Homefront Hero

by Allie Pleiter

  “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

  Leave 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 i
f 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.”

  Chapter Eleven

  John stifled
an impulse to gulp. “Me? Are you saying I am from God or that I was your best idea?”

  John was glad this brought a hearty laugh from her. Things had taken on a strange tension in the past few moments. “I suppose I should say both. You must know I believe each man is God’s creation. I’d have thought that would be clear enough, especially given that I am in nursing.”

  So she did feel it a calling. That didn’t surprise him at all. She went so carefully, so completely about her work and she’d seen so much humanity in the private he’d so readily dismissed. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone other than his father had made him feel even the slightest hint of shame. Most found his ego, his driven nature, a valuable commodity. But this woman reminded him that his responsibilities—as an officer, and as a man—meant showing consideration for others, something he was far too prone to forget. “And me?”

  She held up the sock, the row she’d fixed now neatly rounding the needles in orderly ribbing. “Well, I suppose the merit of that idea might have to wait until your sock is finished. But it is a grand start, I must say. And you’ve been a good sport.”

  He effected a general-worthy huff. “An average man might break under such pressure.”

  Her laugh died down to a soft, fluffy sound he liked very much. “And we all know that you, Captain Gallows, are decidedly exceptional.” They stared at each other, time as soft and gentle as her laugh. He realized, with a start, that he felt physically different around her. Pliable and light instead of heavy and rigid. He very nearly forgot his pain. She handed the sock back to him, and he shamelessly made sure their hands touched as he took it. She had the most exquisite hands—porcelain pale yet strong as could be. He dropped his first stitch as he tried to picture those creamy digits laced between the calloused thickness of his own fingers, quickly replacing the stitch while she pretended not to notice. They worked in companionable silence for a minute or two. He thought about asking her why she hadn’t requested they return to class, but decided he didn’t want to suggest any return whatsoever. Instead he stopped his poor stitching and pulled out a slip of newspaper from his coat. Dr. Madison had given this to him yesterday, and its delivery was the real reason he came to class today. He’d hoped for a personal delivery—more private than the full class, and most certainly more cozy than the company of Private Carson. As such, now seemed the perfect time. “I have something for you.”