Homefront Hero (7 page)

John took a step away from her, pointing with new vigor. “Ah, so you
do
agree we annoy the Almighty?” He pivoted, as if to stride away in victory, momentarily forgetting his weak leg. The movement tripped him up, so that she had to catch his arm as he tipped against the wall of the gymnasium or he might have tumbled to the ground then and there. For a moment the cool mask was gone, replaced by a frustrated rage that stiffened him all over. For a split second he was hard and dark and dangerous, the kind of man who would smash something or put his fist through a wall. She almost let go of him, the glimpse frightened her so. Then, as if she’d imagined it all, he rearranged his body so that his leaning looked cavalier, lazy even, crossing his bad foot over the one now supporting his weight as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “And here I thought courtesy would prove no distraction. Nurse Sample, you outdo yourself.”

The way he said
distraction
had a steely knife’s edge to it. A defensive blade brandished at her under a slick grin. Leanne didn’t know what to do with that. Despite his gift at annoying her, she had found herself actually looking forward to having a serious conversation with the captain. Her boldness in broaching the subject of her faith surprised even her as they walked. Normally, Leanne shied away from spiritual discussions, preferring her passions to rise only around her knitting needles. Where had this eagerness to challenge John Gallows’s faith—or lack of it—come from?

Even more surprising was that the captain allowed it—at least for a moment or two. Then matters went too deep, and he had yanked the conversation back under his control.

His statement was no compliment at all. “I…” No reply came to her.

She waited, expecting him to gloss over the moment with another of his smooth comments, but he did not speak, either. His look just now as he stood there with what she suspected others would find a cocky grin, only warned her never to trip him up like that again. As if she’d intentionally gone past his facade, as if it were her fault her beliefs wouldn’t “square” with how he saw the world. As if the moment of weakness she’d just seen was an unforgivable sin—on his part and on hers.

Which it wasn’t. A man of his influence—even a hardened soldier—wouldn’t shy from showing true anger or appropriate fear. Yet, John Gallows kept his mask of dashing mastery up everywhere but with her. She seemed to see underneath the mask with far too much ease. Why was that?

Clearly he was wondering the same thing, if the hint of a glare behind his eyes said anything. And that was hardly fair. She’d not sought to deliberately expose the chinks in his armor. He had no right to blame her when she hadn’t even asked for this assignment.

“If I am to walk you, Captain,” she said as coolly as she could manage given the firestorm in his eyes, “you’ll have to come off that wall.” To her great shock, she then offered him her elbow and her best Charleston hospitality smile. “Shall we?”

Chapter Nine

J
ohn hadn’t slept well. Leanne’s narrowed eyes, strong to the point of defiance, kept appearing behind his closed lids. He’d read her wrong, thought of her as an appealing, even engaging amusement while he worked to be well enough to return. He hadn’t planned on her being such a challenge. His good looks and silver tongue never rendered women much of a trial, and while he was never so much of a cad as to abuse these gifts, he wasn’t above leveraging them to his advantage. The fact that he didn’t seem to have much of an advantage over Leanne Sample, that she pushed back on his ideas with challenging ideas of her own that stole his sleep, was making him prickly and irritable. It was the creamy quality of her voice that clouded his thinking, he decided as he made his way to the gymnasium the next day for his morning therapy.

Usually some form of weight-bearing torture came first, a half an hour or so of pain and sweat under the merciless hands of Nelson. Oh, he’d laugh and joke his way through it, but the truth of it was that the session hurt—a great deal—and the prospect of gentler therapy with the lovely Nurse Sample was the only enticement to keep his temper in check. Enduring laps around the track with her hurt just as much as Nelson’s “ministrations,” but they came with a far better view.

Resigned to yet another round of “useful pain” as Dr. Madison liked to call it, John pushed open the doors of the reconstruction room to find Leanne waiting for him. She wore a broad smile—no, a triumphant grin. She stood in front of an arrangement of horizontal bars, the banisters used to aid soldiers in walking therapies, grouped together to form a small square. Nelson was standing by with an equally mischievous grin—something that looked out of place on his brute features—and a phonograph.

“What have we here?”

“I’ve invented a way to make this morning’s exercise much more pleasant.”

John started to say something about her very presence accomplishing that already, but swallowed the remark as too flirtatious. That didn’t stop him from thinking it. Being grateful for it. He managed a nondescript “Really?” as he took off his cap and coat, hanging it on the rack. At least the presence of a lady meant he’d not be required to work up a sweat in his undershirt, which seemed to be Nelson’s methodology of choice.

“You mentioned yesterday how difficult it is for you to shift weight, particularly stepping from side to side.”

All he’d told her during their endless final lap was that he no longer danced as well as he did before. “I don’t recall putting it in such clinical terms.” Suddenly the phonograph made a disturbing sort of sense. “You don’t mean…?”

“I do indeed. Today—with the approval of Dr. Madison, of course—your therapy is the waltz. Suitably adapted, I daresay, for your particular condition.” She ducked under the front banister to stand in the center of the small square, raising her hands in a presentational gesture that made him laugh. “Captain Gallows, may I have the honor of this dance?”

Intriguing
didn’t come close to covering what he felt about today’s therapy. “You know,
I’m
the one who’s supposed to do the asking.”

“And when did you ever subscribe to convention?” She gestured him inside.

Laying down his cane, John ignored the pain that shot through his side as he ducked himself inside the tidy square of banisters. He’d have managed it even if it hurt ten times more than it did. “I take it Nelson and the phonograph serve as our dance band?”

“You catch on quickly.” Hoping the smile on his face didn’t match the shameless grin he felt, John raised his arms to assume the standard ballroom dance position. She dodged out of his reach. “We’ll be going a bit more slowly than that at first. Arms on the railings, please.”

“Well, that’s hardly fun.” He couldn’t help himself. Genuine amusement hadn’t buoyed him up like this in months.

“Oh, this is not about fun.”

“Says
you
.”

“Concentration will be required.” She had her teacher voice on, the one she used in the Red Cross knitting classes, as she resolutely placed her hands on the railings to each side.

John cleared his voice in mock seriousness, calculating how close he could position his hands to hers and still keep his balance. Yesterday he’d hated these bars. Today he rather liked them. “Of course.”

“Just side to side at first, please.”

“But you said I was to
waltz
.” It was childish to tease her like that, but she seemed to bring that out in him.

She shot him a look that all-too-clearly said
Would you like to return to pain with Nelson?
Then she nodded her head toward one side of the box. “To your right.” She stepped to slide her foot and her body toward the bar on one side of the box. He did the same, despite the spike of pain it sent through his thigh. “Very good. Now your left.” He did as she asked, grateful that side produced much less pain. “Again.” They went through the clunky, side-to-side maneuver three more times until he could manage it with a bit of ease despite the pain. It took far longer than he would have liked.

“Whose idea was this, in any case?” he said as they began the fourth repetition.

“You may not like the answer to that question, Captain.” They swayed together to the left.

“Surely you’re not going to tell me Dr. Madison or Nelson hatched this scheme?”
Right
.

Left
. “I asked God to send me an idea for some inventive way to help you other than those dull laps. The thought came to me in the middle of the night last night, and I was delighted when Dr. Madison found the idea—how did he put it?—‘ideally suited to our good captain.’”

She’d prayed on his behalf. Or on her behalf toward the goal of helping him—and had kept him in her thoughts even in the middle of the night, no less. The idea of it worked its way under his skin like an itch. “I’m dancing on orders from the Almighty?”
Right
.

“I told you, you wouldn’t like the answer.”
Left
.

His leg was burning but wild horses would not stop him now. “On the contrary, I believe God has just gone up a notch in my admiration.” A bolt of pain hobbled his right step and sent him lurching against the bar, wiping away whatever spark the moment held.

“Would you like to rest?” she asked quietly.

“I would like to
waltz,
” he replied in the most commanding voice he possessed.
With you, not with a fence.

* * *

Leanne should have thought this through more carefully. So taken was she with the novelty of the idea that she completely forgot the necessity of touching while dancing. Truly she hadn’t thought Captain Gallows would get much beyond swaying back and forth, given the extent of his injuries. She knew how much the motion pained him, how the repetition only made it worse. The phonograph next to them was really no more than an enticement—a carrot on a stick to help him get through the first difficult session.

And it had worked. Entirely too well. For now the square of railings fairly well boxed her in, fenced her in close quarters with John and his obvious determination. The man had been shown his target, and hurtled toward it at all costs. How ironic that she knew she could not distract him from her creative distraction. There was nothing for it, she supposed. This session must end in a waltz, so it would be best to ensure it was contrived, awkward and exceedingly short. “And waltz you shall,” she pronounced in her best
this is exactly how I planned it
voice. “But not yet to music. I fear we’ll need a slower tempo.” Somehow the innocent accommodation sounded all too daring—most likely due to the triumphant look in John’s eye.

“Only at first. I’m sure it will come back to me.”

Hopeful, Leanne placed her hands elegantly on the banisters.

She might have known it wouldn’t work. John shook his head, the gleam still in his gaze. He had her, and they both knew it. “Nurse Sample, may I have the honor of this dance?” He raised his left hand, palm up, nearly commanding her to place her hand in his. She did so, inwardly cursing how close the railings boxed them in, startled at how neatly her hand rested in his palm. Startled still more at the warmth of his right hand behind her shoulder blade. Of course he would have been an excellent dancer, preceding the injury—men of his social prominence always were.

Before she could count out the tempo, John chose to set it himself. “One…two…three. One…two…three,” giving himself almost two full seconds to execute every shift of his weight without the support of the railings. She picked up the counting for him when it became clear the exertion clipped his words, eventually falling into a ponderously slow humming of the
Blue Danube
. She knew his leg must hurt him terribly, and yet she also understood his need for this victory. However slow, however painful, John could not leave this room halfway to a waltz. His spirit simply didn’t allow for compromise—it was the best and the worst thing about him. Here, haltingly sliding his feet to a beat more suited to a funeral march than a Viennese waltz, he still possessed a commanding dignity. Before she could stop it, her mind conjured up the daydream of what it would have been like to be spun around the ballroom by the John Gallows of before his injury. He’d have been dashingly elegant, strong and smooth in his steps. It took her a moment to realize she’d stopped humming, and he’d most definitely noticed.

“Yes,” he said, smiling even though she noticed a bead of sweat streaming down his temple, “I do think our song is over. For now, at least. And you’re right, Nurse Sample, this is infinitely more enjoyable than laps around the gymnasium.” His smile doubled as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—monogrammed, she noticed—and wiped his brow. “Do thank that God of yours for His excellent initiative.”

“I’d prefer you thank Him yourself.”

“He and I aren’t on speaking terms at the moment.” She took a breath to argue, but he held out a silencing palm. “But you can add this item to your list of good and worthy deeds, my dear—you’ve made a chink in the wall.”

Chapter Ten

L
eave it to me,
John thought as he hobbled toward the hospital meeting room where Leanne held her knitting classes,
to be given the task of heroic knitting
. Bombing half of Germany would have been easier. Keeping the upper hand with Leanne Sample was hard enough without the complications of physical pain and ridiculous needlework. He’d made a whole two inches of progress on his sock—two inches in probably twice as many hours of work! This masquerade would have ended two minutes after the first photo shoot if Nurse Sample hadn’t gleefully roped him into actually finishing the sock. As if any of that was nearly as important as his job recruiting soldiers. As burning as his need to get back
over there
.

No, there was nothing for this but to produce one stellar sock for auction and be done with it. “Behold, ladies,” he declared as he pushed open the door to the classroom with his cane, “someday this will coddle the bravest calves in Europe.”

John let fall the two inches of sock ribbing he’d been holding aloft and came to a dead halt. Expecting his attentive audience of Red Cross knitting nurses and their eager applause, John instead came face-to-face with Leanne and the wounded private from the other day’s gymnasium session. Sitting in his wheelchair, grinning, with a ball of yarn and Leanne’s full attention.

“If all my students had your enthusiasm, Captain, we’ll have every brave calf coddled in no time,” Leanne said, without looking up from her task, guiding the other man’s hands on the knitting needles. The private made no effort to hide satisfaction at his current “teacher’s favorite” status. “Private Carson, I believe you know Captain Gallows? My classes with soldiers don’t start until next week, but the private was kind enough to join the nurses as my test male student.”

Wasn’t
he
her test male student? Carson merely nodded a cordial greeting, and John wondered why he felt outmaneuvered every time he was with Leanne Sample. “I’ve missed a stitch,” he said, even though he promised himself never to point out the imperfections in his work, “I’ll need you to help me fix it before it shows up in the photographs tomorrow.” Leanne was supposed to be
his
teacher. Some other nurse could tend to the private and his newfound interest. Private Carson wasn’t about to have his profile splashed all over the country’s newsstands in the name of patriotic pride. Yes, the whole idea was to get boys to buy into the Red Cross campaign, but Leanne Sample was
not
supposed to achieve his job before he did.

Then again, Carson would give the wagging tongues in the barracks someone else to target with the teasing John endured for his “new hobby.” Why hadn’t
he
thought to drag another soldier in here with him? How hard would it be to get a bored soldier to sit in a roomful of pretty nurses? Most of them would sit through making hair ribbons for that kind of company, much less the kinds of incentives General Barnes had put at his disposal. But then, if John had the choosing of a soldier to share his work, he’d have picked one who smiled a bit less—especially at Nurse Sample.

“Of course, Captain,” Leanne replied, although he didn’t care one bit for the sparkle that lit up her eyes. “You are indeed my first priority. Mistakes happen even to the best of us. It’s how we fix them that matters.”

John was sure he’d just been lectured, but couldn’t exactly say how. He shifted his gaze to the private, who despite his pale hair and bony face, looked sheepishly triumphant if a bit confused. “I’m sure, Private Carson, you can spare the good teacher?”

“Actually, I was just about to hand the private over to Ida’s attention. She’s mastered ribbing faster than anyone, and Private Carson is a quick learner.”

Ida looked up from her socks. “Why thank you, Leanne.” Her expression was pleased, but dubious. As though she, like John, hadn’t quite figured out who had the upper hand. “My, but I am warming to the idea of coed knitting classes.”

John tapped the canvas rucksack slung over his shoulder—the most masculine container he could find to hold his yarn and needles—and pointed out the door with his cane. With a wide smile, Leanne swept her knitting into the large basket at her feet and rose to follow him out the door. He hobbled halfway down the hall, not bothering to keep a slower, steadier gait, and then turned toward her. “What was that all about?”

She blinked at him. “I should think it’s obvious. I asked Private Carson to join the class. You remember him from—”

“Yes, of course I know who he is,” John cut in, the unpleasant memory of the man’s glare pulling a knot up from the pit of his stomach.

“I do tend to other patients, Captain. Carson was on my shift yesterday afternoon, and I felt it a nice gesture given the…tensions…of the other day.”

“And he said yes?” What a fool thing to say. Of course he said yes; he was sitting in the room, wasn’t he?

“I would think you’d be pleased. The magazine hasn’t even printed and already you’ve had results.”

John sank into a bench at the end of the hallway, strain and fatigue getting the better of him. His leg was always failing him at the most inopportune moments. He tried—without much success—to remind himself that Carson’s legs failed him continually. He should feel pity for the young man, and sympathy—nothing more. He had nothing to fear from the private. Fear? What exactly did he think Carson could take from him? Nurse Sample’s attentions were hers to grant anywhere she pleased; he had no justification for his sudden envy. “Why on earth did you ask
him?
”

She sat down next to him. “He seemed so dreadfully sad and empty. So envious of you. I didn’t really think about it, to be honest. I suppose I thought about how I knit when I’m sad. I’m rather stumped as to why it couldn’t wait until the soldier classes start next week, but I believe that’s how the Holy Spirit works.”

John looked at her. “Holy Spirit or bad idea, he’ll get a fair ribbing for it. Pun intended. I have, and he doesn’t look to have a thick enough skin for it. I’m afraid it’s not a popular idea. Soldiers aren’t supposed to knit. They’re supposed to fight in the war.”

“Stanley Carson is not at war anymore. He has a new battle to fight now, even you can see that.” She set her basket down at her feet. “And I’ll remind you, my dear courageous Captain Gallows, that not all battles are fought with guns and ships.”

She believed so strongly in what she was doing. He had to respect that, as ludicrous as he found the not-yet-a-sock in his canvas bag. “If you tell me you fight yours with yarn and needles,” he said as he leaned his cane against the wall, “I shall have to moan. Really, save the slogan for the posters.”

She pulled away from him on the bench, crossing her arms like a scolding schoolmarm. “Private Carson had nice things to say about you today. Whereas I suspect he would have called you all sorts of names had I left things as they were in the gymnasium.”

“
I
can take it. And oh, I’m quite sure you saw to his appreciation.” He regretted the jealous outburst the moment it left his mouth.

“
You
were late. Private Carson was not only on time, he was early.” Her words were sharp, but her smile stole his annoyance.

“I had important appointments. I do have more pressing concerns that socks, you know.” He wasn’t about to let her know how miffed he’d grown at the press relations assistant who’d kept him twenty minutes over. Leanne Sample would not know that she had become the high point of his day. Not when she was so adept at stealing his upper hand.

“Speaking of which, I believe you said you needed my assistance? Mistakes to be fixed?” She held out her hand as if she’d find his errors endlessly entertaining.

He hoisted the bag over to her feeling like a pouting schoolboy turning in poor work. “Save me from this madness, for G—”

She raised her eyebrow, the sack still midair, her silent reproach stopping him in his tracks.

“I declare,”
he said in a sugary tone, feeling the prissy language trip on his tongue, “but you are a challenge.”

“Thank you.” She reached into the bag. “I’m sure our Heavenly Father appreciates your efforts.” She scowled at the short span of ribbing he’d so proudly displayed earlier. “Whatever did you do here?”

“Knit.”

“Well, yes, I know it’s
supposed
to be knitting, but it’s rather a tangle.” She peered closer at his yarn, and he leaned in as well, trying to see whatever it was that she saw. It brought their heads close. She smelled of lemon and something rather rosy. He didn’t like the idea of Edward Carson getting a whiff of lemon and roses one bit, didn’t want her bending over any man’s hands but his. He parked his elbow on the bench back, his arm resting just inches from her shoulder. He watched while she poked at stitches and pulled at loops, her tongue peeking out over one rosy lip while she analyzed. When she turned to look at him, they were entirely too close, although she minded it much more than he. “You forgot to move the yarn from front to back.” She flushed, and he felt the color in her checks ripple through a warm spot in his chest. “It has to go in between the needles like I showed you. You’ll have to undo these two rows here or you’ll end up with far too many stitches.”

“Undo? We’ve got another photograph tomorrow.” He applied his most persuasive smile. “Can’t you just fix them for me so we can move on?”

“Captain Gallows, are you asking me to cheat?” Even her eyes were smiling, wide as they were.

“Can one even cheat at knitting? I’m merely drawing on your expertise. Your assistance. I’ve obviously made of muddle of it on my own. Please, or we’ll have no real progress to show tomorrow. Can’t disappoint the boys now, can we? Think of Private Carson.” Actually, he didn’t want her thinking of Private Carson at all.

She paused, her gaze flicking to his sock-in-progress and back. He was genuinely disturbed by how much he wanted her cooperation. He enjoyed getting his way, to be sure, but this was something altogether different. “I shall fix the first row for you.” He felt himself smile. “But the second one will be yours to fix. I will stay and supervise if you find it necessary.”

Normally John wasn’t much for compromise. He’d make an exception in this case. Especially if it meant keeping her on this bench next to him. She began to undo the stitches, her small fingers working the yarn with an expertise he had to admire. “So tell me,” he pressed, feeling victorious, “did you really ask Carson out of genuine concern for his welfare? Or just because you knew it would annoy me?”

“I had no way of knowing it would annoy you.” That was true, technically, but he could tell that she suspected he’d be bothered, all the same. He could see the smile even with her face turned toward his sock. “I did think it might serve to cheer him up. He seemed so lost, sitting there as if there were no use left for him. God just popped the idea into my head and I knew it was the right thing to do.”

“The Lord Almighty just pops things into your head, does He?” Faith seemed so simple, so effortless to her. As if it was like breathing. As if anyone could master it. And yet the idea of arranging for her to be his therapeutic assistant had just popped into his head with what might be called supernatural force. The notion that these thoughts might be connected made him decidedly uncomfortable.

She spared a glance up from the needlework. “My best ideas are always from Him.” She paused, her eyes doing something he couldn’t quite identify, before adding, “You were.”