24

I’d like to go back now.” One hand on the door handle, Mary kept her gaze averted. She didn’t want to talk anymore, didn’t want to think or remember or be forced to examine feelings she could no longer justify.

Vince started the motor. “I’ll take you home if you really want me to, but I won’t leave you alone. Not like this.”

Home. Certainly not the austere nurses’ quarters at Walter Reed. The only real home she’d ever known was back in Hot Springs in the little cottage she’d shared with her mother.

Now, suddenly, Mary didn’t feel as if she belonged anywhere.

She could never return to Gilbert, of course, not after having so irrationally transferred all her prejudice against drunkenness and irresponsibility from her father to him. Because clearly she had done so. Like it or not, eventually she’d have to come to grips with the truth about the man whose memory she’d distorted for so many years.

Vince swung the car in a wide U-turn, and soon they passed through the entrance to the Walter Reed Hospital complex. When Vince parked in front of the nurses’ quarters, Mary turned to him with a sigh. “I’m so sorry for ruining your lovely plans for the day. Please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I just wish you’d let me keep you company awhile longer.” Unspoken questions furrowing his brow, Vince fingered one of the curls at her temple. “We could take a walk, or . . . I could just sit here and hold you.”

Mary’s heart clenched at his pleading tone. She could see in his eyes how much he cared, and it only made her heart hurt all the worse. “You’re too kind to me, Vince. I know you mean well, but I need to be alone. And I think—” Oh, this was so hard! Tilting her head, she touched her fingertips to the frown line at the side of his mouth. “I think I’d rather you didn’t call me again.”

He flinched. “Mary—”

“I’m not saying never,” she hurried to add. “But I’ve already failed in one relationship, and I can’t risk ruining another.”

“You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. Please, Mary, give us a chance.”

“Not until I’ve sorted a few things out.” She pushed open the car door and set one foot on the gravelly drive. “Don’t wait for me, though, because I can’t make any promises about the future.”

“I don’t need promises. I just need hope.”

Stepping from the car, she turned to cast him a regretful smile. “I’m afraid I can’t even offer you that much. I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together, Vince, but for now, this is goodbye.”

Resolutely, she straightened, closed the door, and turned her back on the man whose heart she’d surely just ripped in two. Guilt weighed heavily upon her shoulders, but better to end things sooner rather than later. Where men were concerned, Mary could no longer trust her own judgment—if she ever could.

Had she really turned a blind eye all these years to her father’s failings? She couldn’t honestly say she hadn’t known of his weakness for alcohol, but she’d needed to believe in his goodness. He was her da, after all, and a girl needed a father she could admire and depend upon. To admit the accident might have been his fault simply didn’t bear thinking about.

Crossing the foyer, Mary paused as she passed the telephone. With a bracing breath, she lifted the earpiece and rang her mother’s number. “Will you be at home awhile? I’d like to come over.”

“You’re always welcome, dear. But I thought you were goin’ out with the nice young man today.” Her mother gave an unladylike snort. “He didn’t stand you up, now, did he?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I just . . . need to talk to you.”

Within the hour, Mary had walked to the nearest streetcar stop and made her way to her mother’s townhouse. Her mother welcomed her inside with a hug and led her to the kitchen.

“Sit down, luv. You look like you could stand a strong cup of tea.” Mum set the kettle on the stove then took the kitchen chair across from Mary. “Now tell me what this is all about. Are you not likin’ your work at the hospital here?”

“The work is fine.” In fact, most days work was the only thing keeping Mary from losing her mind from pining over what she’d left behind in Hot Springs. She reached for her mother’s hand and ran her thumb across the softly wrinkled knuckles. “Tell me about Da.”

Her mother uttered a confused laugh. “What is it you want to know?”

“Tell me about the drinking.”

The hand Mary held grew suddenly cold. Mum jerked away and strode to the counter, busying herself with the tea canister. “Oh, sure he drank some, like any working man.”

“He was drinking the day of the accident, wasn’t he?”

Her mother’s fluttering hands stilled. “Yes, I suppose so. Your da often went to the pub for a pint after a hard day’s work.”

“But this was the middle of the morning, one of his rare days off. He’d taken me along on a trip to the market.” Mary pressed her lips together as the memories coalesced. “You were baking bread and had run out of flour.”

“That’s right.” Mum smiled over her shoulder as she retrieved two teaspoons from a drawer. “I’ve no cream today. Will sugar do?”

“When we left the market, Da saw some friends across the street outside the pub. He told me if I waited for him at the five-and-dime, he’d buy me a penny candy after he’d shared a pint with his mates. But he stayed so long I feared he’d forgot-ten me.”

Mum stood at the stove, her back to Mary, arms crossed. “I don’t know what’s taking this water so long to boil.”

“And when he did leave the pub, he was weaving and staggering.” Mary closed her eyes, seeing it all as if it were only yesterday. An ache formed deep in her chest. “I waved and called to him, and he waved back, laughing so loud, and I remember wondering what was so funny. Then he stepped into the street right in front of the horse and dray—”

“Stop!” Mary’s mother pressed a fist to her mouth. “It does no good to dredge up such horrible memories. Let your poor da rest in peace.”

Mary rose and tucked her arm around her mother’s waist. “I know it’s hard, Mum, but maybe it’s time we faced the truth about Da’s drinking . . . together.”

Choking on a sob, Mum turned and drew Mary into her arms. “I loved him. God help me, I loved that fool of a man. Oh, Mary, I wish you’d never had to remember that side of your da.”

“No, it’s better I did. My feelings about Da . . . my doubts about Gilbert . . . make so much more sense now.” The kettle whistled, and Mary gave her mother a final squeeze before reaching for a folded towel to grab the handle. While she poured boiling water over the tea strainer in her mother’s favorite blue china pot, Mum carried cups and spoons to the table. Several moments of silence passed as they waited for the tea to steep.

Dabbing at her eyes with the corner of a napkin, Mum sniffed and said, “Have your feelings changed, then? For Gilbert, I mean?”

“I love him as much as I ever did—more, if it’s possible.” Her own gaze grew watery as she watched her mother pour the tea. Slowly, deliberately, she stirred a lump of sugar into her cup.

Her mother pinned her with a worried frown. “You’re not thinkin’ of going back to him, are you?”

“There’s nothing left for us.” Mary drew a shaky breath. “What we had is damaged beyond repair, and I’m mostly to blame. I never really gave Gilbert the chance to prove he could change.”

“He’s still the man he was, and being sorry for judging him because of your da won’t change it.”

Mary cringed at the sharpness of her mother’s tone. She searched her mother’s gaze. “You haven’t forgiven Da, have you?”

“Of course I have. I took care of him all those years, didn’t I?” Mum stirred her tea with a vengeance. Amber droplets splashed over the rim into the saucer.

“Tending a sick man isn’t the same as forgiving him.” When her mother’s spoon clattered to the floor, Mary stooped to retrieve it. Laying it to one side, she stilled her mother’s trembling hand. “We spent so many years caring for Da, we neglected to take care of ourselves. You held your feelings inside—worry over Da’s drinking, resentment about the accident forcing him out of work, anger for everything his disability stole from us, including your health.”

Mum straightened and forced a smile. “But I’m fine now, almost good as new.”

“I know, and it’s all thanks to Donald, and I couldn’t be happier.” Mary squeezed her eyes shut briefly. “When I think of how hard I resisted accepting his presence in your life—and all because of my misguided loyalty to Da—”

“Oh, darlin’, don’t. You loved your da and he loved you, despite all his faults. And truly, I have forgiven him. It’s only I don’t want to see my own daughter hurt by a man who can’t resist temptation, and I feared from the start it’s exactly what Gilbert would do.”

Mary sighed and looked toward the window, her heart a thousand miles away in Hot Springs, Arkansas. “But what if I hadn’t been so self-righteous and critical? What if I’d given him one more chance?”

“One more chance, Mary, please!”

But she wouldn’t even look at him. Her departing figure faded into a thick, devouring mist as white as her nurse’s uniform, until all he could see was a faint tinge of red from the mass of curls cascading across her shoulders.

“You’re hopeless, Gilbert Ballard.” Her words drifted back to him through the fog and echoed in his brain. “You’ll never change.”

“I have. I will! Don’t leave me, Mary. I need—”

Gilbert sat up with a start. Breathing hard, a catch in his throat, he ground his fists into his eye sockets. “I do need you, Mary. I need you, because I’m so desperately in love with you!”

Blast it all, why couldn’t he stop dreaming about her? Even now, his mind filled with the sharp, decisive sound of her footsteps as she walked away.

Except the sounds kept getting louder. Gilbert shook his head. Was he still dreaming?

Someone rapped hard on his bedroom door—no dream. “Mistah Ballard. Wake up, Mistah Ballard!”

“Obadiah?” Gilbert thrust aside the sweat-soaked sheets, almost forgetting his missing leg as he tried to stand. He caught himself just in time. Grabbing his cane, he hopped to the door and yanked it open. “What’s happened? Is it the horses?”

The whites of Obadiah’s eyes gleamed bright as the nightshirt stuffed haphazardly into his trousers. “They done got out—or someone let ’em out, I s’pect. I caught Cricket an’ got her back in her stall, but Miss Glory an’ Mac is long gone.”

Leaning hard on his cane, Gilbert ran his other hand along his scalp and tried to think. “We keep the main gate closed. They can’t have gone far.”

“I don’t know, suh. I’m thinkin’ I heard a automobile leavin’ in a hurry.”

“Are you sure?”

From behind Obadiah, Mrs. Frederick stepped forward, a thin chenille robe tied at her waist and her steel-gray braid hanging across one shoulder. “I heard something, too. And saw headlights from my window.”

Shirtless and suddenly feeling exposed in nothing but his pajama bottoms, Gilbert pushed the door partway closed. “Give me a minute to dress. Then we’ll find the horses and figure this out.”

What time was it, anyway? Gilbert made his way over to the dresser and found his watch—barely half past four. Who would have been on the property at this unholy hour? And what kind of mischief were they up to?

By the time he’d attached his prosthesis and pulled on shirt, trousers, and boots, his mental fog had begun to lift. One name rose to the surface: Arthur Spence. Had the man been angry enough with Gilbert for turning down his bootlegging proposition that he’d sneak out here to take revenge?

He’d have to deal with that question later. In the meantime, Gilbert needed to find his horses and make sure they were safe.

He hobbled stiff-legged downstairs, where Mrs. Frederick had just returned to the entryway with two kerosene lanterns. “Obadiah is already out searching,” she said, handing him one of the lanterns. “I will help.”

Gilbert pushed open the screen door. “Thank you, but there’s no need for all of us to go stumbling about in the dark. The horses could be frightened. You’ll be safer inside.”

“I can handle a frightened horse,” she insisted, following him onto the porch. “I will—” She flinched. Waving both hands, she stumbled backwards.

“What—” A split second later, a buzzing noise and a sudden sharp sting on Gilbert’s neck answered his question—bees!

Mrs. Frederick was already bounding down the porch steps, the hem of her robe flying. “Oh, no—the hives!”

“Don’t go any closer! They’re angry!” Waving away another swarm circling his head, Gilbert tore after her. When he stumbled on the steps, he grabbed the rail and cursed himself for leaving his cane behind.

“The hives have been tipped over,” Mrs. Frederick shouted over her shoulder as she dashed toward the barn. “We need to get the smokers to calm the bees.”

Heaven help them, what more could go wrong? Limping along at the quickest pace he could handle without landing flat on his face, Gilbert ignored two more stings. When he realized the bees were flying toward the lantern light, he doused it. With a full moon sliding across the southwestern sky and his eyes beginning to adjust, he could see well enough.

“Mistah Ballard!” Obadiah’s voice came from the other side of the house. “I found Mac in the field out yonder, but I ain’t seen no sign of Miss Glory.”

Gilbert swung around and slapped at another bee. “Keep him over there. The bees are swarming.”

“Tarnation!” came Obadiah’s shout. “I’ll put him in the back pasture and come help.”

Turning toward the barn again, Gilbert looked up to see a cloaked figure emerge—Mrs. Frederick in her netted hood, two bee smokers in hand. The smell of burning burlap bit at Gilbert’s nostrils as she neared. “What can I do?” he asked, reaching for one of the smokers.

She held it fast and marched past him. “You cannot help without a hood. Go find your horse. I can take care of the bees.”

She’d almost reached the overturned hives when Miss Glory’s anxious whinny cut through the darkness. Gilbert snapped his head up to see the dark shape of a horse galloping across the lane. In another moment, the animal would land smack in the middle of the hives.

“Mrs. Frederick, look out!” Gilbert limped after her, the stiff artificial leg hindering his speed.

Just as he caught up, Miss Glory plowed through the hives, riling the bees even more. Screaming in terror and pain, the horse stumbled and pranced in search of escape. Eyes wide, nostrils flared, she leapt over a hive and barreled straight toward Gilbert and Mrs. Frederick.

With a shout, Gilbert shoved the woman out of the way. She fell sideways, one of the smokers flying from her hand. Hooves slashed the air as the startled horse skidded and reared. Gilbert raised his arm to shield his face, but Miss Glory’s momentum brought her full weight bearing down upon him.

Pain—blinding pain—as her hoof impaled his thigh. Something cracked, someone screamed. The sky overhead shattered into a million stars, and then blackness.

Mary claimed precious little sleep before reporting for her shift at three a.m. Now, with dawn creeping over the horizon, she prayed for the energy to get through the next few hours. If the chief nurse burdened her with another double shift today, she didn’t think she could survive.

“Nurse McClarney, give me a hand here.” A doctor motioned her over to where he examined a victim of mustard gas inhalation. Even after months of intensive respiratory treatments, the soldier suffered from a weakened heart and repeated lung infections.

Mary stepped up beside the doctor. “What can I do, sir?”

“He’s delirious with fever. I need you to secure his wrists so he doesn’t thrash about so much.”

Stomach heaving, Mary sucked in a tiny breath as images of Gilbert rushed to the surface. Barely home from France and out of his mind with pain and shell shock, he’d lashed out and struck Mary in the jaw when she’d tried to quiet him. Mrs. Daley had immediately ordered him strapped to his hospital bed. If the chief nurse had had her way, he’d have been shipped off to the nearest psychiatric facility.

“Nurse McClarney, if you please.” The doctor’s stern rebuke snapped her attention to the present.

“Yes, sir, just let me get a roll of gauze to tie his wrists.” She hurried off to the supply cabinet behind the nurses’ station.

Within minutes, she’d secured the soldier to the bed rails—and was none too happy to do so. His red-rimmed eyes followed her with a dazed look, and he kept whimpering, “Cara, is that you? Where’s my Cara?”

“Is Cara his sweetheart?” Mary whispered to the doctor.

“His wife. Or used to be. Couldn’t deal with the aftereffects of the war, so she left him.” The doctor gave his head a disgusted shake as he listened to the soldier’s lungs. “What ever happened to ‘till death us do part’?”

Skewered with self-loathing, Mary longed to escape the ward and seek out a corner somewhere to give vent to her emotions. She wasn’t committed to Gilbert by marriage, but hadn’t she been equally cruel in the way she’d walked out of his life? Whether her suspicions proved true or not, Gilbert couldn’t help what the war had done to him any more than the man lying before her—or any of the countless other suffering soldiers she cared for every day.

As soon as the doctor indicated he no longer needed her assistance, Mary excused herself. A patient in a wheelchair rolled in front of her. “Going my way?” he asked with a grin.

She smiled back and strove for a pleasant tone. “Depends on which way you’re going.”

“Outside for some fresh air. Sure would enjoy the company of a pretty nurse.”

Fresh air sounded most inviting just now. Mary looked longingly toward the exit. “I shouldn’t . . .”

“Aw, come on. Bet you could use ten minutes off your feet. As for me, it’s gonna be for the rest of my life.” The soldier straightened the robe covering his lap, and only then did Mary notice his legs stopped mid-calf.

Her heart flip-flopped. Though her work here at Walter Reed brought its own rewards, how was she to heal if everywhere she looked, she faced reminders of Gilbert? Perhaps she should have resigned from the Army Nurse Corps and gone into civilian nursing. Somewhere up north, or California,perhaps. Somewhere far away from the reminders of war and the toll it took on human lives.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to shock you.” The soldier looked up with a sheepish frown. “Joking about it keeps me from crying in my soup.”

Squaring her shoulders, Mary gripped the handles of his wheelchair and started toward the door. “You may have the better end of the deal. There are days my feet hurt so badly after a fourteen-hour shift, I’m sorely tempted to cut them off.”

The soldier guffawed. “See there? Always a silver lining if you look for it.”

They hadn’t gone ten feet when Donald burst onto the ward. “Mary, glad I found you.” A mixture of relief and concern clouded his expression. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

“Now?” She glanced down at the patient. “We were just—”

“The doc looks serious. You can catch up with me later, sweetheart.” The man reached up to give her hand a friendly pat before gripping the wheel rims and propelling himself toward the door.

Mary laced her fingers together, a knot forming in her stomach. Donald’s duties usually kept him in the surgical wing. If he’d come all this way to find her, his reasons must be urgent. “Please tell me it isn’t Mum.”

“She’s fine. No, it’s . . .” He flattened his lips as another nurse bustled past. Then he ushered Mary off the ward and into an unoccupied office. “Sit down, Mary. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”