Homefront Hero Page 5

  “Whoa there, stallion. You’re not going to get what you want out of that leg by beating it up.” Dr. Charles Madison pushed John’s leg back down. John hated how easily the small doctor could do it, too. The weakness in his leg made him crazy, and Madison had a gift for showcasing just how much strength John had lost.

  “It doesn’t bend a single inch farther this week.” Complaining felt childish, but John’s frustration stole his composure as easily as the dirigible stay lines had shredded his leg. Patience was not a virtue Gallows men either possessed or cherished. John pulled himself upright with something just short of a snarl.

  “This isn’t the kind of thing that goes in a straight line.” Dr. Madison, his Bostonian accent sounding entirely too fatherly, sat down on the bench next to John. He set his clipboard down with a weariness that spoke do we have to go over this again? without words. “It’s going to be back-and-forth. And if you push it too far too fast, I promise you it will be more back than forth. Flex your foot.”

  John shot him a look but obeyed. The doctor could make “flex your foot” sound like “go sit in the corner.”

  “You’ve got more rotation than you did last week. You tore nearly every tendon from your hip down. It’s a wonder you’ve still got use of the leg at all, Gallows. Those tether lines could have ripped the whole thing off.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m so fabulously fortunate.” John launched himself up off the bench and hobbled to the bars on the wall nearby. Did Madison think he didn’t know that? And if those lines—those horrid steel lines that felt like they were slicing his leg off from the inside out while he dangled—had severed his leg, where would he have been? Falling thousands of feet out of the sky to drown in the ocean. If he lived through the fall. The mere thought of that terrifying, helpless hanging sensation, those minutes of absolute dread that felt like hours of twisting over what he was certain would be the site of his death, sent that icy sensation through his chest again. He hated this sniper-fire fear of that memory which could attack him without warning. A wrong comment or even the slightest hint of falling—and he slipped all the time these days—would catapult him back to those moments in the sky. Somehow he knew that if he ever had to hang upside down again for any reason—some exercise or calisthenic someone dreamed up to rehabilitate him—he’d stop breathing altogether. Die of remembered fright on the spot. Just the kind of way every war hero ought to behave.

  “For a talented spokesman, I wonder sometimes if I ought to punch you for the thoughtless things you say.” Madison cornered him against the wall and pinned him with severe eyes. “Look around you, son. Wake up and see just how fortunate you are. That imperfect leg you so despise is at least still there. You’ve your wits about you and the admiration of many. Take a walk with me over to another hall of the hospital—the one with no visitors—and see some of the ghosts we can barely call men. Complain to them as they sit in chairs mumbling because not only their arm but their mind is gone.”

  John was in no mood to be smothered by the silver lining of his own survival. Madison didn’t get like this often, and it bothered John to no end when the doctor lectured him on his advantages. He needed no reminding. “I know I ought to be glad I’m alive,” he mumbled with reluctance. That was, in fact, part of the problem. Part of the thing niggling at the back of his mind, taunting him on the edges of sleep. He was alive. He was fortunate. More than that, he was lauded and admired. He just never felt like he earned it. And that wasn’t the sort of thing one mentioned to anyone. Humility was one thing—and another one of those virtues not especially prized by Gallows men. Feeling like a fraud? That was another. “I let my frustration get the better of my mouth.”

  John had been down that particular hospital hallway. He knew soldiers who, once maimed, wanted nothing more than to get back out on the front lines so they could be shot down and end their misery. They wouldn’t put their families through the shame of suicide, yet they couldn’t face the prospect of a lifetime without a limb or an eye or whatever. Those men clamored back to the battlefield with a dangerous “death wish.”

  He wasn’t one of those. John wanted back in the battle so he could prove to himself he was the hero everyone seemed to think he was. Whatever he did—and honestly, he didn’t even clearly remember most of it—up there to those dirigible lines was sheer, terrorized survival, not heroism. Grab this or fall. Secure that or risk it ripping off and taking him with it. He climbed out onto that airship not because he wanted to be brave, but because it was try something or die. He was working only to save himself, and that other lives would benefit from his actions was the last thing on his mind. That wasn’t the kind of thing one ought to get a medal for. The fellows who had risked their lives to pull in wounded mates, who went back out into gunfire to drag their captain to safety? Those were the men who should be making speeches and wearing medals. He wasn’t here stirring up patriotism because he was brave. He was here because his name was Gallows, he had a silver tongue, took a good photograph and had somehow managed not to die.

  * * *

  Ida tossed her nurse’s hat down on her bureau. “You know, I thought I was an admirer of the male physiology.”

  Leanne looked up from the outline of reconstructive exercises she’d been studying. “You’re not?”

  “I think how God put us together is one of the most amazing things ever. Y’all would think there’s no way to make it tedious.” Ida leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling, her long auburn mane tumbling down behind her. She had a gift for striking dramatic poses.

  They sat in their shared bedroom at the Red Cross House. It was comfortably furnished by army standards, with a pair of beds, bureaus and desks much like the dormitory rooms she’d had at the university. It had color and comfort, two things the bland army housing clearly lacked. She found she couldn’t fully approve of the way the U.S. Army piled soldiers into barracks that looked more like hospital wards than homes. The standardized, militarized buildings utterly lacked the pleasant feel of the Red Cross House. Not that the Red Cross House was perfect, but Leanne had come to appreciate privacy for the dear commodity it was in military life. It made her grateful she enjoyed Ida’s company so much. “I take it you’re not fond of your current rotation?”

  “I have babysat my five-year-old cousins and heard less complaining. And I declare, I could be tending a ship of pirates and hear more civilized conversation. To think I thought being surrounded by soldiers would be a good thing!” She flung out one hand as if addressing the universe. “I had to smack one private’s hand three times for attempting to get…too private.”

  Leanne laughed at Ida’s pun. “Your sense of humor serves you well.” Ida’s vibrancy made her a grand friend to have in trying times. “I imagine you’re just the kind of care some of those boys need. Have you drawn any of them yet?” Ida was an immensely talented artist. She’d tacked a few of her better sketches up on the wall of their room and Leanne thought they rivaled some of the things she’d seen framed on the best walls in Charleston.

  Ida opened one eye from her dramatic recline and shot Leanne a look. “I have not. They don’t merit my talents. Truly, I’m not askin’ for chivalry. Just a little civility would be fine with me. Goodness knows, with the work I put into seeing them healed and healthy, it’s the least they could do. A man’s broad shoulder is one of the finest things God has ever made, but I had to muck out the gouges in one today that rivaled a Tennessee swamp. By rights, he should owe me nothing less than a fine dinner for my troubles.”

  “Have you been to Tennessee, Ida?”

  Ida groaned. “I feel like I have now. At least that one had the decency to pass out eventually. At the start, he was fighting me like I was the enemy.” She pulled herself upright. “And speaking of pain and chivalry, how was your knitting lesson with Captain Gallows?”

  Leanne winced. She’d hoped to avoid this conversation with Ida, who was quick to insert a romantic intention into just about any male-female interaction. Leanne
hadn’t really decided what to make of John Gallows, and she didn’t want Ida jumping to all kinds of conclusions. “Well—” she planted her eyes on the outline “—I did change my mind about it being unnecessary. As it turns out, Captain Gallows did most certainly need a dress rehearsal.”

  Ida raised an eyebrow.

  “Really, I’m not sure he had any more trouble than any other first-time student, but it did seem to fluster him more than he liked.” She remembered the look on his face, amazed how it still surprised her for reasons she couldn’t quite work out.

  “Fluster?” She leaned on her desk, planting her elbows in a “tell me all about it” pose.

  Leanne looked down to see she’d written “John?” above an illustration of leg exercises. She quickly crossed it out and turned the page. The last thing she needed to do was to refer to Captain Gallows by his given name in front of someone with Ida’s imagination. “I believe the captain is used to mastering things quickly, that’s all. He’d thought it would be easier—I did, too, actually—but even with larger needles his big hands make it difficult. It took longer than either of us thought it would.”

  “But you succeeded in teaching our brave hero?”

  Leanne wasn’t sure she succeeded at anything except bringing herself into a further state of confusion. Still, she was relatively certain Gallows would look more in command of his stitches at the first photo shoot tomorrow. He’d actually been right. Had they just taken photos, it would have been clear to her or any other knitter that he wasn’t really knitting. It was painfully obvious to her when people pretended to knit in paintings or photos—their needles were always pointed upward, waggling about in a way that couldn’t possibly produce stitches. John had wanted to make sure he was knitting so that it looked real in the photographs. While she’d first chalked that up to vanity, she’d realized it was a sort of integrity. An honor she hadn’t really attributed to the man with the gleaming cinema-star smile. “Yes,” she said feeling a regrettable hint of color come over her cheeks. “We made it work and I think tomorrow will be a success.”

  “You’ll be famous. Have you thought of that?”

  Leanne sincerely doubted anyone even noticed her in the same room with someone like Captain Gallows. “Not really.”

  “I heard the quartermaster talking about the supplies he needed to get for all those Era magazine people. They’re talking about putting Captain Gallows on the cover.” She nodded at Leanne. “If he’s on, you’re on. We’re gonna have to get your hair done up right and everything. Have you even given a moment’s thought to that?”

  Leanne had actually thought about what she wanted to wear. Not because of the cameras, but because of something John had said. Something about sky-blue being his favorite color. She had a blouse the color of the sky. Mama had said the color suited her especially well. The sleeves had a delicate ruffle at her wrists, which she supposed would be the only part of her to make it into a photo of any kind.

  Yesterday, her planned obscurity didn’t bother her at all. As a matter of fact, General Barnes had said something to the effect that she’d “hardly be noticed” and she’d been almost relieved at the assurance. Today, after the supreme teaching effort required to get Gallows to any kind of competency, she found herself miffed. No one had ever asked what she thought of this campaign. Of course she agreed with the need to get more people knitting for the soldiers. And it was dreadfully difficult to convince boys to pick up the yarn and needles with images of their doting grandmothers clouding their vision. But it all seemed so…so…contrived. As if both she and John had been tricked into something far beyond their original intentions by people who didn’t really care about the true purpose.

  John seemed to actually care. He covered it up well, but she could see it in the way he chose his words, the way he would try over and over to get the stitches right. But she had the niggling sense that his ego wouldn’t allow anyone to know he cared. Would he let go of all that bravado if they knew each other better? Did she want to know John Gallows better?

  Would he even take the time if given the chance? Leanne found she couldn’t be sure he took this as seriously as she. She took this very seriously, and it bothered her that no one else seemed to. Certainly not the general nor any of the Era staff. They’d made no effort to get in touch with her directly, and learn more about the knitting program. Clearly the publicity angle involving the captain was all that interested them. It was probably just another way to sell magazines. And could she really be sure of John’s motives? John Gallows was known in Charleston as a charmer who collected—and then dismissed—female admirers. What if he’d been behind it from the beginning, picked her out for what he hoped was a compliant spirit? Yet another damsel who would merely swoon under his spell? She felt her annoyance rise just picturing those magazine people angling lights and asking for wider smiles. Sky-blue? Suddenly Leanne wanted to wear bright red. To stand out. To stand up.

  “Leanne!” Ida was off her chair, facing Leanne, waving her hands as if flagging down a battleship. “Where’d you go, honey? Y’all are frowning like we’re at a funeral. It’s just hair.”

  Leanne slapped her notebook shut. “Yes, I want you to do my hair up nice. And would you lend me that bright yellow dress you have? The one with the buttons on the cuffs?”

  Ida swung back on one hip, eyes wide. “Not fading into the background tomorrow, are we?”

  “Absolutely not. The method might be a bit…unorthodox, but the cause is important. No one’s going to push me and all the other dedicated knitters out of the picture tomorrow. Not while I’m around. There’s more to what we’re doing than Captain John Gallows, and the American people need to know that.”

  Ida stood up, saluted and winked. “Yes, ma’am!”

  Chapter Eight

  John’s leg was screaming at him from inside perfectly pressed trousers. His shirt collar tightened around his neck like a starchy, menacing hand. At least in war, no one gave a fig what a man looked like or how he stood, as long as he got where he needed to be. Here, he was waging a battle with the barbed wire under his skin while smirking and making small talk with a dozen people who had no idea what torture it was to bend his right leg at a natural angle. And hold it for the endless seconds it took to get the right image. They’d been at it for hours, and already he was coming to hate the funny accordion-faced camera as much as he loathed the pointed metal knitting needles. People said the camera loved him, but he did not return the affection.

  “You were right,” Leanne remarked after the first handful of photos. “It would have been dreadfully hard to learn under these conditions.” A man in a plaid vest had repositioned her hands dozens of times, and even John could hear the frustration in Leanne’s words. Obviously the wonder born of buzzing activity and bright lights had died down quickly for her, made worse by the tactless positioning of photographers who made it very clear they weren’t too worried about getting her in the shot.

  Which was a waste, for she looked beautiful today. John could tell she’d taken extra care with her hair and dress. “You should wear that color more often,” he ventured when one assistant all but pushed her out of the way. The bright yellow made the peach of her skin fairly glow. He yanked his hat back from some apple-cheeked boy charged with brushing nonexistent lint from it. “Clark, I want Miss Sample in the next shot.”

  Clark Summers looked up from his camera with a dubiously raised eyebrow. “Do you now?” His tone implied that what Captain Gallows wanted didn’t much matter at the moment.

  Someone fired off one of those flash contraptions, making Leanne jump. The photographer rolled his eyes as if he considered working with such innocents penance for some earlier photographic sin.

  “I do,” John replied. He poured so much Gallows command into those two words that the hat boy sat down in deference. “Surely you don’t plan to slap me on some magazine cover without a pretty girl by my side. I’m supposed to recruit young lads to the cause, aren’t I? You don’t expec
t me to do that without a lovely lady on hand to admire my efforts?”

  John regretted those last words the minute he’d said them, but his leg was making it hard to think well. Miss Sample’s spine shot straight and the needles dropped to her lap. Worse yet, her foot began tapping. Nothing good ever came out of a lady tapping her foot, ever. The fire he had suspected was lurking under all that peaches-and-cream was sneaking out under all this scrutiny. He liked that, although John was convinced that amusement could well be the death of him. If his leg didn’t kill him first.

  He made up his mind, then and there, to ensure he saw Leanne Sample someplace much closer to his own territory. Someplace where he held most of the cards. He smiled as it came to him just where that was.

  * * *

  The captain had nerve, she’d give him that much.

  It wasn’t that she minded being pulled out of the standard nurse’s rotation—those shifts could be dreary, indeed—it was that she hadn’t been given a choice at all. The smug grin on John Gallows’s face as she signed the clipboard admitting her to the reconstruction gymnasium pressed down on her, glossy and manipulative. Clearly he thought he’d done her some kind of favor. While other nurses might fawn over the chance to work so closely with such “a hero,” Gallows’s manipulative nature canceled out any gratitude Leanne could muster.