May 1918
Wounded soldiers returned from war as heroes. Wounded nurses returned as old maids.
Jessica Ross gripped the handle of her purse a little tighter and peered out the dusty train window, eager to catch the first glimpse of her hometown in two years. Home. The word swept a sweet balm over the ragged edges of memories rife with the devastation of a world at war.
The Great War, as some called it, held nothing ‘great’ within its muddied trenches, nothing but dying breaths and a forever-swell of hopelessness. A myriad of named and nameless faces, lost to the senselessness of battle, pinched her thoughts into the much too common headaches she’d developed over the past two years. But now, as she sighed back into the cloth-covered seat, the sweet whisper of home offered her space to breathe and a place to forget.
Her eyes drifted closed and brought visions of her mother and brother to mind, stilling her grin. Home couldn’t be the same without their presence. During her last visit to Hot Springs, she’d buried her mother. Less than a year later, a German spy almost killed her older brother, leaving him with memory loss and a mutilated hand. Not the best hope for a surgeon, but David had made it work, despite the excruciating pain of healing.
The hardened fist of hatred tightened around Jessica’s heart with a deeper grasp. Trench warfare, treachery, Kaisers?
She was finished with all of it—especially Germans. She hated them. Even German food was out of the question from this point on. All she wanted was to start over far away from the Front Lines.
“Next stop, Hot Springs!”
The clarion call of the train whistle followed the conductor’s announcement with a glorious exclamation. A waft of mountain air breezed through the window, dampening the unusual May warmth with the scent of honeysuckles and fresh rain. Hope tickled a dangerous longing, fragile and as broken as she was, but she grasped its promise. A smile bloomed awake. Even if she was damaged beyond the use of war or the makings of a wife, even if nightmares stole her sleep and fear ripped at her peace of mind, one place always promised a sense of belonging—the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The pale summer sky painted a faded backdrop behind the blue-hewn mountains lining the track. As the train curved and slowed its pace, those precious mountains opened in grand theatrical style to unveil the moss-green roof of her hometown’s pride and joy, The Mountain Park Hotel. People travelled from all over to benefit from the waters bubbling from Painted Rock Mountain, and the extravagant hotel set the stage for a first-class experience. Not that Jessica had ever benefited from the massages or treatments, or even seen the inside of the marble-pooled bathhouse, but as a child, she’d caught glimpses of the rich visitors and heard tales from local employees.
The white clapboard depot edged into view, and beyond it, the vast lawn of the exclusive inn. Her breath caught with the lurching halt of the train. Were those barracks? She leaned closer to the window, blinking to clear her vision. Rows of long wooden buildings littered the once-manicured lawn. She stood, her hand steadied against the window and gaze transfixed. Men—hundreds of them—moved upon the anomaly of barracks and barbed wire. Had the war followed her home?
Surely not.
This was Hot Springs. Home. Safety.
“Miss Jesse?”
The familiar voice sliced into Jess’ living nightmare. She shook off her stupor and looked up to meet the familiar smile of Stanley Donaldson, her grandfather’s best friend and station master of the quaint little depot.
“I’ve checked every train that’s come by the last two days, hoping one would bring you home.”
Jessica gripped the back of the seat in front of her and pulled herself upright, careful to keep her limp in check. “Stan, if you’re not a sight for sore eyes, I don’t know what is.”
The man blushed at the compliment. “Now, Miss Jesse, I reckon there’s a lot nicer sights to see besides my wrinkly face, but you sure do this heart good.” He patted his chest. “And your grandparents will be plum tickled to know you arrived safe.”
She tipped her chin. “Stan, you don’t think a little thing like war is going to keep me from coming home, do you?”
“Land sakes, Miss Jesse.” Stan adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses with a chuckle. “Them Kaisers were probably afraid to keep a spitfire like you too close. Afraid you might take a few of them down.”
Stan’s words doused the welcome, chilling Jessica’s skin. She’d certainly taken one of them down. At point-blank range. Her throat closed with the memory. And she’d have taken more of the Hun if given the chance. A shudder quaked her frame and she forced a quick smile. “Don’t you remember what Daddy always said about me? ‘It’s hard to put out a spitfire.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Stan’s smile grew. “And it’s a good thing too. Don’t think your family could’ve done with any more tragedy.”
Jessica shoved the grief behind a hard-won shrug, ready to leave the tender topic for a more private audience, and then turned to reach for her cane. The scene out the window provided a perfect switch of conversation. “What’s happening over at the hotel, Stan? It looks like the war followed me home.”
Stan’s gray eyebrows shot skyward as color dotted his cheeks at the corners of his moustache. “Your grandma didn’t write you about the internees at the camp?”
Internees? Her gaze flitted back to the window and the rows of young men on the Inn’s lawn. What sort of camp?
“Let me get you off the train first.” He shuffled with his pockets and then reached for Jessica’s bag, clearly avoiding her question. “No need for you to stand on that leg any longer than you have to.”
She pinched her lips into a tight smile. She’d play along for a few more minutes and then light into Stan like the spitfire she was.
“My leg doesn’t hurt much. Some of the nerves were damaged when the bullets lodged in my thigh, but—”
Stan winced.
Jess stepped out of nurse mode. She wasn’t on the battlefield anymore. “Anyway, it’s a weak leg, but not painful.” She offered some levity. “And the limp will only add swagger.”
“You know good and well you had plenty of swagger before you left.” Stan laughed and took her proffered bag. “Only one bag?”
“There were plenty of women back in France who needed my extra clothes much more than I did.”
Stan steadied his gaze on her and a sad grin poked from under his moustache. “Your mother would be real proud of you, girl.”
He turned and exited the train, but Jess couldn’t move. His gentle statement fell like a brick against her stomach. Loss brought a weight with it, no matter how distant the grief, the unexpected invasion of tears an unnerving consequence. She needed privacy... or some mental occupation, but not silence, and definitely no more talk of loss.
She raised her chin and gripped the cane with purpose, shuffling between the rows of train seats to the doorway. Navigating stairs still made her nervous, especially the narrow and steep train steps. She turned her body and lowered her cane to distribute some of her weight for the first step, then the second, but the sudden appearance of men marching across the platform distracted her descent to the third. They made two lines of khaki slacks and white shirts, the steady clap of shoe-upon-wood in perfect synchrony. She knew it well, even if the sound was dulled from her hearing loss. The men weren’t dressed like soldiers, but their stiff spines and focused attention confirmed previous military training.
Four other men, one at each corner of the row, kept in time with the men, and their uniforms set them apart. Guards?
What was happening?
Her weak leg twisted under her poised position, pitching her toward the platform and the oncoming men. She turned her body so her wounded side would take the impact, but two strong arms caught her before the wooden planks did.
Her cane clattered to the platform and her hat tumbled down over her face, blocking her view of her rescuer. Which was a mercy, since her face burned so hot from embarrassment she was pretty sure it resembled Red Delicious apples.
Strong and gentle hands moved to her shoulders to steady her. She tried to overcompensate for her limp by leaning on her right leg and with a swift touch, drew her braid around to cover her injured ear.
A fingertip emerged at the base of her hat and slowly pushed the masses of cloth and fluff back from her face. At first, she saw his firm jaw and crooked grin, then a perfect symmetrical nose which, after treating tons of facial wounds, was quite the sight, and finally, she met a pair of eyes so pale-blue, they looked periwinkle. Paired with his exquisite nose and his lopsided smile, it was the most stunning sight she’d seen since the Blue Ridge Mountains appeared over the horizon.
She fully appreciated the fact the explosion had taken her left hearing instead of her left sight, because she wanted her whole field of vision for this view. Had she ever seen such a man? His gaze searched hers as if he knew her, intimate and not uncomfortable, exactly. Energy zipped between them, taking the heat from her cheeks and sending it downward. His close-cropped hair couldn’t hide the swirls of blond curl which softened the soldier-look without diminishing his sheer manliness. Jess’ limited experience with attraction left her ill-equipped for the fireworks sizzling in her stomach and the complete loss of words from her head.
His smile softened. “Are you all right, Miss Ross?”
He knew her name? And what was his accent? She’d heard it before. English? French?
“Y... yes. Thank you.”
“I was happy to be helpful to you.”
Those eyes held such sincerity and interest, Jessica stumbled through trying to identify his voice. Was he Australian? “Well, you’ve certain done so. I’m much obliged to you, Mr.—?”
His face sobered, his gaze searching hers with an almost pleading expression. “August Reinhold.”
Reinhold?
Her heartbeat shot up to machine-gun speed and the beautiful warmth in her chest solidified to a block of ice.
German.
***
A connection of pure attraction jolted through August Reinhold at his first glimpse of Jessica Ross on the train steps. Schock. Black and white photos from her grandparents’ home gave a pale comparison to the original. Her hair, the rich gold of alpine poppies, curled up under a green hat the same shade as her eyes, and what eyes—alive and intelligent, swirling with various shades of emerald.
Eight months of stories about her from her grandparents only deepened the connection. In full color, peeking from beneath her hat, her beauty stopped his breath. The faintest touch of curiosity curved her pink lips, twisting his heart with the desire to bring a full smile. His arms steadied her against him, her breath sighed out with hints of peppermint mingled with honeysuckles, and August drowned in a second’s certainty. For the briefest moment, they shared the attraction, the interest, both examining each other with mutual understanding of much more than spoken words... until he said his name.
Those emerald eyes widened, and recognition dawned a painful birth.
Kalt.
As cold as the winter winds on the Alps.
He’d known rejection from Americans since the War began, but when Jessica Ross pulled back from him and sent him a look as severe as any slap he’d ever known, pain jabbed to his core.
“Excuse me.” She held his gaze and snatched the cane he lifted from the ground. “Thank you.”
The acknowledgement squeezed from between her teeth. She blinked and moved past him into the depot without a look back. August pulled his eyes from her retreating back and met Guard Cliff Carter’s thoughtful expression.
“I see you’ve met my cousin.”
“I have.” August pressed a palm against the ache in his chest. “Indeed, I have.”
“Let me give you fair warning before you start conjuring up crazy notions in that head of yours.” Cliff patted August on the shoulder and shook his head in solace. “You’ve won over a lot of folks, August, but you’ll not win the likes of her.”
August squinted in the direction Jessica had disappeared, Cliff’s consolation more of a challenge than a deterrent. After spending months with Jessica’s grandparents, he knew enough of her painful war experiences to expect little else. But life had offered him many challenges to overcome, and this one provided the most appealing package. “We shall see.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, friend.” Cliff chuckled. “Do you have your pass?”
August turned back to Cliff, his mind catching up with the question. “Ja.” August corrected quickly for the kind-hearted guard, keeping to the rules of English with the Americans, and produced the necessary paper. “Yes, I have it.”
“Then you’d better be off.” Cliff shifted a black brow. “You going to steer clear of Doc’s clinic today? It might be wise, considering the morning arrival.”
August frowned. “I made a promise to Dr. Ross that I would be available for sutures. He has a surgery today.”
“Sewin’ up people or suffering the wrath of Jessica Ross?” Cliff winced and took off his cap to run a hand through his dark hair. “Both reasons would keep me far away from Doc’s clinic.”
August tipped his hat and bowed his head in subtle salute. “Wrath or not, the scenery at Dr. Carter’s clinic just improved, you think?”
Cliff’s growing smile turned into a full-fledged laugh as he handed August a slip of paper. “Soldier or not, you don’t need to be in Europe. You’re goin’ head first into the frontlines of Hot Springs, and I’m not too sure you’re armed for the battle.”
August slipped out of the covering of the depot and into the sunlight of the late spring day, his steps marked with purpose. His life had provided one painful challenge after another, so why not charge headlong into one with the best prize so far? He unfolded the paper and read through Dr. Carter’s list of supplies. With a whistle on his lips, he took the steps off the platform and glanced down at the sleepy mountain town. Nothing in the meanderings of the quiet street hinted at a battle, but his pulse still hammered from the touch of Jessica Ross’ hand and the fascinating hue in her fiery eyes.
A white German shepherd sat by the railway tracks, waiting at the corner near the Iron Horse Station Tavern.
August’s lips spread into a full grin. “Guten Morgen, Blitz.”
The dog perked an ear at August’s voice but didn’t move. He might be a German shepherd, but it would take more than eight months to have him comfortable with his German name.
“Come, Lightning.” The dog jumped from his spot and ran to August’s side, taking a pat to his head with pleasure. “We have a few supplies to collect for the good doctor.”
Lightning followed close, passing across the dirt road toward the twin line of brick buildings. Some of the regular townspeople nodded in August’s direction and even smiled their welcome. A few of the women averted their gazes, but for the most part, the German occupation of Hot Springs was met with indifference.
Mostly.
The town nestled in a valley surrounded by smooth-topped mountains, nothing like the carved peaks of home but a place which had become increasing more attractive in the year he’d arrived with his countrymen. The quiet streets and serene landscape drew him, a home for his wandering spirit.
He tucked his hands into his pockets and made his way to Kimper’s, halfway between the Depot and Dr. Ross’ clinic. Lightning halted at the door and looked up, awaiting direction.
“Stay.”
Without hesitation, the shepherd yawned and settled himself on the porch by the door. A twinge of regret flickered in August’s chest, reminding him of the family dog he’d left behind two lonely years ago. Left behind? No, more like he’d been tossed aside. There was nothing across the ocean for him anymore.
He shrugged off the melancholy and pushed open the door to the popular general store. The usual jingle of bells followed his entry, along with the scent of licorice and sawdust, an odd combination he’d come to identify as solely Kimp’s place. A model fighter plane hung from the ceiling, the only apparent addition to the eclectic store’s usual fare since August’s last visit.
“What do you need, August?” The owner jutted out his square jaw, his look of disapproval as constant a feature as the white apron around his wide frame.
“I’ve come to collect Dr. Carter’s items, sir.”
Kimp grunted a reply, took the proffered list, and disappeared to the back of the store. August touched the tip of a few wooden trinkets, ‘widdled’ by the locals, simple stick and spring devices. His countryman could do much better. In fact, their little ‘village’ they’d designed on the inn’s grounds, a cacophony of discarded wood and metal, proved their talents, if one only took the time to look.
His fingers paused on the wheels of a small wooden train. Would Jessica Ross look beyond prejudice?
A noise from behind and the scent of smoke pulled August’s attention around. A stranger, cigarette in hand, watched with a narrowed expression. His dusty, unkempt clothes appeared less hard-working and more uncaring. August nodded but kept his distance. Arger. Trouble.
“Not from around here, are ya, boy?”
August measured the man with a look, his gaze steady. “I have been here for almost a year. Are you new to Hot Springs?”
The man’s frown snarled, and he blew out a long puff of smoke. “You one of them friendly Germans in the camp? The ones taking all our jobs and supplies?”
“I do not know of what you speak.”
The stranger loomed a few steps closer. “Oh, I bet you don’t. And what are you sending back to your countrymen in all those letters your kind mail off every day?”
“I wouldn’t know. I rarely write them.”
“Here they are, August.” Kimper emerged from the back with a box in hand, his gaze flicking from August to the stranger. “You best get them to the doctor.”
“What’s this one doing without a guard, Kimp? I thought they all had to be escorted outside the camp.” The stranger’s gaze never left August’s face.
Kimper settled the box on the counter and sifted through the bags, checking the items. “Dr. Carter made an arrangement with the guards since his grandyounguns have been ‘crost the Pond. August, here, seems to keep to the rules just fine. There’s been a handful like him, with no complaints from the town.”
The stranger released a groan similar to a growl. August turned toward the counter, finished with the conversation.
“I don’t like it any better than you do, Davis, but August ain’t caused no trouble.” Kimper’s gaze fixed on August over the parcel, a warning. “And if he knows what’s good for him, he won’t start no trouble.”
August nodded his thanks for the backhanded compliment and to assure Kimper of his assumptions.
“Besides, with Dr. Perry gone to Asheville—” Kimper shot military straight and rounded the counter. “Daggone it, Davis. What have I told you about smokin’ in my store? I don’t care how long you’ve been on the rails, my rule ain’t changed.” He waved Davis toward the door. “Get out before I call the law.”
Davis tipped his hat to August as he passed and lowered his voice. “No guards. No witnesses.”
August followed the man with his gaze until he left the store.
“I’d steer clear of him if I was you.” Kimper held out the box of supplies. “Lost two brothers to the Germans already, and just returned back in town last week from his own wounds. He ain’t lookin’ to be your friend, if you know what I mean.”
The warning stiffened the hair on the back of August’s neck, but he forced a smile to the shop owner and took the proffered box of supplies. “Thank you.”
***
There was no sign of Davis outside the mercantile. Morning sunlight blinked between dark clouds and sent shadows across the dusty street. August had hoped most of the dissonance related to the German presence had died down months ago. Evidently not. And all it took was one to stoke the fire of discontent.
He didn’t need or want any enemies. What he wanted was...
A flash of green up ahead of him on the street turned his attention in a more pleasing direction. Jessica Ross. Her dress hugged her slim form, but not enough to slow her down, even with the slight limp in her step. An obvious fire of determination added momentum to her stride, or perhaps it was a personality trait.
August’s smile spread into a full grin. He’d never backed down from a healthy challenge, and Miss Ross added a dimension to the bond he’d built with Jacob and Lillian Carter, which fueled his curiosity all the way down to his heart. Listening to Lillian read Jessica’s letters around the dinner table for the past five months only deepened his interest. They shared many commonalities—the deaths of their mothers to lengthened illnesses, the love of music and family, a fierce loyalty, and the desire to serve God and others. Surely those important similarities could withstand her prejudice?
The memory of distrust in Jessica’s eyes returned with full sting. Would her anger cause a breach in his relationship with their family? They’d become as close to him as his own blood, his lifeline beyond the rejection in his past. Could he win her over, at least in friendship, to keep a hold on that connection?
Her grandfather referred to Jessica as a pistol. Her grandmother, as a spitfire.
And from his first glance into her eyes, something akin to electricity shot through his body.
He called to Lightning and walked toward the clinic, the distant sound of thunder an ominous warning. The Great War for Europe’s freedom ebbed across the ocean, but a battle brewed at the corner of Bridge and Walnut, and he was pretty certain the enemy wore a tan skirt and green hat.
The thunder sounded again, only closer, and more like galloping horses. August turned toward the sound. A wagon hurried forward in a stampede of orange dust and horses’ hooves, a strange sight in this sleepy town.
The few people along the street rushed to get out of the way as the wagon passed them at frenetic speed and nearly jumped the train track. August looked down the road toward the clinic just as Jessica stepped into the street.
Why didn’t she turn? Couldn’t she hear the wagon?
August’s stomach knotted with awareness. Her left side. Her wounded ear.
He dropped his hold on the supplies and darted forward into the line of the incoming wagon. Jessica slowed her pace, stopped in the middle of the road, and then turned toward him. The wagon rattled forward, hammering nearer. Jessica’s eyes grew wide and she dropped her bag and cane. With every muscle in his body, he propelled forward, wrapping her in his arms and turning to take the impact of the fall. The roar of the wagon shook the earth as he landed, her body tight against his. One thing was certain. No enemy he’d ever known smelled like honeysuckles and peppermint.
Maybe the wagon had crushed him already, because this was nothing short of heaven.