When the Clouds Roll By (23 page)

Just when he’d finally allowed himself to fall in love again?

Fool! He should have spoken with Dr. Russ at once, explained his need to keep the past in the past. The doctor, of all people, would understand. He knew exactly what Samuel had endured, the secret shame entombed in the darkest depths of memory.

Breathing easier, Samuel made up his mind to meet with Dr. Russ privately first thing tomorrow. The man had helped Samuel before. Surely he would again. Head in his hands, Samuel tried once more to pray.
Father, forgive me. Father, forgive me—

He could get no further than those three words. It was one thing to trust that God heard and answered, helped and healed, when he prayed on behalf of others. But for himself, when his sin chafed like filthy rags beneath the façade of his chaplain’s uniform, would he ever know God’s peace again?

“
Where is Samuel?” Annemarie fussed with a place setting on the dining room table, her gaze drifting to the front door.

Ursula Vickary set a basket of rolls on the table. “Someone probably caught him after services with a need to talk. You know Sam. He can never turn a hurting soul away.”

Annemarie thought she detected the merest hint of displeasure—or was it concern?—in Mrs. Vickary’s expression. Dare she mention how she’d found Sam yesterday afternoon? She forced nonchalance into her tone. “He’s spent so much time helping me at the shop these past several days. I hope he hasn’t overtired himself. Did he seem all right when he left for the hospital this morning?”

The hesitation before Mrs. Vickary answered spoke volumes. She moved to the window, her shoulders heaving with a worried sigh. “Samuel hasn’t seemed
all right
since his first letters home from France.”

Annemarie joined Mrs. Vickary at the window. Clouds had drifted in, obscuring the sun and bringing a chill to the afternoon. “It’s horrible, isn’t it—how the war has changed the people we love.”

“And our love will carry them through.” With another sigh, Mrs. Vickary patted Annemarie’s arm. “I’m going to help your mother finish in the kitchen. Stay here and watch for Samuel. He’ll be here soon, I’m certain.”

Mrs. Vickary must have sensed Annemarie needed a few minutes alone. Best to use the time for prayer—for Samuel, for Gilbert, for all of them. She donned a thick wool sweater from the hall tree before stepping onto the front porch, where the March wind tugged at her skirt and blew wisps of hair across her eyes. She had a feeling Sam would be walking today—his usual mode of transportation whenever he needed to gather his thoughts. And he’d done a lot of walking since arriving in Hot Springs. She knew for a fact he’d taken his shoes in to be resoled at least once already if not twice.

“I never knew how much I appreciated a good pair of shoes,” Sam had told her once. She hated the thought of his tramping all over France with blisters on his feet, wet socks, and boots either worn completely through or so caked with mud he could hardly lift his legs.

Halfway down the block, she spotted him—arms swinging, eyes to the ground, walking with purpose. A sunbeam broke through the clouds just then, shining directly upon his golden head, and the sight made her heart lift with pure joy.

“Sam. Sam!”

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his chest heaving from the climb up the sloping street. When his eyes met hers, his face exploded into a smile that nearly split his face in two—the look of someone who’d been away a long, long time and had finally come home. A look she hoped to see again and again and again, every day for the rest of her life.

A look that convinced her beyond all doubt that she had fallen deeply, inexorably in love with Samuel Vickary.

She broke into a run, the urgency to lose herself in his arms banishing all sense of decorum. She crashed into him, spinning them both in a dizzying dance. Before they toppled over, she found her footing and paused to catch her breath. “I worried when you were so late.”

“I stayed to walk Sergeant King back to the ward.” He pulled her beneath his arm and kissed her temple. His glance slid sideways for an instant, tension lines flattening his lips.

“Is he well?” she asked, though she suspected the elderly sergeant was the least of his concerns.

“Yes, yes, fine.” Samuel looped his arm through Annemarie’s and they continued up the walk. “I’ve kept your mother holding dinner long enough. She’ll think I’m the worst of dinner guests and never invite me back.”

Annemarie laughed with him, but several steps later, she tugged him to a halt. He faced her with a furrowed brow, one corner of his mouth curled upward, and she couldn’t keep the worry out of her tone. “You can’t fool me, Sam. I know you’re troubled about something. Is it Gilbert? The war? If you think I wouldn’t understand—”

“I don’t want to talk about any of that right now.” His gaze caressed every inch of her face, as if he wanted to memorize each curve and angle. His hand found the base of her throat, his touch like a tender flame upon her skin. The lines around his mouth softened, and he drew her closer, closer. With his lips mere inches from hers, he whispered, “All I want—all I
need
—is to know you care for me.”

“I do, Sam. I care for you more than words can express—more than I ever thought possible.” She melted against him, not caring if neighbors or passersby witnessed her brazenness, and sought his lips. He tasted of spearmint and coffee, his mouth softening against hers with a tenderness both sweet and urgent.

He finally pulled away, but slowly, reluctantly, like a stubborn child told to pack up his toys and go home. Though she would happily forego dinner entirely to stay here locked in his arms, drinking up his kisses, she couldn’t shake the sense that he would never be fully
present
with her until he dealt once and for all with the demons from his past.

25

T
here, that should be a lot more comfortable.” The prosthetist helped Gilbert to his feet, then passed him his crutches.

Gilbert tested his weight upon the newly refitted artificial leg. “I don’t feel the pressure points like before.” He took a few tentative steps. “Yes, definitely better.”

“Good. As your stability improves, you can try using a cane and get rid of those cumbersome crutches.”

Gilbert nodded across the room toward a rack of canes. “Mind if I give it a try now?”

“Sure, see how it goes.” The prosthetist selected one and exchanged it for Gilbert’s crutches. “You’ll use it on your right side, opposite your prosthesis.”

“That’ll help, since my left arm is the weak one.” Gilbert steadied himself as the prosthetist explained the proper sequence for forward movement. His first few steps were wobbly, but he quickly caught on.

Once he felt secure on a flat surface, they moved to an area where he could practice on a short flight of stairs. By the time Gilbert’s appointment ended, he felt renewed confidence. Since he now looked less like a cripple and more like a whole man, maybe the pitying stares would end.

Maybe Annemarie—

White-hot pain blazed through his skull. Rage, jealousy, hate—it all mixed together in an emotional tornado that sucked the breath from his lungs. Forgetting everything he’d just been told about which leg to move with the cane, he stumbled and pitched forward.

The prosthetist grabbed his arm. “Easy, there. Gotta take it slow, okay?”

Just as suddenly the maelstrom subsided, leaving in its wake only shame and self-loathing. Gilbert found his balance and averted his face before the man could notice the wetness sliding down his cheeks. He shook off the beefy hand supporting him. “I’m fine . . . fine.”

Or he would be, once he replenished his morphine supply.

Before his emotional state collapsed further, he exited the clinic and found his way to the hospital administration building. From the lobby he telephoned Thomas at the Arlington to say his appointment was over. As usual, Mother had Zachary otherwise occupied for the day.

“It’ll be another ten minutes or so. I’m in the middle of something.” A sneer crept into Thomas’s tone. “But I’m certain you can find something—or should I say
someone
—with whom to occupy yourself.”

Gilbert bit back a snide reply. “Just get here when you can. I’ll be watching for you.”

There’d be no rendezvous with Mary this morning. At a quiet dinner last night, she’d made it clear she could no longer compromise her position at the hospital—nor her reputation. If Gilbert wanted to court her properly, he could call at her home, meet her mother, and treat her with deference instead of stealing kisses in dark closets and pressing for more than she was willing to give.

So he’d been a cad. He admitted it. But he’d made up his mind to honor Mary’s request as best he could. She was all he had now, and he needed her. Needed her under whatever terms she named.

Using the cane had tired him more than anticipated. On the veranda outside the hospital entrance, he limped to the far end and then rested against the railing while he waited for Thomas. It was quiet here, a peaceful calm settling over the spring morning. After yesterday’s chilly gloom, the sun had ventured out again, and it was turning out to be a grand St. Patrick’s Day, perfect for Annemarie’s opening—

He slammed the lid on such thoughts and turned his focus to Mary. She would surely know how to celebrate the Irish holiday. With her gorgeous red hair, she’d look divine in a frock of emerald green. If he behaved himself, called on her like a gentleman, maybe she’d—

An unmistakable voice drifted down from the veranda one floor above him. “. . . happier than I’ve been since before the war. Annemarie’s the best thing to ever happen to me. When I’m with her, I can forget for a while, pretend I’m . . . normal. Human. Alive.”

“But if you love her, Samuel, then you owe her complete honesty.” Another man’s voice, also vaguely familiar. “Don’t let this haunt you for the rest of your life. Let Annemarie know your struggles. Let her help you come to terms with what happened so you can accept forgiveness and put the past behind you.”

So the pious chaplain had a secret, did he? Gilbert’s nerves sang. He slunk deeper into the shadows.

The echo of an open palm slapping wood cut through the morning stillness. “Because of my weakness, my reckless stupidity, a man is dead. Do you suppose Private Braswell’s parents would forgive me if they knew I was responsible?”

“It was war, Sam.
War
. You weren’t the first man to snap under pressure, and you sure won’t be the last.”

A face to go with the voice began to emerge in Gilbert’s mind—Dr. Russ, his attending physician aboard the
Comfort
. When had Dr. Russ come to Hot Springs? And what did he know about Samuel that Samuel was trying to hide . . . or hide
from
? If it could hurt Annemarie—

“Gil. You ready to go or not?” Thomas strode toward him, impatience firming his jaw.

“Didn’t see you drive up.” Gilbert shot a quick glance overhead. The voices had faded, as if the men had taken their conversation farther along the veranda.

“Well, get a move on, will you? I don’t want to be late for Annemarie’s grand opening.”

An event for which Gilbert needed no reminders. Thomas had tried to convince him to tag along, but the awkwardness would have been unbearable. “You have time to drop me off at the hotel first, right?”

Thomas smirked. “As you wish, milord.”

“I can do without your sarcasm, thank you.” Gripping his new cane, Gilbert did a quick mental review of the prosthetist’s instructions, then stepped out. It felt amazingly good to stand erect again, to walk with restored confidence.

“A cane, eh? Looks like you’re making progress.” Thomas fell in step beside him, surprise lighting his eyes . . . and perhaps a touch of admiration?

“Progress. Right.” How long had it been since Gilbert could honestly say his little brother looked up to him? Hard to garner respect from others when he had so little for himself.

Was it too late? Too late to reclaim the honor he craved from his family, from his peers?

From Annemarie?

An idea slithered into his brain, coiled around his heart, sank its fangs deep into his wounded pride. Thomas, his mother, Samuel, even Annemarie had called him a fool for giving her up. Annemarie still loved him, he’d swear to it. She’d only turned to Samuel because Gilbert had pushed her away.

Because she believed Samuel to be the honorable man Gilbert was not.

If she were to learn otherwise . . . if Gilbert could unearth the details of this wartime secret Samuel so desperately wanted to keep buried . . .

Annemarie had been Gilbert’s once. If he had his way, she would be his again.

When a door opened and a nurse wheeled a patient onto the veranda, the doctor motioned Samuel around the corner. “I mean it, Sam. You’ve spent as much time with shell-shocked doughboys as I have, maybe more. It happens to officers, enlisted men, ambulance drivers—doesn’t matter how much training we’ve had.” A hunted look crept into Dr. Russ’s eyes. “Everybody’s got a breaking point, and in this war, way too many of us found ours.”

Samuel studied the doctor’s face. “You? When?”

Dr. Russ replied with a harsh laugh. “Why do you think I transferred here from Walter Reed? Once we left France and I wasn’t triaging more patients in a single hour than stateside doctors handle in a month, I thought I’d be fine. Then a couple weeks ago I cracked, couldn’t deal with fixing one more botched amputation, couldn’t explain to one more wife or mother why her soldier gets the shakes every time a door slams or a car backfires.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Dr. Russ sighed. “I didn’t tell you my sob story to belittle yours. I just want you to know you’re not alone in this. And you don’t have to be.”

“If we were only talking about a bad case of shell-shock, maybe I could believe you. But what I did—” Samuel’s gut cramped. Images exploded behind his eyes. “The men depended on me to keep up their morale, to be an example of steadfast faith through the horrors of war, and I failed them. I failed
God
.”

“The unforgivable sin. Yeah, you’ve talked about it plenty.” Stepping closer, Dr. Russ slid his hands into the pockets of his white coat. “You may think you deserted God, but I guarantee God has never left you. He’ll see you through this if you’ll let Him, and your faith will be all the stronger for it.”

With all his heart, Samuel wanted to believe Dr. Russ’s words. He’d heard them before, during the long, dark nights immediately following Private Braswell’s death. When the nightmares rocketed Samuel out of his hospital bed in a clammy, guilt-induced sweat, Dr. Russ would sit reading Scripture to him until the panic abated.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me . . .

But even when Samuel had recovered enough to resume his duties, he’d watch yet another ambulance disgorge its gory cargo and have to bite down on the inside of his lip until it bled to keep from screaming curses at God all over again. If not for Dr. Russ’s calm assurance, if not for his constant reminders of how much these soldiers needed Samuel to be strong for them, to pray with them, to speak God’s blessing upon them in their final hours, he might have taken the easy way out. A pistol wouldn’t have been hard to come by. One shot to the temple and his troubles would be over. After all, it should have been Samuel who died, not the innocent young private.

“I know what you’re thinking, Sam.” Dr. Russ stiff-armed him, jolting him out of the past. “Don’t go there. Promise me.”

Samuel’s vision cleared. He offered a weak smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve long since realized suicide isn’t going to solve anything, just speed me on my way to eternal judgment. And I have too much to atone for before I meet my Maker.”

Dr. Russ flashed a doubtful smirk. “Not by my reckoning. Or God’s either, if I know my Bible. How does the verse go? ‘There is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus.’ ”

“Romans 8, verse 1.” Samuel braced his forearms on the railing and heaved a pained sigh. “But how do I dare believe I’m
in
Christ Jesus after denying Him as I did?”

Leaning in beside Samuel, the doctor grinned beneath his whiskers. “Seems to me denying Jesus puts you in real good company. And just look what the Lord did with Peter and Paul after His forgiveness restored them.”

Samuel stared at his clasped hands. If he closed his eyes, he could still imagine them drenched in Private Braswell’s blood. But hadn’t Saint Paul’s hands been stained with blood as he’d gone about persecuting anyone who spoke in the name of Christ? And what about King David, who lusted after Bathsheba and then schemed to have her husband, Uriah the Hittite, killed in battle? The Lord still called these men, forgave them, used them mightily.

“Trust me, Sam. This burden of guilt is Satan’s doing, not God’s.” Dr. Russ clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man. God’s man. Don’t let Satan—or anyone else—convince you otherwise.”

“A part of me knows you’re right. And I’m trying to keep the faith.” Samuel stood erect and faced the doctor. “It’s just . . . when the past breaks into the present, as it seems to do with such alarming regularity . . . it’s all I can do to hold myself together and keep my eyes on the Lord.”

“It’ll get easier with time, I promise.”

Samuel couldn’t suppress a sardonic laugh. “Exactly the words I’ve used to counsel others.”

“Then heed your own counsel and believe it.” Dr. Russ glanced at his watch, then looked up with a sly grin. “Say, don’t you have somewhere else to be this morning?”

Annemarie’s grand opening! Samuel checked his own watch—five minutes to ten. He’d planned to be at the shop in plenty of time for the ribbon-cutting ceremony, which meant he’d have to race like the wind if he didn’t want to miss it entirely.

Adrenaline surging, he glanced around for the quickest way down to Central Avenue. Then, pausing, he seized the doctor’s hand. “Thanks for the talk. You’ve helped more than you know.”

“Anytime, Padre. Now get a move on. You wouldn’t want to keep your sweetheart waiting.”