Briefly, she closed her eyes, hesitating. “All right.” She stepped out of the truck, not waiting for him to help her, and walked across the sidewalk to her office. She fumbled in her pockets for the key, but Cole pulled his out first.
“I’ve got it.” He turned the knob and opened the door for her. Once inside, he locked the door again.
“The cream and coffee are upstairs.” Jess flipped on the overhead light. Its incandescent bulb cast harsh shadows on her face, making her look even more tired. Climbing the steps to her apartment, she didn’t bother to see if Cole was behind her. It was obvious that she expected him to follow her. Though her skirts carried the hospital smells they’d just left, he detected the faint fragrance that he’d always associated with her—one of dark wood and spice.
It was nothing like vanilla.
In the little apartment kitchen, he took charge. “You have a seat,” he said, directing her to a chair at the table. He stoked the fire in the stove, and soon the damp autumn chill fled to the corners of the room. “Where’s the coffee?”
She dropped into a chair and gestured in the general direction of the kitchen. “In the hoosier, top right cupboard.”
Cole found the coffee, ground the beans, and soon the room was filled with its rich redolence as it perked. Without help, he also located the cups, cream, and spoons. He searched for something to go with the coffee—Granny Mae was right, they had to eat. The best he found was a loaf of bread and a square of butter on a saucer. Jessica hadn’t been wrong about her lack of food.
But then as Amy had often reminded him, Jess had never had much talent in the kitchen.
He’d never cared.
Although the bread looked more like scraps by the time he’d butchered it, he was glad for the distraction. But he could feel Jessica’s eyes on his back as he puttered.
“Eat your sandwich,” he said over his shoulder. “The coffee’s about ready.”
Satisfied to see her nibbling on the chicken, he balanced the cups, coffee pot, and other stuff to carry to the table. He’d never had much talent in the kitchen, either.
“Sorry about the bread,” he muttered, putting it down.
Jessica looked at the uneven hunks he’d sawed off the loaf, then smiled. “It would probably look the same if I’d done it.” Mae’s sandwich tasted good, but she ate mechanically, simply because she knew she had to.
He poured coffee for both of them. Then he sat down in the chair across from her and splashed a drip of cream into his coffee. “How long before you know…how will we…”
“How will we know if Amy is going to live?” Jessica’s interpretation of his stumbling question sounded blunt and clinical, even to her own ears.
He sighed. “Yeah.”
“I wish I knew. Some people who ought to die seem to hang on through sheer will or what I can only call luck. Others I expect to improve don’t survive. Some people who’ve been exposed again and again seem to have immunity, but I’ve had cases from outlying farms that have had no visitors.” She put down the sandwich and rubbed her temples. “Talk about feeling useless—that doesn’t begin to describe how I feel.”
Cole nudged her foot under the table with his boot. “I’ve never seen a useless person work as hard as you.”
“It’s not difficult to look busy when you’re running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”
“So you’re not really busy?”
“Of course I am. But I’m scared too.”
“You? Jess, I don’t think you’ve ever really been afraid of anything in your life.” He said it not as a compliment, but as a statement of fact.
“What on earth makes you say that?”
“You’ve tackled jobs that would have knocked some men flat on their backs. And you’ve succeeded.”
“Obviously, you haven’t listened to some of the things I’ve told you.”
He stared into his cup. “Trust me, I heard all of it.”
Suddenly a pocket of pitch exploded in the wood stove, sounding as loud as a gunshot in the quiet room. Jessica flinched.
Cole laughed, startling her even more. “Hey, remember that Halloween night we snuck up to the Leonards’ house? You weren’t scared that night.”
She grinned then, the cloud of doom hanging over her suddenly lightened. “I haven’t thought about that in years! You had those firecrackers left over from the Fourth of July. And I was so scared!”
His own grin showed off the dimples that she’d always found endlessly fascinating and attractive. “Amy heard us plotting and made us take her along or she was going to squeal to your dad. We made her the lookout, but she was so nervous and jumpy, I thought she’d get us caught before we even started.”
Jess stirred her coffee. “Yes, she never had the heart for adventure, and I think she was all of ten or eleven at the time. When you climbed the trellis and got to the top of the Leonards’ roof, even I was sweating. I could see the whole family through the window, holding some kind of prayer meeting in the parlor. Then you dropped those firecrackers down their chimney—”
By this time, they were both laughing, the kind of desperate, happy, hysterical laughter that sometimes overtakes people in their darkest moments. Tears streamed down Jessica’s face.
“Blam, blam, bang-bang-bang—” Cole imitated.
“Oh, I wish you could have seen them. You missed it all, up there on the roof. They jumped in every direction, knocking over chairs, prayer books flying. Old man Leonard grabbed his shotgun and actually pointed it at the fireplace! Poor Dolly dove under their dining room table with the kids.”
They laughed until they exhausted their wind, then drew breath and began whooping again. Cole slapped the tabletop a few times, howling until he’d emptied his lungs. By this time, she had a cramp in her side. Someone watching would think they’d taken leave of their senses.
His face red with the exertion, Cole said, “He was probably expecting the devil to leap out of the flames into their parlor, armed with a pitchfork. But then I got hung up in that rotting rose trellis of theirs while I was trying to climb down. The whole thing gave way. That was when he came outside. He practically yanked the front door off the hinges.”
With mock seriousness, Jess said, “I was sure my heart stopped then. At least there was no moon that night, or he would have spotted you, lying there in the flower bed. And Amy, she was hiding in their privet hedge, wringing her hands and crying.” She dissolved into high-pitched giggles again.
“Jesus, he would have shot the first thing that twitched. All I could do was stay there and not move a muscle until he went around the house in the other direction.”
“Then we ran. I didn’t know I could move that fast. I had to grab Amy and drag her along or she probably would have hidden in those bushes all night.”
“I was scratched up from those roses. They had thorns like arrowheads.” He looked at his bare arms, revealed by his rolled-up plaid shirtsleeves. The scars were no longer visible, only the muscle and sinew of a man who’d worked hard for years.
“You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”
“We were all lucky we didn’t get caught. I thought Amy would spill the beans for sure.”
“Actually, I thought she would, too. She’s such a poor liar. But no one ever found us out.”
“I was scared to death they would.”
She raised a brow. “You told me you weren’t afraid that night.”
He waved off the comment. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t let you know. I had my sixteen-year-old ego to defend. But old man Leonard would have staked me out in his backyard and let the dogs eat me. He’s such a sour crank.”
Their laughter finally faded, like a rocking chair that had coasted to a gentle stop, leaving a palpable silence.
“We had some fun back then, didn’t we?” Cole said, a bittersweet catch in his voice.
They’d had more than that. They had a history together, one that began in childhood. “We sure did. Before everything go
t…complicated.” She bit on the sandwich crusts, but they’d dried out so she pushed them aside.
“Jess, I wish you had come home to stay when your father died, instead of going right back to New York.”
“Sometimes I wish I had, too. I learned a lot in New York, but I’m not certain I’m the better for it. It cost me my peace of mind. I still have nightmares about the things I saw.”
His eyes locked with hers, his gaze pinning her to her chair. “No, I mean I wish you had come home—to me.”
Jessica’s heart squeezed in her chest like a fist. Her throat turned dry and felt as if she’d swallowed a burr. “How can you bring that up now?”
To her utter surprise, he slid off his chair and dropped to one knee beside her. His eyes never leaving hers, he reached up with one work-roughened hand and pushed loose strands of hair away from her face. The backs of his fingers grazed her cheek, and goose bumps bloomed on her entire body, giving her a delicious shiver. Then his hand snaked around the back of her neck and pulled her face down to his. She felt his warm breath, smelled the scent of him, and she was powerless to stop him.
She didn’t want to stop him.
His lips touched hers, tentatively, seeking. For that instant, all the years and hurts and betrayals fell away. This was Cole Braddock, the man she’d always loved. She remembered his kiss well, yet it felt brand-new at the same time.
She pulled back, her breath coming fast. “We can’t do this,” she protested.
“I know.” Then he kissed her again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Adam Jacobsen sat at his desk, a sheet of blank paper in front of him. These days, there were no Sunday sermons to compose. Tonight, another writing activity would occupy him.
Outside, the October night had fallen with a clearing sky that made the darkness as black as velvet. His desk lamp provided the only light in the house—he’d come straight to this task as soon as he’d gotten home. Nettie Stark had gone home hours earlier.
He took up his pen, dipped it in his father’s inkwell, and with decisive strokes addressed a letter to the lieutenant of his APL platoon. He had a special appreciation of the American Protective League, with its carefully managed organization of captains and companies, lieutenants and platoons. Sometimes he even envied bigger cities and their large financial and industrial employers. Often a majority of the workers were members and reported to leaders at their jobs. Because Powell Springs was a small community, Adam was the only operative in town. His leader, a banker in East Portland, oversaw operatives in other nearby towns as well.
Adam didn’t go out of his way to trumpet his association to anyone—an operative was not supposed to disclose his membership or show his badge. But most people around here knew about it, and he was certain this position gave him status that he wouldn’t have as a mere clergyman. A minister in the organization might not be common, but he probably wasn’t the only one.
Now he sat back in his chair to compose the lines of his weekly report. He generally identified those people he deemed to be unpatriotic—draft dodgers, slackers, or those who did not buy Liberty Bonds or follow the recommended rationing system. He noted overheard conversations that even hinted of sedition or complaints about the war. Anyone whose patriotism was in the slightest doubt was subject to investigation. In fact, he had mentioned Mae Rumsteadt in a couple of previous reports for her dual offenses of refusing to buy bonds and not observing any of the food rationing requirements. Strangers and foreigners were also high on the list of persons to watch, though there weren’t any foreigners around here.
He had a sheaf of notes to work with this week, but one name above all others kept coming to mind.
Cole Braddock.
He really had no concrete accusations to level against Braddock. The man’s exemption from the draft was a sore point with Adam, but acceptable to the government. There had to be something, though. By his very attitude, Braddock had displayed hostility and contempt for him again and again. Adam disliked him, it was true, but he knew that he wasn’t driven by pride, envy, or even personal animosity. No, indeed. There was something unpatriotic about Cole Braddock, and he was going to find it.
Adam always worked for the good of the country. And though he might not be with the Expeditionary Forces, he was still a soldier in God’s army.
He sat forward, dipped his pen again, and began writing.
Jessica pushed Cole away from her. “Stop it,” she demanded, her face tingling from the scrape of his beard. “We won’t do this!”
He sat back on his heels and looked at her, his eyes dark with an emotion she couldn’t identify—stronger than desire, more fierce than lust. His breath came in short, jerky gasps, and her own heart beat like rolling thunder inside her rib cage. With a shaking hand, she pushed her hair away from her face.
“Amy, my sister, your intended, is lying in a cot in the high school gymnasium, hanging onto life by a thread, and you—I—” Jessica sputtered to a stop, then finally said, “How dare you?”
Frowning, he stood up. He filled the little space with his presence, and wrath pulsated between them. “Why didn’t you come home? I’ve asked you so many times, but you’ve never given me a straight answer. You promised you’d come back and marry me. Instead, you strung me along for more than a year, then out of the blue I got that goddamned telegram from you, telling me not to wait any longer. Why? And don’t give me any of that bullshit about the poor and sick. Were you so busy trying to fix the world’s broken heart that you never thought about anyone else’s?”
Jessica stared at him. “Out of the blue? Out of the blue!” She jumped from her chair and marched to her bedroom to rummage through a trunk. She threw clothing here and there, things she hadn’t unpacked, until she found what she was looking for. It was a ribbon-bound packet of letters, on top of which was the wire she’d received from him before she’d sent her own reply.
She pulled it from the stack and stormed back into the kitchenette. He’d taken to pacing the small space like a feral, caged animal, his obvious fury barely contained. She shoved the envelope under his nose. “Here! Does this look familiar?”
He yanked it from her hand. “What is it?”
“It’s the telegram I got from you. There was nothing in this that would make me want to come home. After everything we’d meant to each other, you can’t begin to imagine how betrayed I felt. Then a few weeks later I got a chirpy letter from Amy, saying that you were courting her!” Tears streamed down her face, and angrily, she swiped at them with the back of her hand. “God, Cole, I don’t know how you have the nerve to act like the insulted, jilted suitor after that.”
He took the message out of its envelope and read it. Then he looked up at her, his baffled expression almost convincing. “I’ve never seen this before in my life.”
“What—what—” Once again, her tongue tripped itself on her frustration and incredulity. She plucked a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and wiped her nose with a savage pinch. “Don’t try to hand me that twaddle. You wrote it. It’s signed by you. It was sent from the telegraph office here in town. Really, are you going to stoop to a sudden case of amnesia to—”
He shook the buff-colored note at her. “I’m telling you I didn’t send this. I didn’t write it.”
Jamming her handkerchief into her pocket, she snatched back the paper from him and read it aloud. “‘Jessica, wanted you for my wife but refuse to wait one more day. I am sorry.’ If you didn’t send it, who did?”
Cole felt as if he were looking at a mirror image of his life, like that kid named Alice in a book Susannah had read to Tanner Grenfell’s nephews. Nothing was making sense, everything seemed backwards. He knew he hadn’t sent that telegram, but there it was in black and buff.
“So you got this,” he said, taking the paper away from her again. “Then you wired me back telling me not to wait for you.”
“What else was I supposed to do?” Her voice had a ragged edge, and she sat down suddenly.
/> He remembered that April day. Vividly. He’d gone to Tilly’s and had gotten so drunk, Virgil Tilly had put him out on the saloon’s back stoop with a blanket and a bucket. At least that was where he’d regained consciousness the next day, with a hangover that would have killed a buffalo. It had rained sometime during the night, the blanket was heavy and damp, and he’d been thoroughly miserable. If the hangover hadn’t been bad enough, he’d felt as if he’d been kicked in the chest. Kicked in the heart.
“Someone played a rotten prank on us, Jess.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous. Who would do that?”
“I don’t know who or why, but it happened.” He saw the pain and certainty of betrayal in her eyes. He could also see that she didn’t believe a word he said. “I never should have—never would have started courting Amy if you hadn’t sent that wire.”
“So now it’s my fault?” She picked up the dry bread crusts and in a childish fit, threw them at him. He ignored it.
“No, I didn’t say that. But I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” He folded the message and put it in his shirt pocket. “I need to keep this for a while.”
Alarmed, she held out her hand. “No, it’s mine. Give it back.”
“Don’t want to break up a matching set, huh?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” She extended her reach, but he backed up and covered his pocket with his own hand.
“This message and your grudge against me. You want to keep them together and not let go of either of them.”
She dropped her arm, stung by the truth he’d revealed to her. “Why do you want it? What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure yet.” He wandered to the window and looked down the street toward the telegraph office. A few possibly guilty parties crossed his mind. Pop—he’d never much liked the idea of Cole and Jess marrying. Jacobsen—maybe, but that didn’t make much sense. He hadn’t really shown an interest in Jess until recently. “I’ll let you know when I learn something.”
“This is all so far-fetched, Cole.”
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