15

November came. Walking lessons continued and so did card games. She added an appendix to Dr. Miller’s medical notebook documenting treatments for stump sores and morphine management. Geoff stayed mum on visiting Kat Wil Mine.

“I’d like to hear what you have written on your story.” Geoff studied the cards in his hand. He stopped organizing his suits long enough to take a sip of his evening tea.

“No criticisms?” She collapsed the fan of her cards.

“How about a few critiques?” He folded his hand and leaned back on the couch like he was bloated from a starchy meal.

She laid her cards on the table. The sweat from her palm gave her pair of sixes a slight bend. What would it hurt to discuss her story? Geoff was educated and well read. She retrieved her notepad from her bedroom.

“The story is rough.” Her words came out winded from the stairs. She sat back down without straightening her skirt. “My characters, Leonard and Ann—”

“Who?” He laughed. “This is a romance, right?”

“You don’t like the names?” Her voice rose, challenging his reaction. “Ann is my sister’s name. She dated a clerk named Leonard.”

“They’re nice names, but plain and boring.”

She blew out a breath. “What do you suggest?”

“How about a foreign name for the woman. Something French like Michelle, or Russian, say, um, Daria. Exotic names.”

Her lips became a thin seam. How dare he insult her sister’s name? And who was Daria? Was he remembering a nurse from the war?

“The woman can be tall with long blonde hair and a hint of an accent.” He continued to comment on the woman’s outfit.

Jo’s fingernails almost ripped through her paper. “The lady is brunette. I will not write about a woman with yellow hair. Besides, the illustration will be in black and white. Dark hair shows better.” Her head bounced for emphasis. “What men’s names do you find exotic?” She emphasized his adjective.

“How about Gregory? Greg for short. A strong name.” He repeated the name in various tones and accents.

She stood. “Why don’t you read what I have written while I get us some more tea? I’m sure you’ll have more criticisms.”

“Critiques,” he called as she left the room.

After filling his cup to the brim, she lounged in her chair and waited for more input.

“Greg has no legs?” He sipped his tea.

“Nope, not a one.”

“Sounds familiar.” He glanced her direction. “And Michelle...”

“Daria,” she corrected.

“Yes, Daria…is the caregiver?”

“Uh huh.”

“And how do they fall in love?” He scanned through the pages in his lap.

“They don’t at first. Then he risks his life saving her from a grizzly bear.” She waited for a hint of a reaction. Did he like it? Or was he still thinking of Christine or Michelle or some other girl. She relaxed her balled fists.

“And how does he rescue her from the bear without becoming dessert?”

She leaned in as if to share a secret, her elbows balancing on her knees. “He throws his wheelchair at the bear.” She grinned. “With his muscular arms.”

Geoff’s mouth pulled to one side. “How does she respond?”

“I have to fill several pages, so she can’t tell him of her feelings right away. I’m thinking maybe an eagle drops a love note or she ties the note to her wolf dog.” Her eyes challenged him to comment.

“I imagine they get married, eat cake every day, end of story?” He shuffled the papers, shoved them her direction, and picked up his cards.

Had she offended him? All the stories in the Companion had a tidy ending.

“Yes.” She thumbed the flimsy corners of the papers. “Greg and Daria have a nice life together.”

“Then, you’re writing a fairy tale, not a story.” He studied his cards as if he hadn’t seen them before. “Don’t you think there are questions that need to be asked and answered? Answered honestly?”

Don’t look at me like that. Not with those enlightened eyes.

“What do you mean?” Her pulse raced. Her eyes darted around the room, avoiding his inquisitive stare.

“Isn’t there something she should ask him? Something she’d need to know if they married.” His tone demanded an answer.

She thought about the conversations she had with Geoff. Was he referring to the two years Dr. Miller had prophesied? Silence filled the room. Her brain was fully empty.

Geoff drained his teacup. “Can he consummate the marriage?” He hesitated. “Father children?”

Her face burned hotter than scarlet embers. “I, uh…” The boom in her temples nearly burst through her brow. “I don’t know,” she stammered. I don’t want to know.

“What if her heart’s set on three kids, and he can’t give her one. Will she give up motherhood to be with him? I’ve seen them, Jo. Men worse off than me. Cut nearly in half. Should we forget about them? Their hardship?” The roar of his voice was as ferocious as the bear’s head above the mantel.

Her heart sank in her chest. “I’m sorry.” Tears choked her voice. “It’s…it’s a made-up story.”

Was he mad at her? The war? His injury?

She met his gaze.

“I can, you know.” His words were whisper soft. “Have children.”

Embarrassment prickled her skin. She would have sworn she had spiked a fever. “I can’t talk about this.” I don’t know how to talk about this. “Greg and Daria won’t either.” She plunked her cup on the table and hurried toward the stairs. When she reached the landing, she turned to face him. “It’s supposed to be a simple serial.”

“You’re writing a fairy tale, Jo, not a real story. Life’s not a fairy tale.” His voice held an addict’s edge. An edge that curled her toes into eagle’s talons. The smashing of his teacup emphasized his words.

Papers in hand, she vaulted up the stairs at full stride. Almost at the top, her foot slipped. Her ankle twisted. The wooden stairs offered no cushion for her fall.

“Ahh.” Air swooshed from her lungs. Pain ricocheted from her wrists to her knees. Rolling on her side, she investigated the sting in her throbbing ankle. Blood oozed through her stocking.

“Are you hurt?” Angst filled Geoff’s voice. She heard him scrambling for his chair.

She braced herself against the railing. “I’m fine.” But she wasn’t. Her story was strewn on several steps. A drum beat of ache boomed up her leg. Her chest cinched from Geoff’s inquisition.

Geoff wheeled into sight. “Let me—”

“Leave me be,” she shouted as she limped up the last stair. “I’m done with your critique.”

“Darn it, Jo.” He slapped the wall. “I was being honest.”

Closing her bedroom door, she sat on the bed and inspected her wound. Geoff could be honest with someone else.

She took gauze from the medical kit and held it to her cut. The bleeding stopped. With a one-footed hobble, she dressed for bed. Pulling the blankets up tight to her chin, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the black nothingness. She would not allow Geoff to upset her anymore today. If he called tonight, she would not answer. How dare he bring that up? She didn’t want to know about that. Should she know about that? She did wonder about that.

When she opened her eyes, the alarm clock read 9:00 AM.

Her heart rallied as she rushed out of bed. Ouch! She lifted her ankle and pressed her lips together. Her sprain throbbed. She dressed in a hurry and hobbled downstairs as fast as she could without incurring another injury. Geoff read a ledger on the couch.

“Good morning,” he said, closing his book. “There are some pancakes on the table for you. They might still be warm. It seems to be a late morning for both of us.”

“Pancakes for me?” Was this an apology? She didn’t see any shards of his shattered tea cup. “How did you manage to make them?”

“Ah.” He sat straighter. “I tied a pipe I found under the sink to the spatula. I’ve been around a few flap jacks in my day.” He eased into his chair.

Hiding the ache in her ankle, she sidestepped toward the table, sat, and placed a napkin in her lap. She tried a few bites.

“These are good.” She poured more maple syrup onto her plate.

“Would you like some juice?” He wheeled closer.

“I’ll get it.” She beat him into the kitchen. After all, she was supposed to cook breakfast for him.

When she returned to the table, Geoff shifted a chair away, and perched alongside her. “I want to apologize for last night.” His voice sounded like he was choking on a pancake.

Her attention stayed on her plate of food.

“I shouldn’t have said the things I did.” He tapped a nervous rhythm on his armrest. “Sometimes, I forget how old you are.”

Enough already. “Apology accepted.” She popped more breakfast into her mouth.

“You’ve gotten off to a good start on your story.”

“I’m not going to finish the story,” she said, while she sopped up syrup with a piece of pancake.

“Why not? What’s more exciting than a leg-less Leonard?” He crossed his arms over his chest as if he was ready for more banter. She wasn’t.

“I’m not naming him Leonard.”

“Then you’re learning already.” He leaned toward her, a wily grin on his face.

Playing with the napkin in her lap, she tried to think of how she would explain her reasoning for quitting the contest. Her face warmed as he stared at her. “I don’t know enough about certain things.” He fidgeted as if he expected her to say more, but that was all she could muster on the subject of that.

“You have an older sister.” He scratched his whiskers as if recalling Ann. “You must know something?”

His eyes felt like two lighthouse beacons aimed at her face. She gathered her silverware. “My mother says it is not appropriate for a lady to know until she is ready to marry.”

“Oh, she does?” He rubbed his hand across his mouth, camouflaging his expression. “That doesn’t mean you can’t still write the story. You’ve seen and touched more places on a man’s body than most married women. Unfortunately for you, it’s been my cut off body and not those gents in the magazine.”

She pounded the butt of her fork on the table. “I don’t like it when you talk about yourself that way. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

His eyebrows arched. “I’m missing half my legs.”

“I never knew you with legs. It’s all the same to me.” Same old injuries. Same old Geoff.

“Enter the contest.” If he edged any farther off his chair he would fall in her lap. “Be honest about Greg’s struggles. I’ll only give my opinion if you ask for it, and I’ll try to remember you’re just an eighteen-year-old runt.” A tease twinkled in his eyes.

“Fine.” She tapped her healthy foot. “I’ll try. And I’ll try to remember what you’ve been through. Plus, those other veterans.”

He laid his hand on hers. Warmth flooded her skin.

“I’ll try to remember what you’ve been through, too,” he said.

Was he talking about the lodge? His crinkled-brow expression concerned her.

“I don’t understand.”

“The men who tried to kill me were soldiers. German soldiers. My dad wasn’t behind enemy lines pushing me into barbed wire.”

She pulled her hand from his. “My stepfather didn’t try to kill me. It was an accident. I fell.”

“If you say so.”

“It’s the truth. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I was there.” She didn’t want to talk about the encounter with her stepfather. Geoff’s closeness suddenly made her uneasy as though he was Marshal Dorsey’s deputy.

She gathered her dishes and headed to the kitchen to clean them. She was not dredging up the scene in the Chamberses’ bedroom.

Afterward, Geoff insisted on inspecting her ankle. She sat on his couch and propped her leg on the coffee table. Her scrape hardly compared with his bedsores, but he wheeled off to his room to find ointment and a bandage. He tied the cloth ends without looking as if she were a wounded trench mate.

“I want to believe you,” Geoff said as he clipped the knot tails. “It’s just that I feel responsible for this ankle, and I blame your stepfather for what happened to you that day.”

Not this again. “Well then, you’ll need to thank him, too. Because of him, I found my way to your mansion. Now, I’m here taking care of you.”

He rocked the wheels of his chair back and forth.

“I am thankful.” He smiled like he had beaten her at cards.

At his praise, her body sprouted wings and flew to the ceiling.

“I’m thankful my bedsores, bumps, and bruises are almost healed.” He grinned, but she knew part of him was being serious.

“Don’t say that. You’ll jinx us.” She wiggled her bandaged ankle. “And you haven’t walked on your wooden stilts yet today.”

~*~

On November 11, 1918, Tubby returned en route from Skagway to Juneau. He handed her a newspaper. Not letters. Not a magazine. Not a Butterick pattern. A newspaper. She read the headline three times. Each time she added a grateful “Amen.” The Great War had ended. Germany had signed the armistice.

She rushed to show the paper to Geoff.

He read the headline in silence. “I’m glad it’s over.” His words were but a wisp. “I wish it would have ended sooner.”

Her spirit grieved as she beheld his broken body. “Me, too, Geoff. Me, too.”