Grounded Hearts Page 12

  Stay calm, he told himself. This will pass. He held his head in his hands for what seemed like an hour, but couldn’t have been more than five minutes, until the dizziness finally stabilized. The pain shooting through his arm did not go away, though.

  When he rose, his knee cried foul. He looked up the steps that led to the loft and decided maybe he’d try going up there following a bath.

  After soaking in the tub for thirty minutes, he did feel better. The gun had to be in the loft somewhere. Or not. He hadn’t had any luck in the hiding place in the wall, but perhaps there was another secret hiding place for weapons. That gave him an idea. He’d poke around the fireplace.

  He got out of the bath and dressed. Shaved. And then, he stared at the massive fireplace and hearth in the main room of the cottage.

  Perhaps in the hob, the seat within the hearth, there might be a hiding place. “Excuse me, Mr. Dee,” he said to the cat sitting there, enjoying the warmth of the fire.

  Dutch skimmed his fingers over the fireplace stones, stopping to wiggle and nudge the stones that seemed promising.

  A throbbing ache ripped through his arm. He withdrew, stepped back, and tried to ignore the burn shooting up to his neck and down to his fingertips. He clamped his teeth against the surge. The pain always came in waves, like the tide, pounding and then receding. This one would pass, too. Eventually.

  He’d tried to keep the bandage dry in the bath but hadn’t been careful enough. The stitches must have been disturbed; when he’d taken off his shirt, blood had blossomed through the gauze.

  He felt relief as the pain subsided. At least no blood had seeped through the material. There was a seed of worry inside him, but he followed the advice he’d given to his crew: Don’t fret about the possibility of German fighters appearing from nowhere. Focus on the mission.

  Pain was normal. Had to hurt before it healed. “Right, Mr. Dee? Carry on?”

  The cat stared at him.

  Dutch rubbed his clean-shaven chin. What had she done with the weapon? It wasn’t so much that he wanted to use the gun; he merely wanted to locate it. Just in case he had to defend himself. And Nan.

  The cat strutted across Dutch’s bare feet. Rubbing against the back of the man’s calves, Mr. Dee filled the room with his purr.

  “Yes, I want to protect you, too. I don’t suppose you know where she hid my gun?”

  The tabby bounded away into the scullery, followed by the sound of the cat door flapping closed.

  He wished he could do that. Get out of this cabin. He wanted to be working on the Ford, figuring out how to escape over the border, not rummaging through Nan’s belongings, hoping to run across his gun.

  A grin stretched his lips. She had nice things, though. Simple. But nice. Clean. Uncomplicated.

  Not like his family home in Toronto, where antiques and gold-framed art cluttered every inch of space. He’d cleared his bedroom of unnecessary stuff, much to his mother’s confusion. To her, the possessions symbolized security, a connection with her ancestors. To him, they spoke of generational burdens.

  Dutch approached the mantel and studied the silver-framed wedding photo beside a chipped statue of Saint Patrick. The couple stood together, smiling, the sea behind them. Nan was only five foot two or so, her husband no taller. With his thin, fine, elegant features, Teddy reminded Dutch of a porcelain figurine his mother had displayed in her living room curio cabinet.

  Nan didn’t say much about her husband. Dutch wondered how he’d died. Had she been there? Nursed him through an illness that claimed him despite her efforts? The man wasn’t exactly a picture of robust health. Delicate seeming. Bet a wind could have knocked him over.

  Was that the type of man Nan preferred? A poet with a pen? If so, Dutch didn’t stand a chance. He was more of a warrior with a gun. John Wayne, not Cole Porter.

  “Wrong thinking, old chap,” he muttered with an English accent, trying to mimic his commanding officer, who, at that minute over in England, must have been thinking Dutch was dead.

  A stab radiated through his arm and coiled around his heart. He wondered if his CO had contacted Dutch’s mother. What would the telegram say? MIA? Or killed in action? Poor Mom. Getting that telegram would be her worst nightmare.

  Dutch steadied himself against the mantel. He was dizzy again. Better sit down. Drink water. Only dehydrated. Only.

  Pivoting too fast on his good leg, he felt pain pierce his other knee. He limped across to the table and lowered himself onto a chair.

  He poured a glass of water from an earthen pitcher, downing the liquid in one deep pull. He’d sat here the first night. He peered down. She’d cleaned his blood from the floor.

  A flash of heat washed over him. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. Funny. A few minutes ago, he was shivering. A metallic taste overcame his mouth.

  Fever.

  He had a fever. And his heart was pounding, pumping against his ribs. Mild fever. That was all. The aspirin he’d taken before the bath hadn’t kicked in yet. It would, he assured himself. It better. Some stupid fever wasn’t going to stop him.

  His teeth began to chatter. He felt frozen, from his bare feet all the way up to his shoulders.

  Best to get moving, get the blood circulating. Maybe he’d make the trek back upstairs to the loft. His gun had to be hidden somewhere up there. This time, he’d use the cane.

  He reached for the walking stick he’d propped against the table. It skidded from his grasp and fell. The smacking sound echoed about the cabin. Reaching down, his arm revolted with a sharp, stabbing pain. Swallowing hard, he pushed down the ache.

  He drank the rest of the water in the glass. Forget the cane. Later for the loft. He was too cold.

  He stood, stumbled to the chair next to the fireplace, and landed on the drooping cushioned seat. He grabbed the throw from the chair arm and positioned the knitted blanket over his legs.

  It smelled like Nan. Sweet. Lavender. Soap. He inhaled deeply, his heart responding with a swell of emotions that nearly sank him. His teeth were chattering, and he clamped his jaw shut, sending his body into spastic quivers.

  The cabin door swung open. Nan stood there, the dark room barely revealing her features. Even in this light, he could make out the curves of her slender body. She’d cinched the waist of her raincoat with a belt. Red hair flared from under her beret.

  “What’s this? Didn’t you think to light the lamp?” Her pleasant smile drifted away, and her eyes carried concern. “Dutch? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just wet. You know. Took a bath. Now I’m cold.” His words came out far too clipped. He wished he could turn off the shivers and turn on the calm. The chattering of his teeth left him no choice but to clamp his mouth shut again. Took all his strength to resist the shakes. He lost. His body shook.

  “Ah, don’t be alarmed with the shivers. Let them go. It’s your body fighting off an infection.”

  He cut a glance to his arm. Good. Still no blood seeping through. “I don’t have an infection. Cold from the bath is all.”

  “What you need is rest. The fever will pass. Get in bed.”

  “Bed? No. I’m fine. Now that you’re home, maybe we can look at the car again.” The prompt he sent to his legs, and the rest of his body, to stand up and declare he was more than capable of working on the Ford, fell short of actual movement. Instead, his arm replied with a sharp stab, and his knee froze like water poured over ice.

  “Not tonight. Bed. Rest. The car will still be there tomorrow.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “Do I look like your mother?”

  “Only the frown.” His lips quivered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have let me in. Shouldn’t have let me stay.”

  “Hush. We’re in too deep to stop now, but please, Dutch. If am to help you, do as I say.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay. I need to rest.”

  “All you need.”


  “The parts. Did you get them?”

  “They’ll be here tomorrow. Tuda will bring them along with her tool kit. We’ll have the Ford off and running to the border in no time a’tall.”

  “You told her about me? Can you trust her?”

  “She figured it out, I’m afraid. And yes. We can trust her with our lives. Up you go.” She offered her hands. Her touch warmed his skin, sent waves of prickling sensations up his spine. She helped pull him out of the chair. They stood together, peering into each other’s eyes. She looked away, bit her lip, and then snuggled her body against his.

  A groan rattled up his throat.

  “Are ya in pain?”

  “Something like that.”

  She reached her arm around his waist and pulled him into her to support him. Dizziness fell over him. This time, he needed her help to walk.

  “What if I’d been a German pilot come to your door?”

  “I would have shooed you away.”

  Somehow, he didn’t believe she’d have the heart to turn an injured pilot away into the darkness, but he hoped for her sake she would have.

  Entering the bedroom, he gazed at her. Her red hair framed her face and cascaded down along her long pale neck, which led to an opening in her blouse where a gold Celtic cross peeked out. Her lips were perfectly proportioned to her wide-set eyes.

  “You have a really pretty profile,” he blurted. Wished he could take it back. What happened to his control? First his body, now his mouth. A bead of sweat dripped down his back.

  A smile dimpled her cheek. “Ah, go on with ya, big fella. Enough with the blarney.”

  “How come every time I give you a compliment, you accuse me of blarney?” They paced to the edge of the bed, where she let go of him. The mattress squeaked under his weight.

  “You don’t have to say such things to me. I’m your nurse, not your girl. What’s this? You made the bed?”

  “Force of habit. Always makes me feel better.” He felt disappointment pound through him. Of course he wasn’t even in the running for anything besides a nuisance. Or a cause. The Irish and their causes.

  She threw back the bedcovers. “Get in,” she said.

  He was aware of her gaze as he inched his way along the edge of the bed into the open sheets. Moving seemed such an effort. Even the weight of the blankets hurt his arm. His flesh felt on fire.

  “I’ll make your tea and have a look at your arm. You rest.”

  Dutch gave in to her warmth. Tomorrow, he’d find his gun and get the Ford running. Tonight, he’d let her spoil him.

  Nan shoved so much turf onto the bedroom’s roaring fire, the room felt as hot as an Italian summer day, yet Dutch continued to shiver. She stood beside the bed, dipping another clean towel into a bowl of steaming water. She’d folded his pajama sleeve up to keep the material dry, providing access to the wound.

  Wringing out the towel, her hands stung from the heat and the wet, and her fingers were raw. She tried to push down her panic, but if his fever didn’t break soon, Dutch might die in her bed this very night.

  “Here we go.” She positioned the hot cloth over his wound. The technique ought to have brought down the swelling, but so far, her efforts had failed. The wound smelled yeasty, and the angry red line oozed with a yellow discharge.

  Altogether very bad, indeed. She summoned her most pleasant expression, the one she’d perfected over the years when a patient’s situation called for prayer. Leaving the cloth on his wound, she moved to the foot of the bed. “Let’s get this quilt on top of you, and you’ll be grand as new come morning.” She unfolded the bedspread and tucked it around him, leaving his arm exposed so she could continue to soak it.

  “Colorful,” he mumbled. “You make it?”

  “No, I’m not that talented. It was my grandmother’s.”

  She returned to the washbasin, laid another cloth into the hot water, and replaced the cooled towel with the hot one.

  Please, sweet baby Jesus. Let this work.

  Dutch gave her a weak smile. It settled deep inside her. She turned away and stared into the blazing turf in the fireplace.

  No way could she allow this man into her heart. She’d resist. And within a few hours, he’d be on his way. Lord willing.

  As long as that poor, unfortunate pilot who’d washed up yesterday remained unidentified, they had time. The Irish Army must think they had the last pilot from the Wellington. She didn’t know how closely the Irish Army and the RAF were working together. Eventually, the two countries would have to reconcile who was missing, who was captured, who was dead. She looked over at Dutch. Dear Lord, don’t let him die.

  “Nan,” he whispered. “Do you have another blanket, maybe?”

  The mattress trembled under his shivering. Wringing her hands, she shuffled away from the bed. There were no more blankets. “Let’s put something else over you.” She opened the wardrobe and pulled out a thick coat made of heavy English tweed, with a fox-fur collar.

  She held the coat, sniffed the fur. Teddy had bought her the garment when they’d been freezing in London on their honeymoon. Despite the weather, those had been happy days. He’d signed a book contract with a publisher there. The future was shiny as dewdrops in the morning sun. They’d planned to live here, in Grandma’s cottage. No farming—neither of them was cut out for that—but she’d continue being a midwife until they had their first child; he’d write brilliant volumes of poetry. It was a life lost to her now. A life impossible to recapture.

  “Here you go.” She settled the old coat over Dutch and sat beside him, placing her hand over the coat. “Does that help?”

  He shivered but nodded.

  His face was a Valentine-rose red. With the turf roaring in the fireplace, blankets piled high, she didn’t know what else to do next except pray. She faced the portrait of Jesus above the mantel.

  Dear Lord. Please. Thy will be done, but please don’t let him die of infection. Dutch is in your hands, but make my hands help. Tell me what to do.

  She closed her eyes, launched into the Lord’s Prayer, and repeated it over and over and over. A spark from the fire, as loud as a gunshot, jolted her. A quiet whisper, more an awareness than a voice, seemed to come from her soul, telling her that the only way to warm him now would be to get next to him in bed.

  He needed her. There was nothing shameful here. Nothing. It was only herself being his nurse.

  Nan wrapped his arm in gauze, then pulled off her shoes and slid into the bed beside him.

  “What’s this?” His eyes opened.

  “’Tis nothing. Your virtue will remain intact. I’m getting you warm, that’s all. You behave, you understand? Or I’ll be out of here quicker than children running from the classroom for summer holiday.”

  He laughed, a shaky sound that chattered through his teeth. “I’m in no condition to do anything except shiver.”

  Her toes found his calf, her hand his belly, and her cheek his shoulder. Pressing her body against his, she felt his muscles, his soft yet hot skin, and his silky dark hair against her forehead.

  He shook and groaned. His body tightened.

  “It’s all right, Dutch. I’m going to take good care of you,” she said in her most soothing voice, hoping her words would calm him.

  Turning his head to face her, he gazed into her eyes. He clutched her hand in his and held them both against his chest. “Do you think maybe the good Lord sent me here?”

  “Ah, maybe.”

  “I think He did.”

  “Why did He send you?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  His warm breath drew across her forehead. A whirling sensation tingled in her stomach. His look seemed to soar through her, to a place the nuns had always deemed sinful outside the marriage bed. Or even in it.

  The weakest of smiles lit her lips. “Close your eyes and sleep.”

  His eyelids flickered, then closed. Heavy, uneven breathing followed. She knew she should untangle her fingers from his, but she di
dn’t want to wake him. It was a massive lie; she liked holding his hand.

  Closing her eyes, she recalled the sensation of her husband’s arms around her. It seemed like yesterday they’d shared these sheets. She’d never even kissed another man since her husband, and here she was, beside a flyboy who couldn’t wait to get his hands on his gun and return to the fight.

  “Ah, men.” Tears traveled down her cheek to the corner of her mouth.

  With a meow, the cat jumped onto the bed, settling on top of Dutch’s feet.

  She sighed. She’d turned into an old crone with a cat for a companion. Some life. “Thanks,” she whispered to Mr. Dee. “He needs your furry warmth.”

  The cat’s purring lulled her to sleep.

  The next morning, barely dawn, Nan woke to the mattress shaking. Dutch was dreaming, kicking his legs. She climbed to her elbows and gazed at him in the dull light. “It’s okay, darling.” He quieted back into slumber.

  She stared at the man in her bed. Did she ever have a lot to confess to Father Albert once Dutch was back in England. Until then, she’d do whatever she needed to keep him safe. And herself.

  A hand on his cheek was enough to check his fever, but she kissed his forehead. He tasted salty and hot. He’d stopped shaking, though his fever still raged.

  Best start soaking his arm again, she thought, sliding out of bed. Maybe he’d eat something. She needed a cup of tea like a dog needed to bark. Padding into the main room, toward the cooker, she prayed that the Lord would take mercy on Dutch and bring him healing. Fast.

  She went through the motions of making breakfast, frying bacon and cooking oatmeal, but was dreading what she’d need to do if his fever didn’t break; she’d have no choice but go to the doctor for help. Dr. Mann—Juliet—might well turn them in. It was, after all, the law.

  Nan delivered breakfast to the table beside the bed, along with fresh hot water and towels. “Dutch. Wake up.”