Until June

by Barbara M. Britton

  “Lean back.” He lifted her feet from the floor and settled them on his lap.

  As she rotated to rest lengthwise on his couch, she didn’t complain about his bossiness. After all, he let her lounge in his special spot.

  He massaged her sore arches without being bribed with pancakes or ginger snaps.

  Her less injured pinkie toe jiggled.

  “You have the tiniest toes.”

  She peered over the pillow. “Not every part of me is tiny, small, runtish...”

  “That’s not a word,” he said.

  Thunder boomed over the lodge. She gasped and reunited her face with the pillow. She concentrated on the trails Geoff was tracing on her feet. His closeness calmed her fears. Somehow, in his company, she didn’t envision the storm demolishing the lodge.

  Geoff’s fingers circled her ankles. “Why do storms bother you so much? You’ve lived in Alaska your whole life, haven’t you?”

  He massaged the length of her calves. The long, tingling pathways he made on her legs felt so good after a day of trudging all over the mine.

  “I got caught in an electrical storm when I was a little girl.” She shifted and repositioned her neck on the fat armrest.

  “Why didn’t you take cover?”

  Her body stiffened. She wanted to erase that memory, not share it with Geoff. “I was waiting for someone.”

  “In the rain?” he asked, surprise in his voice.

  “No.” Did he think she was stupid? “In an alley where there was an overhang.” Stop interrogating me. She clutched the pillow as if it could be a shield from his twenty questions.

  The long strokes of his hands rose to her knees.

  “Were you waiting for Ivan?”

  Cool air pimpled her skin. Her heartbeat quickened. Was it because he’d brought up Ivan or because of the touch of his hands along her legs?

  Her fists crushed the edging on the pillow. His ministration crested her knee caps. “I was waiting at the saloon. And there was an overhang.” The words raced out of her mouth.

  “You said that.” His firm hands glided the length of her legs from her ankles to her knees, flirting with the hem of her dress.

  She was positive someone was fanning themselves in her stomach, fanning themselves with chickadee feathers. She had to stop his massage, or she might fly away. Straight. Into. The. Ceiling.

  Reaching out, she grabbed his hand as it circled her knee. Her job was to take care of his injuries. Nothing more. Not like those men at the mine insinuated. She met his faraway gaze.

  “I won’t go any higher.” His fingers traveled down her legs retracing their path, tickling her skin. “I miss my legs.” He didn’t look at her. “I miss the mundane things; crossing my legs in a chair, curling my toes in a rug, river water splashing on my ankles.”

  The storm’s fireworks brightened the inlet, but she did not cover her face.

  “I used to chase my brother Bradley, catch him in my arms, lift him high in the air.” He shook his head. “No more.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She watched as he envied the legs draped over his uneven thighs. “I wish it hadn’t happened. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

  Gently, he shifted out from under her. “Speaking of legs, it’s about time mine come off.”

  “Let me help you?” She wedged her pillow into the corner of the couch.

  He held out his hand to stop her. “I’ve got this. Give your feet a rest.”

  When he had gone, she cautiously placed her feet on the floor. The menthol ointment had doused the fire in her toes.

  “Jo, I hate to bother you, but I need your help. I shanked the strap in the buckle. I’d use the mirror to fix it but my left leg’s already off.”

  Hobbling to his room, she chuckled about their leg predicaments.

  She grabbed the bunched strap and wiggled the material. “You wedged it good this time.” Gritting her teeth, she pulled, hard. The cloth came loose. “There it is.”

  Geoff lounged on his bed. “I’d call you a saint, but you shouted down your elders today.”

  Tension tightened her chest. “Don’t even start about the mine.”

  “Why not? I liked the ‘outstanding veteran’ part.” His straight face creased into a grin.

  “Glad someone liked it.” She turned to leave.

  “Jo,” his voice became serious, “about that man at the mine.”

  Her posture stiffened. “You mean Mr. Young?”

  “I checked the roster. There isn’t an Edgar Young working at Kat Wil.” His eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “The man probably works there. I can find out who he is and get his name.”

  She thought for a moment. “We have no proof to accuse him of being involved in a murder.” She chewed her lip. “My family’s name would be in the paper again. Mother would fret if they mentioned the gambling.” She shook her head. “It won’t bring Ivan back. With all your ranting, I doubt he’ll come near this place.” She turned and walked delicately toward the bedroom door. “Tea before Gin Rummy?”

  “What happened to your real father?” Geoff’s tone was humble, almost a whisper.

  The question stopped her short. She couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken about her father. “He died in a lumbering accident when I was two years old. Joseph…Joseph Jensen was his name. I don’t recall much about him. My mother brings out a drawing of him on our birthdays.”

  “I think he’d be proud of your trip today.” Geoff laid his right leg on the floor. “If you’d like, after I beat you at cards, you can sleep on the couch in my room tonight. In case you’re worried about visitors or the storm.”

  She stood a hair taller. “Thank you, but I’m feeling rather safe.” Remembering his rant at Mr. Young put a smile on her face. “And rather blessed.” And not only at cards.

  19

  “Didn’t know I was an excellent typist, did ya?” Geoff tapped his fingers on the keys, chanting “ASDF.” The chant soon turned to “Greg and Daria.”

  “I didn’t know that a trip to Kat Wil would give me time to write.” She wiggled her toes, grateful that they were almost healed.

  “You write too fast. I can’t find a single comma.” He squinted at her handwritten page as if it needed deciphering.

  “My grammar’s not that bad.” She looked down at her journal and noticed she had written the same phrase twice.

  “It’s not that good.”

  “Math’s my strong suit and—”

  “Not rummy?” He chuckled.

  She clenched her teeth and pointed her pencil at him as if he was her student. “Someone had to help my mother fill orders. You didn’t have to worry about feeding a family.” She had said too much. If Geoff hadn’t gone off to war, maybe he would have gotten married, fathered a child. Her cheeks scalded. Resting her pencil in her lap, she continued to write.

  “Here.” Geoff handed her the pages. Was he refusing to help her? “I don’t have to provide for a family, but at least I know how to diagram a sentence. Why don’t you read them to me?”

  “I’m sorry if…”

  “Just read.” He held claw-like fingers above the keys.

  She began to read slowly. Slow enough for him to keep up:

  Her welcoming “Good Morning” did not ring through the lodge. “Daria,” Gregory called, wheeling through the kitchen—his eyes searching out back. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Daria?”

  A faint voice uttered words he could not recognize. He waited, not wanting to burst into her bedroom sanctuary. Minutes passed. Riddled with concern for her well-being, he sat on the first step, and pushed his body up the stairs. He called her name one last time before opening the door. His heart pounded with fear as he glimpsed her frame. Her face flushed crimson with fever. Her brown eyes, sunken and dazed, stared at him as if they didn’t recognize him.

  “Gregory,” she moaned, her lips dry and cracked. “Leave me be. I can’t take care of you if you get the sickness.”

  “I’m feeli
ng sick too,” he interrupted. “My reading tastes do not include women’s serials.”

  “You’re reading this one.”

  “Out of necessity.”

  She huffed and continued:

  His vigil lasted two days. Exhausted from little sleep, he slumped in a chair near her bed. She slept comfortably now. No outbursts of tears like when she burned with fever.

  He must have dozed off for a while, for when he awoke, she beheld him with the hint of a smile. Her breathy voice, light as air, confessed, “I love you, Gregory.”

  If only her confession were true and not muddled from sickness.

  “Hah! Does he get the flu too so he can blurt out his love while ill with fever?”

  “No, he does not.” She folded the pages and pretended to swat his arm.

  “When does Greg propose?”

  She wished he would do more typing and less talking. “Soon.”

  “Let me guess. On one knee with a big diamond ring?”

  “Did you read ahead?” she asked.

  “Nix the one knee. My legs don’t work that way, and there would be no way on earth I’d propose without them. I’m going to look like one of those gents in the Companion.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “Fine. They’ll go to the waterfall. He’ll be in the chair he threw at the bear.”

  “Repaired, is it?”

  “Stop changing the story. I have to get it finished and in the mail and to Ohio in a month’s time.” And take care of you. And the holidays are coming. And why did she want to do this? The dull throb of a headache traveled across her forehead. She slumped in her reading chair.

  He held out his hand for the story pages. “You write. I’ll type.”

  The words she had written didn’t seem to make sense anymore. She crossed out the last sentence.

  Geoff thumbed through the pages.

  “Daria tells Greg she loves him and then turns down his proposal?”

  Her head rocked back and forth against the headrest. “We talked about this before, remember? He can’t have children. She wants children. No marriage, at least not now.”

  “Well, they could...”

  “I’m not discussing this. You suggested he was...” She stammered trying to come up with the appropriate word. “Because of his injuries, he can’t be a father.” The warmth in her cheeks was now a blazing fire of embarrassment. The tips of her fingers even glowed scarlet.

  Geoff’s cheeks didn’t turn red, but they did plump. His chest shook as he struggled to hide his amusement. “Now, I need a tissue. This is a heart breaker.”

  “We need to keep going.”

  “Then read to me again. Greg’s got to get back on his feet.” He sputtered a laugh.

  She rubbed her forehead and read.

  As she walked toward the shore, she turned and looked at the lodge one last time. It was then she saw him, half-hidden behind the bedroom sheers. Her heart sank deep in her chest as their gazes met. She never thought she would fall in love with him.

  She stared at the ship, its rope ladder cascading down to the waves. A burly man rowed a small boat ashore, the shallow water too perilous for the mighty ship. He helped her load her suitcase, lifting her with ease over the side of the small row boat. Her stomach lurched with every rock of the craft. As they neared the ship, the crewman steadied the dinghy and handed her the ladder. Her body froze. She could not stand or will her feet to move.

  “Take me back!” she cried.

  “Just like a woman, can’t make up her mind. Leaves poor Greg wounded and flailing in the dirt.”

  “Oh, please, now you’re being dramatic. The war imagery is a bit much.” She put down the pages. “The story must be growing on you.”

  “I haven’t read the ending.” He sipped his tea.

  “That’s because I haven’t written it.”

  “Then hurry up and get this poor guy a wife.”

  ~*~

  She finished the story on December fifth. Geoff had promised he would type it straightaway. Hopefully, a musher would stop by soon to post the mail. She wasn’t taking any chances with a January first deadline. Filling out the entry form, she decided to title her story Alaskan Desires.

  That night, the typewriter clicks slowed then stopped. Geoff picked up a page of her story and shook it in the direction of her chair. Still holding the paper, he began to read out loud:

  Her cherry lips pressed into his as tears streamed down her powdered face. Her mouth moved in unison with his, enjoying their passion. Their union could not be broken as his love held her there to share the sweetness of their new life together.

  “I can’t fight my love for you, Gregory,” she breathed, holding his face in her hands.

  Geoff rubbed his jaw. “This is not you.” His stare made her heart spasm.

  “What do you mean?” Her back straightened, broadening her shoulders. “I wrote every word myself. And I did not copy anyone’s story.”

  “It’s too grown up. Did your sister tell you what to write?” His accusatory tone had her on her feet.

  She unbuttoned the sleeve on her dress and wrenched back the material, displaying an arm dotted with broken blood vessels. “I’ve read a lot of serials, but I’ve never kissed a boy. This scene I practiced on my arm.”

  He buried his face in his hands. “What will your mother say? Or my father? Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. I’m supposed to be looking out for you. You’re my responsibility while you’re here at the lodge.”

  “I am not your responsibility. You’re my responsibility. I take care of you.” Did he believe people would get the wrong idea about their relationship? Not everyone retrieved their thoughts from the gutter like the miners at Kat Wil. She wouldn’t change her story. Not one word.

  She sat in her chair and crossed her legs. “Eighteen-year-olds are beyond lullabies and children’s fables.”

  “Well, you need to change the ending,” It sounded like an order. “Daria’s pregnant. Do you know how that happens?”

  She played with her hair trying to shield her face from his penetrating blue eyes. “Yes.” She hated the wobble in her voice. Thank goodness for Ann’s letter. “Daria and Greg marry and fortunately for them, the doctors were wrong about Greg’s condition.”

  He drummed his fingers on the table.

  “If anyone questions the story, they can blame me. I encouraged you to write it.” He held her gaze a little too long for her comfort—especially with the topic at hand. “I do have responsibilities where you’re concerned. You live under my roof, and I’ve seen more of this crazy world than you have.”

  “Yes, you have.” She didn’t want him to stay so serious. “And I have an obligation to this world to show them a man who has more to offer than big shoulders, big arms, and a big wallet. Now, keep typing.”

  And to her amazement, he did.

  20

  An Aleut musher, covered in seal skin and wolf fur, arrived on December tenth, leaving plenty of time for her story to make it to the editorial office before New Year’s Day. The musher left cards and packages on the porch, refusing to come in for tea. His narrow, scouting eyes scanned the lodge with suspicion. He signaled his dog team to move on the minute his boots hit his sled’s footboards.

  Geoff seemed amused at the young man’s unease. “Guess there’s talk even among the natives about this place. Next time the mail’s delivered, I’m going to borrow that white afghan of yours and pretend to be Mr. Gilbertsen’s ghost.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” She bent down to pick up the packages. “If it wasn’t for that musher running a team through the snow, we’d have no gifts for Christmas and there’d be no cards for your birthday.”

  “I’m not celebrating my birthday.”

  “Yes, you are. We need to celebrate. There’s been very little sun and fun around here.”

  “What are you talking about? I enjoyed typing your serial. And we had plenty of laughs over that goose you cooked for Thanksgiving.” He wheeled to
ward the dining table with a lap full of letters to sort. “You just want a reason to eat cake.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Besides your family will be expecting some kind of celebration for your birthday and Christmas.” And they will give me a reprieve. Maybe a holiday bonus when they see how well he’s doing.

  “My family will be in San Francisco. I told my father to go with Julia and celebrate with her family. Bradley will have more fun in Frisco.” He stopped sorting mail to open a card.

  “Well, what about my family?” She set a box of his on the dining table.

  “What about them? I told you I wasn’t up for visitors.”

  “Then I’ll go to Juneau for a short visit. I’ll only be gone a day or two. I can leave food already prepared.”

  His head snapped her direction. “I’m not staying here alone.”

  She clutched a package her mother had sent. How she wished she could reciprocate in person. “You could come with me.” She began envisioning the arrangements. Geoff could sleep on a cot. Borrowing one from a neighbor wouldn’t be a problem.

  “No.” His tone was definite. He continued reading as if the discussion were over.

  It wasn’t.

  She set her gift on the stairs, whisked into the dining room, and gripped the chair closest to Geoff. Pulse racing, bracing for a fight, she blurted out, “Why not? Is it because of where I live?”

  He squinched his nose. “I’ve never seen where you live. Can’t you leave me be?”

  “But it’s Christmas.” Desperation whined in her voice.

  “Fine, visit your family.”

  Her shoulders relaxed.

  “But don’t bother coming back. I need someone I can depend on.”

  She ripped the envelope from his hands. “How can you say that to me?” She hardly recognized her voice through the breathy squeaks. “After all I’ve done for you.”

  He jerked his chair back from the table. “I’m not staying at your mother’s house.” He continued before she could protest. “Or anyone’s house for that matter. I’d like to keep my dignity.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”