Home by Morning (4 page)

“Good Corporal Braddock, do you have a match?”

Riley Braddock glanced to his left, the direction from which the request had come. It was pointless, though. With a black, cloudy night overhead, it was so damned dark here in this wet, miserable trench he doubted that a cat would be able to see anything. He was surrounded by men from his battalion, but he recognized this voice by its liquid vowels.

“Whip, that you?”

“It is,” Remy Whipperton Fournier, III, replied. “I managed to roll one dry smoke but I don’t have any matches.”

“I’ll check.” Riley patted his pockets and rummaged through the pouches on his cartridge belt. His fingers closed on a small metal canister. Opening the lid, he extracted a single match. “Here you go.”

Whip’s hand fumbled with his own in the darkness until it found what he was searching for. “Thanks.” The match flared for a moment, and Riley saw the man’s genial face in its glow. “Damn, but I hate it up here,” was his languid complaint. “This is hardly what I expected my Grand Tour to be like. You never know when the Hun is going to lob a shell at you, and there goes your head, rolling down the trench like a croquet ball. Or floating past, if it’s raining.”

Riley smiled. “At least it probably won’t happen at night. But I admit I liked it better back at that farmhouse we left yesterday. The food was a hell of a lot better than that monkey meat and canned salmon we get here.”

Whip pulled on the cigarette, creating a small orange beacon. It highlighted his grin, as broad as a cantaloupe slice. “The scenery was far nicer, too. That old man’s young wife—ooh-lah-lah.” Whippy was a drawling Southern gentleman from Baton Rouge with a wry sense of humor. The fluent French he spoke made it easier for him than the other boys to communicate with the locals, though Riley had the feeling that most found his particular dialect offensive to their ears.

“Don’t you ever think about anything except women, Fournier?” another voice asked from the dark.

“I certainly do. I think about keeping my body and soul together.”

“What about the countryside? Didn’t you notice that grove of
live
trees?”

“Gentlemen, I agree the landscape was pretty, too, except for that unfortunate yard ornament every French villager seems to have.”

“You mean the manure pile by the front door?”

Whip let out a gusty sigh. “Yes, I just can’t get used to that.”

“Just as well,” came another voice that sounded like Steven Collier’s. “If the French were as fussy as Americans, they wouldn’t let us in with our cooties. At least they don’t mind the lice. And we don’t smell much better than those dung heaps.”

“Well, damn, Lieutenant, I suppose that’s a
little
comfort,” Riley said, only a touch of humor in his chuckle.

Fournier continued in his lazy molasses accent, his train of thought not derailed. “I imagine if I had a stunning paragon like your Miss Susannah waiting for me back home, I’d be thinking about her instead. She’s a beautiful, angelic creation on God’s mortal earth. Let’s see her picture again, Braddock.” He sucked on the cigarette once more.

Automatically, Riley put his hand over the pocket that held Susannah’s photograph. “You just keep to your own business. Besides, it’s too dark here to see anything.”

“And just what is this place again?”

“Jesus, Whippy, where have you been?” Riley posed. Fournier was a nice guy and even a good soldier when he had to be, but he never seemed to have his mind on the right subject. He was college educated and should have been an officer, but he’d refused the commission. Too much responsibility, he’d said. That he’d avoided getting his head torn off, as he joked, sometimes amazed Riley. “This battle started back on September twenty-sixth. We’re near Verdun, somewhere between the Meuse River and the Argonne Forest. I guess. It’s hard to tell in the dark.”

“Ah, yes, the Argonne. Where all the fighting has been going on.” With one last drag, the hot coal of his cigarette disappeared. Riley heard the sound of a heel grinding it into the mud. “Well, I’m off to the latrine, boys,” Whippy said. “Be sure to come get me if the Hun starts up. I don’t want to miss anything.”

Their battalion had just trekked several hours in the rain, winding their way through communication trenches, blown-out roads, and snarled traffic of vehicles, horses, and men that seemed hopelessly locked. They’d come loaded down with supplies to reinforce another front-line battalion. Moving at night helped them avoid the enemy’s snipers and lookouts, but the weather wasn’t fit for any living thing except the frogs and rats that infested this hole.

Riley sat with his back against the trench wall, which had been fortified with sandbags and slim tree branches. His army-issue Springfield rifle stood upright on its stock, also resting against the wall. Somewhere down the line he heard soft singing, beautiful soft singing, a harmony of wistful voices.

There’s a long, long night of waiting

Until my dreams all come true;

Till the day when I’ll be going down

That long, long trail with you.

Riley swallowed the sudden knot that had formed in his throat. He wished that Whip hadn’t mentioned Susannah. He hadn’t seen his wife in sixteen months. God, it seemed like a lifetime. The abject loneliness and isolation he often felt, despite being surrounded by thousands of men, were not problems he’d expected when he left home. How can a person feel isolated in a crush of humanity? But he did.

He closed his eyes and pictured Susannah’s long, black curls, her soft cheek, the sweet curve of her hip under her chemise, the way she looked at him with those dark chocolate eyes when they were alone. He imagined her, thigh-deep in tall summer grass, smiling at him, beckoning him with a glint in her gaze that made him come to her and wind his hands through her hair. Then she’d pull him down with her, down, down, where no one would find them.

If he really concentrated, he could still remember the scent of her—cherry bark and almonds. He caught himself sniffing hard enough to bring him back to his present circumstances.

The trenches smelled like—well, there was no way to describe it. So many things contributed to the stink: thousands of shallow graves, cooking, overflowing latrines, unwashed bodies, rotting sandbags, all mixed with stagnant mud. Sitting here in the dark, there was no way to see the brown rats he knew crawled through these trenches without fear. The filthy rodents were often the size of house cats, since they didn’t lack for food. They gorged themselves on the human remains that littered the countryside. Some campaign veterans swore the rats could sense impending German shellfire and so scampered away until it was over.

Why he’d originally believed that war would be a glamorous, noble experience escaped him now. Nothing about running a horse farm had prepared him for miles of barbed wire, machine guns that could reduce a village to rubble in a matter of minutes, and the unspeakably inhuman savagery he’d witnessed. But then, none of these men had been prepared for what they saw. Hell, at least he could have waited to be drafted, like some of them had.

Sometimes…just for a minute…he would wish that he’d let Cole win the argument about which of them should go and which should stay behind. Cole had wanted to come over here.

Of course, Pop had been beating his tambourine, insisting that both of his sons would bring honor and glory to the Braddock name. There had never been a question in Riley’s mind that he should enlist. But Pop’s cranky nagging hadn’t worked on Cole, and Riley was glad for that. There had been resentment between them, Riley and his brother, over the turn of events. But someone had to help Susannah with the contracts, and his father was in no shape to do that.

And those days of eternal summer, golden and lambent, that he remembered so well—they were why he was here in France. They were why he and the others were fighting an enemy that would crush their freedom under a cruel heel of tyranny.

So they’d all been told, anyway. But he didn’t believe it anymore. If he died, what good would freedom be to him?

He tipped his head back to look at the sky. There wasn’t much to see.

At least it had stopped raining.

After lunch, Jessica walked down to the telegraph office to send a wire to Dr. Martin at the hospital in Seattle explaining her revised plans. She handed her note to Leroy Fenton, Powell Springs’s elderly head telegrapher.

“Seattle, eh? I’ve been getting some news from those parts—looks like there’s a bout of the grippe going around up there.”

“There is?”

Leroy adjusted his sleeve garter and continued. “They say it might have started at Camp Lewis and spread to some civilians who went there to watch a review of the National Guard Infantry.” He shrugged. “The docs up there say we have nothing to worry about, though. Other camps have had it, too, but they’ve got the situation under control. That’ll be three dollars, Miss Jessica.”

Jess had heard about a few of those outbreaks herself—some doctors diagnosed it as pneumonia—but she’d also heard of the overcrowded conditions in the temporary military camps. Disease found easy pickings under those circumstances. Still, the mention of Camp Lewis drew her thoughts back to the Cookson boy.

“In war, more men die of disease than wounds,” she said, searching her drawstring purse for the cash to pay Leroy.

“Do they?” He looked at her message again, then dropped his voice and glanced around, as though there were someone else in his office besides the two of them. These days, that was not an unreasonable fear. A casual comment could get a person in trouble. “Then I’m glad I’m too old to go.”

She patted the older man’s arm and smiled. “So am I, Leroy.”

Then she left the office and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, anticipation and dread thumping in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she headed for the hotel.

Cole stopped at Jessica’s hotel room door and pulled off his right buckskin glove, his knuckles hovering over the wooden panel. Although Amy had drafted him for this job, he’d gotten himself in even deeper and he was determined to make the meeting as brief as possible. If Amy hadn’t asked, he would be back at his forge now, or helping Susannah and Tanner with the horses.

Another guest passed him in the hallway, and Cole didn’t want to be seen lurking out here like some kind of big bad wolf. He rapped sharply on the door.

He heard her footsteps cross the floor. “Who is it, please?”

“It’s Cole.” She opened the door a crack to make sure, then swung it wide. “Expecting the boogeyman?”

She had changed into a slim, fawn-colored dress with a collar so wide it touched her shoulders and tiers of skirting that were edged with black trim. It enhanced her curves and made him look twice.

“No, I’ve just become more cautious over the years. No one needs to lock their front doors here, but Powell Springs isn’t like New York.”

As if he needed reminding. “I didn’t think it was. Is this everything?” He gestured at two trunks and a few suitcases stacked against the wall in her hotel room. Women never traveled light, he thought, and while practical, apparently Jessica was no exception. But then, to be fair, she was on her way to Seattle to…continue her career. Of course she’d have all her possessions with her.

Although the door was wide open, Jess fidgeted, letting her hand wander from her large hat, to her cuffs, to the simple gold chain hanging from her neck. “Yes, I’m sorry I couldn’t have them brought down before you got here so you wouldn’t, well—” Her gaze darted to the bed.

It wasn’t a small room, but the iron bed was the most obvious piece of furniture within its walls.

One winter night, more than two years earlier, he had lain with Jessica on a bed similar to this one.

Her father’s funeral had taken place that afternoon, and she had been stoic, organizing the gathering after, greeting neighbors, comforting the sobbing, inconsolable Amy. When everyone had finally left, she’d put her sister to bed with a strong sleeping powder. Only then had Jessica’s numb composure cracked. She had cried in his arms until he thought her heart would break, and his as well. They’d spent the night lying on her bed, still dressed in the clothes they’d worn to the funeral, while a fierce January wind howled around the corners of the house and seeped in through the window casings. His shirt front had been wet with her tears. In those cold hours of darkness they had never been closer, not even during their brief, desperate moments of hungry passion stolen in summer wildflowers.

It had been the last time he’d seen her cry. It had been, he realized, the only time.

She set her purse on the bureau and draped some dresses over her arm. “Didn’t you bring help?”

“Help—what for? If I can’t manage this load, I might as well hang it up and spend my days with Pop at Tilly’s.”

She lifted an eyebrow but said nothing more.

He carried the one trunk down the hall and to his Ford TT out front. The truck had created a ruckus in the house when he bought it last year. Riley had insisted they couldn’t afford it, when Cole knew full well that they could. His father had declared that he’d shoot the thing between its headlamps before he’d let it near the horses. Pop still eyed it with suspicion but admitted grudgingly that it served a purpose, especially when it came to hauling. With so much work to be done, Cole had made good use of the vehicle.

Jessica followed him with her purse and the dresses. When they went back for the second trunk, she repeated, “You’ll need help for this one. It’s heavy.”

He gave her a dismissive wave. “I can control Bill Franklin’s Percheron, so I think I can handle this. That horse weighs twenty-five hundred pounds.”

“Really? Do you haul it around on your back?” she asked sweetly.

He frowned at her and bent his knees to lift the trunk. It didn’t budge. He tried again, his muscles tight and burning with the effort. He got nothing but the sound of joints popping in his shoulders. He glanced up at Jess, then tugged at the edges of his gloves and grasped the leather grip on one end of the leather-bound case. Pulling hard, he barely managed to shift it three feet.

“Jesus, what’s in this thing?” he demanded, out of breath and feeling as if every vein in his head was about to explode.

“Medical books.”

His frown turned into a scowl. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that?”

“You said you could handle it just fine. I’m sure it doesn’t weigh as much as the Percheron, does it?”

“How did you get this up here?” He lifted his hat and resettled it more firmly on his head.

“It took three men and a small boy. I
hired
them at the railroad station.” She looked very pleased with herself.

By God, but she was sassy. She always had been. How could a woman with such a serious mind and occupation be so sassy? But that had been part of her allure—a mingling of opposites within the same person. Studious and disciplined, but rebellious and daring, knowing yet innocent. Amy was unworldly and uncomplicated. Though he’d known Jessica longer, Cole had never quite figured her out. It was irritating, but it had its appeal. When she wanted to, she could have a man stepping all over his own feet.

“All right, I’ll have to get someone to help. You go back to the office.”

“I’m going to stop at Wegner’s Laundry first.”

He dug around in his back pocket. “Here’s the key. I’ll see you over there after I find another man to—after a while.”

He wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw an evil gleam of satisfaction in her smile as she left.

“Don’t you worry, ma’am, we’ll deliver these to you later this afternoon, pressed good as new.” Clarence Wegner took Jessica’s creased, wrinkled dresses from her arms. After days of sitting in her luggage, they’d been crushed beyond wearing. He prattled on in a friendly, interested manner. “It’s good to see you again after all this time. I’ll bet you’re glad to be home. Looks like we might see your sister getting married here one of these days.”

“Um, yes, Mr. Wegner…”

“It’s a shame that Riley Braddock is off in France. But here’s hoping he’ll make it for the wedding. My brother was best man when I married Mrs. Wegner and…”

Jessica struggled to concentrate on their conversation. While the sky was clear, it was a cool day. Despite the open door, though, the air in the laundry was stifling and humid. She could see through the gap in the purple drapes meant to separate the working part of the place from the storefront. Steam poured out of the laundry tubs to combine with the hot irons and the mangle. Cooking smells floated in from somewhere. Maybe from Mae Rumsteadt’s café down the street, or maybe there was something on the stove upstairs. Jess knew that Clarence Wegner and his wife lived in rooms over their business.

In her mind there suddenly rose a vivid memory of the stench of boiling cabbage and rancid pork fat trapped in dark, stifling hallways connected by dark, stifling staircases. Children wailed in the summer heat, and their mothers carped in strident tones or moaned with despair. A cacophony of voices raised in anger, pain, or helplessness, drummed through the thin walls of the tenements. It didn’t matter which building—in New York’s poor neighborhoods they were all alike. Hell on earth. There was a little girl with a broken arm in one room, a stringy-haired new mother barely clinging to life with childbed fever down the hall, and still another lying shrunken and hollow-eyed on a stained, bare mattress with only a ragged quilt for cover, a tumor the size of a lemon in her breast.

The heat.

The rats.

The poverty.

The hopelessness.

They haunted her dreams, but Jess hadn’t remembered it all quite so clearly since she’d left New York for her sabbatical in Sarasota Springs.

“…all right, Miss Layton? You look a little peaked.”

Jessica was jerked back to the counter at Wegner’s Laundry. “Yes, I’m sorry.” She pressed her hand to her forehead. Her dress was stuck to her back, and her heart felt as if it were pounding as hard as the grange band’s bass drum. A suffocating feeling of panic overwhelmed her, and she struggled to hide it. “It—it’s quite warm in here, isn’t it?”

“Oh, sure, summers are real hard in this business, although that new electric fan helps.” Mr. Wegner’s own face gleamed with a sweaty luster as he pointed to a spinning blade in its wire cage. “But come next month—from November to March, we’ll be warm as toast.”

She reached into her bag and withdrew a handkerchief. “Well, I—I must be running along.” If she didn’t get out of here, she was afraid she’d faint. Or worse.

“That’s fine. I’ll send a girl around when—”

But Jess had already edged out the doorway and was on the sidewalk. Pausing under Wegner’s awning, she dabbed at her temples with the square of linen balled in her hand. She was relieved to be outside where it was much cooler, but was troubled by the panic she’d felt.

When would the memories leave her in peace? she wondered. Had they become so deeply etched in her mind that they would play again and again, like scenes in a moving picture? No, she asserted, it wasn’t possible. She’d feel better when she got to Seattle—she’d get a fresh start and new memories to shut out the old ones.

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she pushed the damp hankie into her skirt pocket and made her way back down Main Street. When she reached the office, she saw that Eddie Cookson was gone.

Good. At least someone had come for him. He really needed bed rest and decent nursing care.