeping her warm and comforted after the morphine incident. Climbing the stairs to her room, she put thoughts of that frigid night to rest.

In the morning, she swept her almost-shoulder-length hair into a bun. If Geoff was going to grip her collar, she didn’t want anything in his way. Walking on wooden legs was the best medicine for Geoff. She trusted her gut. It’s what they had wanted at the hospital.

Her palms started to sweat. What if he fell? Or worse, broke something? She would have to explain herself to Mr. Chambers. Heading downstairs, she tried not to think about Geoff crashing to the floor with strapped-on legs.

When she entered his room, he gave her a disgruntled grin. His right leg was already attached.

“I haven’t seen you with your hair up.” He buckled a strap on his chest.

She laid his new pants on the bed. “I didn’t have much hair when we came to the lodge. It was cut off after—” She blocked the memory of Ivan’s assault. “With it up, you’ll have a better grasp of my shoulder.”

“You’re going to walk in front? What are you, a glutton for punishment? Blue jaw not enough?”

“I don’t want you falling and hurting yourself. What if you hit your head?”

“Then I lose the last year and a half of my life. The doctor gave me a two-year life sentence.” He tapped his wrist. “Time’s a wasting.”

“Shut up.” The words flew out of her mouth. How could he be so carefree about death?

He looked at her, eyebrows arched, eyes open wide.

Her cheeks flamed. “You don’t know how long you have to live.”

“Doc Miller said two years.”

“That was before, when you were,” she paused, searching for the right word, “sick.” Picking up a bottle of oil from the nightstand, she sat beside him on the bed, and started rubbing a small amount onto the end of his left stump. “Only God knows how long we have.”

“Is that your mother’s wisdom?” He crossed his arms against his half-strapped chest.

“It’s mine.” She bent down and reached for his left leg. His stare gave the side of her face a sunburn. She swallowed hard. “God has numbered the hairs on our head, and He’s numbered our days. Doc Miller isn’t God.”

“That’s for sure.” Geoff spit out his agreement as if he and the doctor didn’t always see eye to eye.

Her own questions fluttered in her mind. Her first and foremost was why Doc Miller had prescribed endless morphine.

She slipped on his left leg, secured the straps, and handed him his new pants.

“I’ll work on a shirt and vest tonight. But please, no more talk about death.” Images of Ivan’s snarled face sent a chill across her skin.

Geoff bunched up the pant legs and fitted them over the shiny black shoes that bore no feet. “Don’t fret, Jo. After June you won’t have to worry about my peg legs.”

How could he say such a thing? “I bet I will.”

“No betting. Remember?” He grinned as he buttoned his pants at the waist and slowly stood.

I would bet on you. Every time. Her belly flip-flopped as she admired Geoff in his new clothes.

She focused on the task at hand and helped Geoff take a few steps toward the mirror.

“Can you tell?” Interest piqued in his voice. “About my legs.” His chest and shoulders blossomed as his hands cinched his waist.

“Only by the way you walk, and that should improve with practice. Ready for a longer stretch?” She turned and felt his hands grip her shoulders. “Here we go—left, right, left.”

“I’m done marching. Take it slow, and I’ll try to keep up. If you feel a sharp pinch, you’re going too fast.” He brought his fingers together and squeezed her neck.

“Ouch.” She rubbed her skin, having half a mind to race forward. Visions of split foreheads and broken arms cautioned her to behave.

“Grow an inch or two, would you? Then my arms could rest perfectly on your shoulders.”

“You could shrink.”

“I do that when my legs come off.”

She stifled a chuckle. At least he displayed a sense of humor.

He whistled as he fell in step behind her. “I’ll try not to flatten the back of your boots.”

“Good, because I didn’t order a new pair from Tubby.”

They shuffled into the living room, into the kitchen, and back into the living room.

As they passed her reading chair, he drew his index finger along the groove in the back of her neck.

She shivered. “Don’t do that.”

“Walking lessons are fun. Glad you suggested them.” He sounded devilishly young and mischievous.

After a few laps through the lodge, she insisted he stroll around the furniture while she collected eggs. She watched from the kitchen as he lapped the sitting area. His concentration rivaled a toddler learning to walk for the first time.

When the hen coop was picked clean, she checked in on Geoff.

He lowered himself methodically onto the couch, at an angle, with measured breaths, letting his thigh support his weight.

“Not bad for starters.” She strolled toward the couch.

“Help me take my legs off.” He grimaced as he shifted to the edge of the sofa. “I don’t want to rip my new pants. They’re comfortable unlike that silly all-in-one.”

Pride added an inch to her height as she headed toward the couch. He liked her flared pants. But then, any garment was better than his snap-crotch underwear.

She shimmied the material over his bolted-on knee and folded his pants, seams together.

When the straps fell and she began to remove the wood from his flesh, he stiffened.

Crimson circles ringed his stumps. The wood had gnawed on his skin, rubbing sections raw.

“You must have been in pain?” Oh, why did she push him?

“Pain is my companion.” He gave her a lopsided smile.

“That’s not funny.”

She ran upstairs to get Dr. Miller’s ointment. Geoff’s pain was her fault. Why was there always a setback?

Settling down next to him on the couch, she massaged his leg and kneaded the menthol cream into the rash. The scent of sweet eucalyptus filled the room.

“Feels nice.” His voice sounded as if he was drifting into a dream.

“We’ll skip tomorrow. I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“This is normal. Except in the hospital when they forced us to walk, I didn’t get personalized care. The nurses used to line us up in front of two rails. They’d cheer us on as if it was a competition to see who could waddle the gauntlet the fastest.”

“Did you win?”

“I didn’t try to. I didn’t try at all.”

He reached out and stroked the side of her neck. “You didn’t flinch?”

“I must be getting used to being your balance beam.” What did she care if he brushed a finger on her skin? She had to make sure his sore didn’t get infected.

Geoff shifted his weight. “You can stop when you want.”

“Not until I work this ointment into each tender spot.” What did she think she was doing pushing him to walk? She knew nothing about fake legs. Curse her stubbornness.

He sunk into the cushions. A moan rumbled from his lips. A sort of good moan. “Few more practices and I’ll be able to inspect every tunnel at Kat Wil Mine.”

Was he serious? She glanced at his face.

Eyes closed, his breaths deep and calm, he rested on the cushions as if he had just received a shot of morphine. Thank goodness, he hadn’t.

Did he plan on traveling to Kat Wil Mine? The mine had been in his mother’s family for years. It reminded him of his heritage. Kat Wil reminded her of something, too—her stepfather’s murder. At that vile place, her stepfather gambled away all his pay and left her mother impoverished, working arthritic fingers to nubs. She’d find an excuse to avoid going to the mine. She’d stay at the lodge with the beast. And she’d explain it to Geoff one step at a time.