Through the Darkness Read online

  He shook off her hold and nearly fell from the effort, but by sheer will and determination, he kept his balance and shouted, "I DEMAND TO KNOW WHERE SHE IS!"

  "Lower your voice this instant, or so help me…" she threatened and latching onto him once more with a tenacious grasp sure to leave bruises.

  Several people turned to stare as she ushered him down the hall. He didn't care. "GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME, YOU WITCH!" He yelled, prying her grip loose of him. Holding up his cane in warning, he snarled, "Touch me again, Winters, and I'll rip off your arm and use it for my new walking stick!"

  Nurse Winters bared her teeth like an angry dog, but before she could speak, another woman stopped her.

  "Captain," She tapped Everett on the shoulder and stepped between him and battle-ax Winters, her eyes sparkling with mirth—entirely at odds with her disapproving tone. "Use your inside voice; there are sick people here who need to rest."

  She stood several inches shorter with dark blonde hair the color of honey and a kind smile bending her lips.

  He let out a sigh of relief upon recognizing her to be Daphne. "Where is she?" He asked in a lower tone.

  "Who?"

  "Miss Ormond," Nurse Winters sneered.

  Daphne turned, giving Everett her back, "Nurse Winters. I believe I have the situation under control."

  Nurse Winters glared at Everett then spun on her heel and marched down the hall, her skirts snapping angrily in her wake.

  "Dear heavens…she's horrid." Daphne faced Everett once more, "Elyria isn't here."

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a finger and produced a pad of paper and short pencil from the pocket of her gown. "If you wish to write a short note to her before you go, I'll see that she gets it."

  "Captain Montrose, we're ready to leave," John said from behind.

  Everett took the pad and pencil from Daphne just as John and another man coaxed him into a wheelchair and ushered him out the door.

  Hoping his vision would allow him to make it legible, he scribbled a quick note, tore the paper off, folded it in half, and handed it to John. "See that Daphne gets this. It's important."

  John took the items and helped him into his seat before shutting the car door. "Safe travels, Captain."

  Fourteen

  April 14, 1919, Washington DC

  Elyria blew out a heavy sigh and reached her hand into the bowl for another snap pea. She didn't even like them, but she needed something to keep her hands and mind busy instead of dwelling on thoughts better left alone.

  "Elyria!" Daphne called out, flinging the back door open so hard it ricocheted off the siding and then slammed shut. "Oh, whoops—look at this, look at this! It's him!"

  "I'd love to," Elyria said with a wry smile, "right after I get a pair of working eyes."

  Daphne scoffed. "You know what I meant, here I'll read it to you." She plunked down beside Elyria and flicked out the newspaper. Muttering a curse under her breath, she flipped a page, "Ah-ha! Here it is. Captain Rattlesnake of Malad City, Idaho, seeks correspondence with Pegleg, last seen at Walter Reed Army Hospital, Washington DC." She crumpled the paper in her lap and shook Elyria's right knee. "Can you believe it?"

  Elyria forced a swallow down a suddenly too-tight throat. Captain Rattlesnake sought correspondence with her? Worried she would either faint or vomit, she gasped, "It can't possibly be him!"

  "Of course it is, silly!" Daphne laughed. "How many other Captain Rattlesnakes are there trying to contact someone called Pegleg? I'll eat my hat if it isn't your Captain."

  "He isn't my Captain." Elyria did her best to ignore the delicious shiver that raced through her at remembering the brief moment in time when he had been. "In any case, why would he wish to contact me now? It's been almost a year."

  Daphne hummed in concentration and then slapped the paper against her lap. "Perhaps he wants to thank you for your service to him. You're the only person he tolerated, after all. Maybe he's finally healed and is full of gratitude instead of vinegar."

  Elyria let out a short, derisive laugh and grabbed her bowl of peas. "Or," she said, walking to the door, "he's a different Rattlesnake talking to a completely different Pegleg." It was a long shot, and she knew it.

  "Oh phooey, that's a crock of bull poop, and you know it," Daphne grumbled, following Elyria inside the house.

  "So what if he's seeking correspondence?" Setting her bowl on the counter, Elyria reached behind her and untied her apron. "Surely, you don't expect me to respond to him?"

  "Why not?" Daphne took the apron from her. "He wants you to, it says so right there."

  That's what she thought she'd say. Elyria hung her head and closed her eyes. "But what if it isn't him…wouldn't it be a waste of postage?"

  "It's him, you goose," she grasped Elyria by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. "Aren't you just a little curious about what he might have to say after all this time?"

  Yes, she silently admitted while biting her tongue, but she was also terrified.

  "I seem to recall several months of you crying on my shoulder over how it didn't end between the two of you as you would have liked. Now's your chance."

  "For what?"

  "Who knows? To say goodbye if that's what you wish, or maybe to start a new beginning and see where it leads. You two were brought together for a reason, and I won't be convinced otherwise."

  Elyria shook her head and braced herself against the counter. Could this really be happening? Surely things like this only took place in romantic novels, not in real life. "But I'm blind."

  "So?"

  "He doesn't know that I'm blind."

  "Don't say it as though you have the plague and are condemned to death."

  She covered her face in her hands. "Can you blame me? It's the way some people treat me as soon as they find out."

  "Then tell him."

  Elyria scoffed and scowled in Daphne's direction, "You aren't seriously suggesting that my first letter should read, Dear Captain Rattlesnake, I'm blind." She sighed and shook her head, "That'll go over real well."

  "I don't know if I would put it quite that way…" Daphne murmured with a wry laugh. "Perhaps in a more roundabout manner? Beautiful flowers we have this spring, or so I've been told. I wouldn't know because I'm blind…something like that."

  "Ha ha," Elyria fake laughed. She leaned back against the counter and rubbed her forehead. "What if I tell him and it doesn't matter?"

  Daphne chuckled, "Then you are wasting time worrying over nothing when you should be writing him."

  "It might not even be him," Elyria whispered in a vain effort to bolster her nerves.

  Daphne wrapped her arms around Elyria's shoulders and gave gentle side hug, "Well, in that case," she continued all nonchalant, "worst-case scenario, you might get a new pen pal out of it."

  Elyria choked back a giggle and took a shaky breath."You really think it's him?" She whispered.

  "As I've said at least a dozen times by now, yes."

  Grabbing up her walking stick, Elyria paced back and forth across the full length of the kitchen, chewing on her bottom lip. Daphne was right. It would be a complete wonder if she wrote to him, and it proved to be a strange coincidence.

  She turned to Daphne, "How will I know what he says if I write to him?"

  "I'll read his letters to you unless you don't want me too. In which case there's always Simon or even Anne—she may be six, but you know she reads rather well."

  Elyria nodded and resumed pacing. What was she so afraid of? He clearly wanted to hear from her, why else would he put an ad in the paper? Wouldn't it be rude of her not to write him, at the very least just to let him know she was alive and well?

  Her mind made up, she let out a deep breath, "And you'll proofread my letters before I send them?"

  "Of course."

  Elyria licked her lips and tucked a lock of hair behind her right ear. "Alright…" she murmured, tapping her walking stick lightly against the toe of her boot. Taking a fortifying br
eath, she squared her shoulders and made her way to her bedroom.

  "There's a stack of paper on the left side of your desk, and I put a new ribbon in your typewriter," Daphne called out from the kitchen.

  Elyria laughed and shook her head. "Thank you."

  Setting her walking stick in its usual spot, she pulled out the chair and sat. Taking a piece of paper in hand, she quickly loaded it into the typewriter and stretched her fingers over the keys.

  Now she needed to figure out what she wanted to say. Too bad her mind chose that unfortunate moment to go blank.

  Hanging her head, she took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Is it better to keep it short and simple, or will that come off as impersonal?"

  "Yes," Daphne answered from the kitchen.

  Elyria groaned softly. "Do I want to sound impersonal?"

  "That depends," Daphne said, walking closer. "Impersonal if you want no further contact with the man; or you can simply talk to him the way you always have and see where it leads."

  "You're right," Elyria sighed, curling her hands into loose fists.

  Daphne laughed. "I usually am."

  Double-checking to make sure the paper remained aligned, she adjusted her position in her chair and settled her fingers lightly on the keys.

  "I don't hear you typing," Daphne said, walking back to the kitchen. "What are you waiting for?"

  Elyria grumbled under her breath and sat up straight. She allowed her mind to wander through of all that had happened since they'd last been together, and then slowly started typing. When she finished, she sat back in her chair.

  "I don't have to mail it," she whispered to herself, reaching forward to pull the paper from the typewriter.

  Setting it on her desk as though it would burst into flames at any second, she stood and took several steps away. Was she foolish in writing to him regardless of his ad? So much time had passed, what if the easy camaraderie between them no longer existed?

  Perhaps she'd wait a few days before sending it. Yes, she decided with a firm nod of her head, there would be no harm in waiting.

  Fifteen

  Tuesday, April 22, 1919

  Dear Pegleg,

  The hospital sent a little note in reply to my inquiring after you a month ago, informing me you'd left the same day I got the boot. So, to say I was surprised and delighted to receive your letter yesterday would be an understatement.

  I whooped and hollered so loud I'm sure Marcus Benfield (my postman and conveniently also my neighbor) thought I'd lost my marbles or was under attack. Both of which, I assure you, was not the case.

  To answer your question, yes, I'm doing well. Better, in fact, then I thought to expect (if I'm honest), proving you are indeed a wise woman.

  Although I wouldn't go so far yet as to say my life is better than I ever dreamed it would be. That moment has yet to come, but unbelievable though it may be, I hold out hope that one day it might.

  Not much has happened since returning home. I spent a month with my family in Colorado before returning to my home in Idaho to find everything to be the same as when I left it—just dustier.

  I'm back to teaching, and I guess you could even say I've earned myself more credibility with my students. Just the other day, a few of the older boys were really causing a ruckus.

  But I tell you what, I removed my glasses, set them on my desk, and delivered my best Captain Rattlesnake glare. (Yes, you read that correctly. I've gotten my vision back. Nurse Winters, the nasty woman that she was, was right. But don't tell her that.) The only way it could have been more perfect was if I'd also had a rattle hidden away.

  I couldn't see a damn darn thing once my glasses were off, but I believe it only aided me. Didn't even have to say a word and they settled right down.

  How has life treated you these last eleven months? You mentioned losing both parents to the damn flu, and I am deeply sorry for your loss.

  However, I must tell you I am so very grateful you evaded its deathly claws yourself, if for nothing else than to allow me to express my deepest gratitude for your care in my darkest hours of need. I hope to hear back from you if you feel so inclined

  Sincerely your friend,

  Captain Rattlesnake

  P.S. Please call me Everett if you wish. Captain Rattlesnake is so formal, don't you think?

  April 29, 1919

  Dear Captain Rattlesnake,

  I'm so pleased you received my letter and that you're in good health with your vision restored. Yes, I left the hospital the same day ‘they gave you the boot' as you put it. Nurse Winters suggested my talents were better suited to a different atmosphere, and to be honest, I was relieved not to have to interact with that horrid woman any longer.

  Although I must apologize for leaving without saying goodbye. Nurse Winters…need I say more? I don't believe I do. Has it really been eleven months? Strange how it feels much longer.

  Thank you for your kind words of condolence at the passing of my parents. I miss them dreadfully. I hope you were spared such devastation in your life, but if not, please accept my own condolences for any loss you may have suffered.

  I'm surprised I didn't figure out you were a teacher sooner—clearly, I'm not as observant as I thought myself to be. But how wonderful to hear you've been able to return to it. I'm sure your students felt your absence keenly and are glad to have you back.

  Tell me about your home in Idaho. Paint a picture for me if you will. Other than a few years at school in Watertown, Massachusetts, I've not been able to experience the vast travels you've known.

  I must go, but I look forward to hearing from you should you find the time.

  Sincerely yours,

  Pegleg

  P.S. I shall call you Everett if you call me Elyria.

  Wednesday, May 7, 1919

  Dear Elyria,

  How different it is to call you by your given name instead of Pegleg. While I recall hearing it once or twice during my stay, I admit that I refused to think of you as anything other than my own dear Pegleg.

  I thought of asking if you were from Ohio. But, judging by your last letter, in which you mentioned your travels only extended to Watertown, I believe that to be unlikely.

  Thank you for your condolences, but I'm pleased to say, my family—which comprises of my Aunt Mable, Uncle Edgar, and their young boys Timothy and Thomas (the source of your favorite strawberry joke) all survived the epidemic.

  They still reside at home in Colorado, although Aunt Mable has mentioned in her last letter that they are planning a trip here the first week of July for the holiday.

  I've taken your request to paint you a picture of my small Idaho town to heart, and have found myself studying my surroundings with that of an artist's eye for detail.

  Yes, that sounds very impressive, but considering I require my glasses to be firmly in place to see anything at all, I caution you to keep in mind that I use that term loosely.

  My home is a comfortable northeast-facing terra-cotta brick home; the color, a soft orange almost like that of a ripe peach that looks especially wonderful during sunset.

  It boasts of two thousand square feet between the main floor and enormous basement and has two well-proportioned rooms for sleeping on the main level, an indoor bathroom with a tub large enough for my large stature, and another spacious room which serves as my dining and sitting room.

  A modest kitchen, situated along the North wall, leads to a pantry with a hatch down into the basement; there's a coal room next to the furnace and the root cellar.

  There are five outdoor stairs (the bane of my existence most days) leading to the front door, but overall, I must say it suits me just fine.

  Outside, two large cottonwood trees offer shade in addition to the covered porch built in the Queen Anne style. Painted white, with banister and carved posts for support, it matches the trim and scalloped gables decorating the front.

  The house sits on three grassy acres and is nestled in the valley of the Wasatch Mountains, which
are covered in junipers, pine trees, and sagebrush for the most part.

  To the East, the mountains are a magnificent mix of reds, greens, and browns—even an accomplished painter would struggle to capture their pure beauty. Verdant fields of tall green grass stretch to the West, and alfalfa and wheat fields claim the North.

  A variety of pine and maple trees (their exact species escape me at the moment), some fabled to be over four hundred years old, dot the land; two of which reside on my property near Deep Creek to the Southeast.

  Perhaps someday I'll persuade you to journey out here so you may experience it for yourself. But until then, I hope my feeble description will suffice.

  I must end, for now, I've got a mountain of papers I've yet to begin grading. But know that I look forward to hearing from you again, should you wish to write to me.

  Warmest regards,

  Everett

  P.S. The newest joke from Timothy: What do you call a heap of cats? (A Meow-tain)

  May 15, 1919

  Dear Everett,

  Your cat joke has been enjoyed by all here in my quiet little corner, but most especially by Daphne's young daughter, Anne. She loved it so much that she shares it with near everyone she comes in contact with on our outings, something Daphne and I find more amusing than the joke itself.

  At first, I was confused about why you'd think my name might mean I was from Ohio. I told this to Daphne (who has family there), and she laughed. Who knew Elyria is the name of a town there? You and Daphne obviously did. It would appear I need to study American geography a bit more in the future.

  You do indeed paint a beautiful picture of your home; I hope to someday have cause to visit. I'm sorry to hear your leg still causes you grief, but I hope it doesn't limit your ability to enjoy your life too much.

  May I be honest with you? When I first sat down to write to you today, I had every intention of sharing only the tidbits of my life this past week that I thought you might find interesting.

  However, now that I'm here with pen in hand—or typewriter before me, as the case may be—I can't bring myself to write such banalities. And I don't think you'd find much enjoyment in reading them.