The Thorn Keeper

by Pepper D. Basham

  David placed the bed down. “And you would write them?”

  “Why not?” She looked at Michael, and a glint of mischief tinted her cobalt eyes. “All they might do is tell me no, and I’m getting quite immune to rejection.”

  A twinge of something sparked in David’s chest at the familiarity that passed between Michael and Catherine. A tenderness time had forged in their friendship. The awkward emotion tightened, uncomfortable and unwelcome.

  Her gaze flipped back to his, and the playful glow evaporated into a hint of caution. She offered a scripted smile with none of her personality to color it. He immediately felt cheated.

  “I’ll feel as if I’m doing something to help instead of watching things fall apart. I’m horrible at sitting back and waiting.”

  Michael’s cleared throat turned into a full blown laugh. “And we’re all in shock at that declaration.”

  She pinned him with a teasing glare, and the knot in David twisted even tighter. “And your Grandmama wouldn’t object?”

  “Victoria Dougall would be offended if she knew you needed support and didn’t use any means to obtain it, including her contacts,” Michael suggested. “And you don’t want to see her angry. Where do you think Catherine inherited her gifts of persuasion?”

  She shook her head with a resigned smile and then turned her attention back to David. “Grandmama’s reputation is known all over Derbyshire and beyond. She’s kept up correspondences for years, on both sides of the Atlantic. I’m certain there are people, influential people of her acquaintance, who would be willing to support what you and Ashleigh are doing, for Grandmama’s sake if not for the war effort.”

  David stared into those animated cobalt eyes in wonder. “Are you a constant pool of ideas?”

  “You haven’t realized it yet, Doc?” Michael exaggerated a sigh. “This woman fits in with the innovations of the time. Never a quiet moment in that head of hers. If she’s motivated, there’s no telling what plot or scheme might emerge from thin air.”

  “Good intentions and schemes, Dr. Ross. Do understand,” Catherine clarified.

  Her doubt wounded him. He pressed a palm to his chest and steadied his gaze on hers. “I’ve no doubt, Nurse Dougall.”

  She narrowed her eyes and studied him in her curious way that thickened his breath. What did she see when she looked at him with such intensity?

  Whatever her opinion, she accepted his honesty and turned her face away from him again. She gestured to the room. “We still need to clean the curtain and move the remainder of the boxes to my room, but we should be prepared for him by tonight.”

  “Yes, innovative and industrious are perfect descriptors for Nurse Dougall. A woman of the age.”

  Her lips almost tipped at his words, and a burst of pleasure in breaking through whatever barrier she’d placed around her emotions energized him. He wanted the freedom of conversation, of…friendship with her. His gaze dropped to those lips again, and a twinge of something dangerous flared to life.

  Her smile faded completely, and she moved toward the door. “I need to find fresh linens for the bed. Thank you for taking the remainder of the boxes to my room, Michael.”

  She slid into the hallway without another word and took the warmth with her.

  David cast one glance at Michael who offered a half-tipped grin as encouragement, and then ran after her. “Catherine! Wait, please.”

  She turned at the sound of her given name, which David rarely used in front of her. She stopped halfway down the hallway, almost to the patients’ rooms. He approached her, watching her face for any anger or softening, but she remained as emotionless as a Grecian statue.

  “Yes, Dr. Ross?” Her formal address kept a distance between them. He frowned in response. She used Michael’s name, but not his?

  “What happened earlier…” He stepped closer, lowering his voice to exclude possible eavesdroppers. “I wanted to apologize for my sister’s carelessness. It was inexcusable.”

  She kept her gaze on him, ushering in a sobering silence, leaving him unbalanced, uncertain, and completely intrigued.

  “You don’t have to apologize for her. I expect her reaction.”

  “There is no excuse for it.” David stepped closer, almost reaching out to touch her arm. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Regardless of your past choices and mistakes, her behavior was wrong…and surprising.”

  Catherine released a ruthless chuckle. “Surprising? No, her response isn’t surprising at all. It’s exactly how I expect society to react to someone like me. I created my reputation and must live with the consequences.” Her gaze searched his again. “Your response, however, is the surprising one.”

  She turned to continue her walk, words lingering in the air, but he stopped her with a gentle tug to turn her to face him. “What do you mean? Have I done something to offend you?”

  “You truly have no idea?” Her smile spread wide, sweet and beautiful, disarming him as much as her statement. Her question hushed to a whisper. “Dr. Ross, you know my secrets and my reputation. In fact, you were the first person who learned of my…situation.”

  “But how is that surprising?”

  Her expression gentled at his apparent ignorance, giving him another glimpse at her tenderness. “By all accounts, I should be an outcast, ignored and reduced to the level of the meanest servant. Your kindness, your patience, and especially your offer of friendship, to someone like me…from someone like you? Of course, it’s surprising.”

  “I value your friendship. Besides, you don’t deserve to suffer forever from the choices you’ve made.”

  She shook her head. “You see, that’s exactly it. You’re not responding as your station demands. You’re so good, so certain. You’re like a rock in a storm. Steadfast.” She chuckled and dropped her head, sending a hint of lavender in his directions. “I’ve never understood that word before meeting you.”

  The look she gave him humbled and shocked him with alarming intensity. It was an expression of unadulterated admiration, turning his insides to mush. He stepped closer into the scent of lavender, toward the magnetizing essence surrounding her and calling his heart.

  He stumbled through a reply. “I…I’ve failed in many ways to do what’s right, but this I know—you are much more than what society deems. God has a precious plan for your future.” Tenderness softened his voice, his attention drawn to those dazzling eyes. “Something beautiful, even—”

  A scream broke into their conversation. A loud crash followed from the hospital room, sending David into motion. Everyone remained where they’d been before except the other two nurses cowering in a corner…

  And Mr. Clayton.

  Heat drained from David’s face. Clayton stood in the middle of the room with the assistance of a crutch. His wild-eyes searched the room as if for unseen enemies, and he clenched a scalpel in his fist.

  “I won’t be prisoner to no Fritz. Let me outta here, or I’ll kill the lot of you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Clayton stumbled toward one of the soldiers at his right—Greystone, still unconscious from his recent surgery. Without hesitation, David plunged forward, heading directly for the madman. Clayton glared up at David, his lone eye menacing, and then jabbed the blade into Gravestone’s shoulder, drawing the man from his near-comatose state with an anguished moan. One of the nurses released another scream, pulling Clayton’s attention toward her.

  David took advantage of the distraction and jumped on Clayton’s back, sending them both toppling to the floor. A table of equipment slammed down with them, tipping cotton swaps, bandages, and tools crashing onto the hard floor.

  Clayton’s elbow shot hard into David’s ribcage. Blinding pain launched David backwards, but he maintained a hold on Clayton’s arm and kicked the man’s foot and crutch out from under him as he tried to stand. Whether from Clayton’s battle experience or the strength of insanity, he twisted his body in such a way that he grabbed onto the nearest bed rail, stopping his fall and
giving him enough momentum to hurl himself at David.

  David moved to miss the scalpel, but the blade pierced into his forearm, producing another bite of pain. With as much force as he could muster, David slammed a fist into Clayton’s face, sending the man and his crutch sprawling off balance and onto the floor.

  Clayton growled, reaching for another bed rail to regain his balance, and grabbing the blanket covering poor Mr. Sacks instead. The new arrival attempted to slide back in his bed, as far from Clayton as he could, but the madman turned the scalpel on him. Blood rivered from Clayton’s nose as he hovered over Sacks. David charged forward to make another attack, but Catherine’s sudden appearance behind Clayton froze him in place. She hadn’t made a sound. Careful and precise, she raised a white ceramic bowl into the air, and without hesitation, smashed it down onto Clayton’s head.

  Time slowed. Clayton stared at David, a look of pure surprise then curiosity crossing his face, before he crumbled to the floor in a massive heap.

  David looked up at Catherine, who looked back at him with as much of a wide-eyed expression as he must have shown. She released a long, slow breath as if she’d been holding it since they entered the room.

  “What on earth happened?”

  Jessica’s voice pierced through the fog of the moment, and David turned to her, catching his own breath.

  Michael charged through the doorway behind her. “Are you all right?”

  “Clayton,” David answered.

  Immediate understanding curbed her annoyance and sent David’s mind into motion. “Gravestone needs immediate assistance.”

  “What about you?” Jessica’s question gave him pause.

  He scanned his body and noticed the red stain on his shirt sleeve. His chest ached, his head throbbed, and the sting in his arm muddled his thinking somewhat, but they were all minor wounds compared to Gravestone.

  “Michael, take Clayton to the new room and restrain him in case he wakes soon.” He found Catherine’s face again, offering her a moment’s levity through the thick tension. “Though I doubt he’ll be any trouble for quite a while.”

  The room took a dizzying turn, and David stumbled back, feeling, for the first time, the warm blood running down his arm.

  “Gracious, David. Sit down before you fall down.” Jessica moved forward, but Catherine was closer and slid her arm around his waist as support.

  “Thank you,” he whispered down to her. “But I will be fine.”

  “Of course you will,” she answered. “As soon as we take care of you.”

  Jessica attempted to tug him away, but David shook his head. “Greystone. He needs immediate care. My wound is small in comparison. I believe Clayton stabbed him in the top left portion of his chest, very near one of his current injuries.”

  Jessica slid a reluctant glance between the two and then called for one of the nurses to help her tend to the moaning man.

  “Nurse Randolph,” David called to the other nurse in the room and nodded toward Michael. “Please assist Mr. Craven with Clayton. I shall be only a moment.”

  Catherine raised a brow to him, clearly questioning his prediction of time, but kept silent as she led him to a stool by the sink.

  “I’m truly fine,” he whispered to her. “Give me some gauze, and I shall see to the wound myself. You should help Michael.”

  She answered by taking his sleeve in both fists and ripping the bloody cloth up his arm. With rebel brow still raised, she looked up at him. “Is it your desire to pass out on the floor as you take care of your patients?”

  He scoffed. “Of course not.”

  She glanced at the ceiling as if weighing his answer. “Good.” She focused her attention on his sleeve. As she peeled it back and wiped away the blood, the size and depth of the gash surprised him. It was at least two inches long and had barely missed the main vein in his forearm.

  “Then you must wish to develop an infection to such a degree we’d need to amputate your arm?” She reached for a bandage by the sink.

  Her intention shone as clear as the needling look in her eyes.

  “I’m capable of taking care of myself, Nurse Dougall. I’ve been doing it for quite some time before you entered my life.” He attempted to pull his arm free, but she pinched down tight enough to produce a wince.

  “Pressure limits the blood flow.” A twinkle lit her gaze. “At least, a certain doctor in my acquaintance told me as much.”

  His lips twitched against his will. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “And you’re stubborn.” She leaned in and narrowed her eyes. “Not to mention struggling with a hint of pride.”

  His smile broke free. He preferred her feisty wit over her distance any day. “Aware of that are you?

  She poured peroxide over his wound, and he stifled another wince.

  “Personally, I am painfully aware of pride.” With gentle and confident movements, she began bandaging his arm, her fingers soft and swift. “It can cause some disastrous side effects, I’m told.”

  Her touch, her subtle confession, reignited the deep longing within him he’d felt earlier. Its vibrancy spread through him with a more potent and pleasurable sting than the peroxide on his wound. Attraction? Yes, but something else, an emotion with a great deal more substance. Dangerous. Powerful. And something he wasn’t ready to embrace. Not with a wager hanging over his head that could possibly separate them forever.

  Her raised brow nudged his reluctant admission. “Guilty.”

  “I hear an excellent remedy for pride is good care, hot food, and a long nap.”

  He tried to still the warmth branching out through his chest, to no avail. He internally repeated the words he’d so adamantly declared to his sister. Attraction was one thing, but acting on it was another. “Is that so?”

  She nodded and pinned the bandage in place. “Wise doctors heed such thoughtful advice.”

  He looked down at her hand resting on his arm and another swell of tenderness and kinship gripped his chest. Their eyes met, tightening the growing bond, securing it against his will.

  She blinked and then stood, distancing herself with a step, a shadow perched upon her brow. “We all need others, Dr. Ross. Especially when we think we don’t. Where would we be without the care and compassion of others?”

  She turned to watch Michael carry Clayton out of the room. The unconscious soldier’s head bobbled back and forth with Michael’s uneven gait.

  “I hit him very hard.”

  “And it was needed.” David slid his fingers over the firm and neatly placed bandage. “Who’s to know who else he might have injured if given more time?’

  She nodded, but her question sent a clear sign of the compassion she cloaked with her fiery temper. But sometimes, the hint of beauty beneath her guise shone with a strong will curbed beneath her brokenness. Gentled. Refined. A vulnerability that drew him deeper into whatever came to life in his chest when she was near.

  “He could still die because of me.”

  It wasn’t a question. She knew enough from nursing to understand the possible damage from a head trauma. Long-term damage. Coupled with the mental difficulties Clayton already sustained, there was no assurance of recovery.

  He stood and touched her shoulder with his good hand, allowing tendrils of ebony silk to brush across his knuckles. “You did the right thing.”

  “I’ve been angry for so long, and there were many times I thought to kill another person. But now that I might have actually done it…”

  “You made the right choice. If not for your quick thinking, we might very well be nursing more than just Greystone.” He gestured toward his arm. “And this could have been much worse.”

  Her gaze flickered to his, her eyes holding so much depth and so many questions. What thoughts, dark or bright, wandered behind her expression? Would she tell him, someday, if he asked? Would she trust him with her fears?

  “You need to attend to your attire, Dr. Ross.” She tugged her arm free, her smile as counterfei
t as faces on the propaganda posters plastering town windows. “And do take care, as any good patient should.”

  Weariness weakened Catherine and pushed her to her bed. After helping clean up Clayton’s mess, making her usual nursing rounds, and visiting Nathanael, her muscles pulsed with sharp pangs of protest. Her evening sickness brought an added weariness.

  From all she’d read, most pregnant women suffered morning sickness. She grinned. Of course, she would prove different to the usual.

  She sighed and rolled onto her side, staring at the corner closet in her room. Her mother boasted about adding it to the room when they’d first moved back to Roth Hall. A place for your gowns, my dear. The gowns that will rescue us from our poverty.

  Little good the gowns had done. The closet door stood open, and faint light from the buzzing electric lamp glistened off the satin materials. Some lace. Some silk. Some out of fashion and a few never worn. Several older gowns littered the floor of the closet, tossed there, not doubt, after her mother’s dreams for an advantageous marriage ended with Catherine’s “disgraceful situation” and rejection by Drew Cavanaugh.

  The three boxes of Grandmama’s correspondence sat near the closet, the top one holding the most influential connections.

  At least she could try to make up for some of her mistakes. She pressed her fingers into her hair, rubbing at her aching scalp, the slightest sting of tears tingling her nose. The emotions of the day settled over her like a heavy hand.

  “God, I know you’re watching, and you’re probably not too pleased with my motoring into town, but I did get the opportunity to meet Annie. Surely that wasn’t a mistake. I think I heard somewhere how you can make even our mistakes turn out better?”

  The ceiling provided no answer.

  “Will you help me know what I’m to do? Please don’t let Mr. Clayton die because of me, and heal Mr. Greystone and…David.” She whispered his name into the room. The intimacy of it took her thoughts back to her attending his wounds. Something in his expression awakened the deepest ache of her heart, a tenderness, an attraction.