Through the Darkness Page 2

  Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes and burned the raw and overly sensitive flesh surrounding them. But ripping the damn bandages off would only make the constant pain even more intolerable. He'd learned that lesson well after trying it last week.

  He just needed a little relief instead of wanting to crawl out of his skin every second. The morphine didn't work, despite the doctor's assurances that his current dosage couldn't be any higher.

  But something had to change before the torment drove him insane or he took matters into his own hands.

  Suddenly, a cool and calming hand settled on the side of his face. It moved slowly and gently up from his cheek, over the dampened bandaging covering his eyes, to finally rest on the bare skin of his forehead.

  How long had it been since someone had touched him out of compassion instead of anger? He couldn't remember.

  There was something maternal to the tender way she stroked his brow that soothed the incessant ache raging through his every muscle, bone, and sinew.

  Too exhausted to continue fighting, his entire body relaxed with one giant exhale and succumbed to her gentle ministrations.

  She smoothed the wet strands of hair off his sweaty brow and released her hold on his casted arm, then leaned forward.

  A click of a metal latch, followed by a soft creak of hinges, then suddenly crisp spring air smelling of apple blossoms rushed into the room. It caressed his dampened brow and miraculously eased his heated torment.

  "I'd better let you rest now," she said quietly, "are you hungry?"

  "No," He groaned, unable to stop his lips from curling in disgust.

  Food was the last thing he wanted at the moment. A needle filled with a triple dose of morphine—or enough to down an elephant—would be more to his liking. Sadly, no one had been willing to grant his wish thus far.

  "That's probably a good thing," she murmured, her tone full of wry humor. "Agatha's in the kitchen today…she's a sweet woman, but even the hospital cat won't eat her cooking."

  Everett grunted his response, surprised to find himself resisting the urge to smile.

  "Is having the window open helping at all?" She paused, resting her hand lightly upon his brow once more. "You seem a little more relaxed now." Her fingers threaded into his hair, and her thumb brushed back and forth across his forehead. "I wish I could do more for you."

  He sighed, surprised to find her touch coupled with the cool breeze had become enough for now.

  A moment of silence passed before she removed her hand from his forehead and stood, leaving him oddly bereft of her touch.

  "I should go; you need to sleep." She left his bedside, a curious tap tap tap marking her progress across the room and away from him.

  "Will you be back?" He asked, hoping she hadn't heard the panic in his voice unless it would make her stay.

  Normally he would never have stooped to guilting someone into doing anything they didn't want to do. But she remained the first and only person able to soothe his torment, so he was willing to do whatever proved necessary.

  She hesitated before saying, "I really shouldn't…Nurse Winters doesn't like me to interfere."

  "But you're here now."

  "I shouldn't be."

  He grunted, the left corner of his mouth curling up in the beginnings of a smile. "So that's a yes?"

  She choked on a giggle, punctuated by the tap tap tap of her walking further away. "We'll see."

  That sounded like a ‘yes' to him. His lips bent into a small smile—the first one in over two and a half weeks. Confident she'd return, he relaxed against his mattress and drifted off to sleep wondering if that tap tap tap meant she had a wooden leg.

  Four

  Elyria walked as calmly as possible down the hall to the linen closet, ducking inside right before Nurse Winters and Major Buchanan marched past her toward Captain Monterose's room. Leaning against the door, she pressed it closed and let out a heavy sigh.

  Her hands trembled, and her heart raced; either because she'd cut it too close to being discovered by Nurse Winters, or because she'd just faced a rattlesnake in its den and lived to tell the tale.

  She scoffed and shook her head. Perhaps that last bit might be a tad overdramatic for what had just transpired with the patient. But, the longer she thought about it, she couldn't come up with a more apt description of the situation.

  Thrilling and terrorizing all at once, it became one of the only moments she'd felt thankful to be blind. If she'd seen the man able to put up such a fight while wounded, and blinded by the bandages covering his eyes, she had no doubt she would never have dared enter his room.

  Perhaps helping him might be the reason she'd given in to Daphne's urging to volunteer with her at the hospital. Her dear friend often said there was a purpose for everyone in everything, however small.

  What if Captain Monterose was hers?

  The thought brought a smile to her face and gave her the courage needed to leave the sanctuary of the linen closet. An action she instantly regretted.

  "MISS ORMOND, Major Buchanan wishes to speak with you," Nurse Winters barked from down the hall, "this way."

  Elyria muttered a curse under her breath and turned, her throat tightened around a lump of trepidation, making it challenging to croak out, "Yes, Head Nurse." So much for thinking she'd gone undetected.

  With head bowed in what she hoped looked like meek submission, she tried to remain calm and retraced her steps toward Captain Monterose's room.

  "Ah…El-yyrr-iiaaa," Major Buchanan said, drawing out each syllable in such an unpleasant way it made her cringe.

  "Yes, Major," she replied, striving for a demure tone while bracing for a stern rebuking. For a brief second, she contemplated beating him to it and admitting her guilt.

  But despite how remote the chance might be both he and Nurse Winters were unaware she'd trespassed into the Captain's room, it would be safer to hold her tongue.

  He hmmm'd and clicked his tongue before stating, "The time has arrived for you to prove yourself, girl."

  She frowned; her shoulders tensed. "Sir?"

  "What is it you said to me when you first started here? A blind woman is capable of keeping the dying men company."

  Elyria clenched her jaw tight and slowly nodded, wishing she had the nerve to correct him and repeat what she'd said when persuading him to allow her to volunteer here.

  The room fell quiet, neither Major Buchanan nor Nurse Winters made a sound.

  "Yes, sir," Elyria said, at last, knowing he expected more than her silence for an answer. "I believe I did say something along those lines."

  Kicking broken pieces of wood out of his path, causing them to skate across the floor and thunk against the opposite wall, he took four heavy-footed steps toward her before he came to a stop. "Your new duties, as of this moment, Miss Ormond, will consist of tending to Captain Monterose until he either succumbs to his wounds or is released from our care."

  Her stomach dropped with dread. She couldn't help but ask, "Is there much chance of that, sir? That he'll succumb to his wounds?"

  "Of course there is; if you could see him you'd understand," he said, his tone full of disapproval. "What a foolish question to ask…"

  "Yes, sir," she murmured, wishing once more she was brave enough to speak her mind on the matter, "Sorry, sir."

  "In his current state, he'll be lucky to make it through the night," the Major added softly, a faint note of compassion in his voice. "But, from what Nurse Winters told me of his arrival this morning, he may just have enough fight left to prove me wrong."

  Elyria swallowed convulsively. "Then I hope that to be the case, sir."

  "I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Miss Ormond."

  His tone made it clear he did not mean that statement to be a compliment. However, Elyria decided—to be contrary—she would take it as one and remain silent.

  "I'll see that this mess is cleaned up, we can't have you tripping over shards of wood, now can we?" Nurse Winters said
from behind. "And that there are fresh water and linens brought in. Tabitha or one of the more experienced nurses will of course, still be in each day to change his dressings and ensure he's being taken care of."

  Inwardly seething at the tone of superiority in Nurse Winter's voice, Elyria nodded and tightened her hold on her walking stick. "May I ask, what are the extent of his wounds?"

  Deafening silence settled over the room, leaving no doubt her question had somehow proved her worthlessness to them.

  Finally, Nurse Winters sighed and said, "Bullet wound to the left shoulder, broken right arm, a gash to the right thigh, moderate burns along twenty percent of the right side of his body-"

  "Yes, yes he's badly wounded. But most importantly," Major Buchanan interjected, "you'll find the two of you have something in common…"

  Elyria frowned, "Sir?"

  "Blindness," he said, all but proclaiming he'd finally found a use for her presence.

  Tears stung her eyes, but she clenched her jaw and refused to let them fall.

  "Although," Nurse Winters added, "with any luck, Captain Monterose's will be a temporary affliction…unlike yours."

  "Yes," Major Buchanan murmured, walking past Elyria. "But you see, that's what makes you the perfect caretaker for our young Captain."

  Elyria curled her left hand into a tight fist and turned, confusion and irritation plain in her voice when she said, "I'm not sure I understand your meaning, sir."

  Major Buchanan came to a stop and turned to face her once more, "In the event Captain Monterose survives and doesn't regain his eyesight, you can show him the ropes."

  Nurse Winters choked on a giggle, clearing her throat before she murmured, "Pardon me."

  "Of being blind," Elyria said, striving for a civil tone despite the fury bubbling inside her. Never before in her life had she wanted to cause bodily harm to another living person as badly as she wanted to at that moment.

  If she'd been a man—and able to see her targets—she would have punched both of them square in their condescending faces without hesitation.

  "Exactly!" The Major paused for a moment before adding, "Oh, and Miss Ormond…"

  "Yes, sir?" She ground out, forcing her lips into a polite smile.

  "Don't make me regret this."

  Five

  The next morning—at least Everett thought it might be morning—he awoke to the distinctive tap tap tap of Pegleg making her way down the hall toward his room.

  His entire body, inside and out, burned and ached with a fiery torment that had only grown worse since yesterday. But considering everything he'd survived, did it really come as a surprise?

  Pegleg's tap tap tap drew closer, then suddenly stopped. He held his breath and strained his ears. Had she reached his door? Was she standing there, watching him? Would she enter, or had she merely come by to see if he remained alive?

  As though she'd heard the relentless questions tumbling about in his mind, she crossed the room to his bed. Her tap tap tap caused his heart to race with a peculiar mix of excitement and nervousness. Although, where it found the energy for such a display of emotion, he hadn't the foggiest idea.

  The tap tap tap stopped when she bumped into his bed with a muffled curse, the impact light enough he would have missed it had he not been so focused on her every move.

  Her hand sought out his where it rested on the bed bringing with it the familiar soft scent of roses and vanilla. His breath caught in his throat when her fingers trailed their way gently up his cast, over his exposed shoulder to his neck, until finally resting lightly on his forehead.

  "Too warm…" she muttered.

  "Parched, too," he croaked.

  "Goodness," She jumped in surprise and held still, "did I wake you?"

  He shook his head and instantly regretted the movement when it caused sharp stabbing pains accompanied by bursts of light before his eyes. "No."

  Pouring a glass of water, she cradled his head in one hand and tipped the cold glass to his lips.

  After draining the cup dry, he sighed and relaxed against his mattress, "If I didn't know any better, Pegleg, I'd think you were blind."

  Her hand behind his neck trembled before she removed the empty glass from his lips and set it aside. "Why is that?"

  "The way you were fumbling around."

  She hesitated briefly before replying, "I didn't want to wake you with a light."

  He let out a derisive grunt. "Don't worry. Between these bandages and the damage from the gas, there's not much danger of that ever happening."

  "Nurse Winters said you have a good chance it isn't permanent."

  Her voice sounded funny compared to yesterday, but he didn't know what had changed. Having only known her a single day, it made it a little challenging to know with any certainty if he'd said something that had upset her or not.

  He ran their brief conversation over in his tired mind, trying to figure out if he stood at fault, but found nothing that stood out. But then why did he feel like he ought to apologize?

  The need to hear her laugh suddenly became more important to him than that of his own comfort. And he had just the thing to do it. "Why did the baby strawberry cry?"

  "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "It's a joke," he murmured before repeating, "why'd the baby strawberry cry?"

  "I don't know," she said quietly. "Why?"

  Metal clicked and then scraped against metal, ushering in a cool breeze that danced across his skin and brought with it the fragrant floral smell of apple blossoms.

  Everett breathed deeply, forcing his battered lungs to their limit and held it until the first faint stirrings of panic began to set in. Letting it out in a slow exhale, he answered, "Because he found out his mom and dad were in a jam."

  A soft laugh, but a laugh none-the-less, escaped her and brought a smile to his lips.

  "Did you come up with that one yourself?"

  He scoffed and groaned when a muscle spasm took his breath away, and the burning sensation along his right side intensified. Adjusting his position, he said through clenched teeth, "No, my cousin. It used to be one of his favorites."

  "What's his name?"

  "Timothy…he was seven at the time."

  She pressed a gentle hand to his brow briefly once more, "Why did you call me Pegleg?"

  Everett held his breath until the pain began to ease. Pursing his lips, he wondered if it would be better to make something up or be honest with her?

  In the end, he decided to throw caution to the wind and see how he fared. "Do you have a wooden leg?"

  "What?" She laughed, "Why would you think that?"

  It had been a genuine laugh that time, and the sound sent a delicious, intoxicating warmth straight to his heart where it ricocheted around his chest before settling low in his gut and sent a flurry of butterflies into flight.

  He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the chaos inside, and used it to divert his pain fogged mind. "When you walk there's a tap tap tap…I thought you might have a wooden leg."

  "It's a walking stick," she said, tapping it lightly against the floor, "my brother made it for me."

  He lifted his left shoulder in a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. "Well, in that case, I apologize for calling you Pegleg."

  She chuckled, "Considering I called you Captain Rattlesnake, I believe we're even."

  "You did?" He said with an incredulous laugh that ended with a hiss of pain.

  "Not aloud, mind you," she murmured with a wry chuckle. "But can you blame me? Yelling and cussing before you struck and got the better of two grown men."

  "And Nurse Winters," he murmured slowly, finding it difficult to speak. Uncomfortable prickles raced from his toes up to his head, the tale-tell sign he was moments away from passing out.

  She choked back another laugh, "Oh my, yes. You had her angrier than a hornet."

  He tried to talk—to tell her he didn't feel right, but only slurred gibberish escaped him.

  Pegleg muttered a cu
rse and then touched his brow and repeated it louder.

  If he'd been able to, he would have added a few of his own. Instead, he drifted helplessly into unconsciousness, wondering if death would finally take him.

  Six

  Over the next week, Elyria did her best to be near the Captain and yet invisible to the flurry of nurses and doctors doing their best to keep him alive.

  While most of his injuries seemed to be improving, they discovered the deep wound in his thigh to be infected. Multiple surgeries—done without the aid of anesthesia due to delayed supplies—had to be performed to scrape away the dead and diseased tissue.

  His hoarse screams and pleadings for mercy or death reverberated through the building and tore at her heart. She ached for him and longed to offer comfort in any way she could.

  But Nurse Winters had ordered her to keep clear lest she gets underfoot and hinder their efforts, although she had used less diplomatic terms Elyria tried her best to forget.

  Antiseptic bandages were changed and reapplied at least twice daily, their bitter whiskey odor permeated his room and out into the hall.

  When his fever continued into a second week, Elyria defied orders and approached his room in mounting trepidation.

  By the sound of it, Captain Rattlesnake was livid and bent on causing destruction.

  "ENOUGH of your torture," He cried out. His voice, full of agony and despair, broke on a sob, "Leave me to die, damn you…"

  Tears stung Elyria's eyes, and she clasped a hand to her mouth to hold back a cry of distress.

  "Captain," Tabitha, one of the senior nurses, urged, "Please allow me to do my job."

  A metal tray laden with instruments crashed to the floor. "Get…OUT!" He shouted brokenly.

  Something hit Tabitha with a dull thwonk. "You're making this worse!" She yelped a curse, then barked, "Will one of you sedate him? This is ridiculous!"

  "With what, nurse? Supplies still haven't arrived," Stew complained, notes of panic in his voice.

  "Give him some whiskey," she said through clenched teeth. Clearly, the usually congenial woman had reached her limit. "Anything that'll settle him down a little."