Hideaway Home. Hannah Alexander
released the tension on the v-belt, and reached down to move it to a larger v-pulley. Her hand slipped. The belt which hadn’t come to a complete stop, grabbed her forefinger. Before she could react, her finger was snatched into the pulley.
Pain streaked up her arm. She gritted her teeth to keep from crying out as she jerked her hand back.
Blood spread over and down her fingers, and for a moment, because of the pain, she thought all her fingers had been mangled. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply to keep from passing out, then turned to look around and see if anyone had noticed what had happened.
No one looked her way.
She reached for the bandana on her head. Her hot hair once again fell over her shoulders as she tore off a strip of the cloth and dabbed away the blood. To her relief, only her index finger was torn.
Maybe she could take care of this herself, without going to First Aid.
But she discovered she would have no choice. The blood kept flowing from a fair-sized cut over her knuckle. There was no way to deal with it on her own.
She used what was left of the bandana to tie her hair back into a ponytail, her movements awkward.
Reluctantly, she went to find her supervisor for permission to go to First Aid. She’d catch an earful this time.
Red peered out the window at the passenger cars curving along the track in front of him. He thought he saw Ivan’s blond head in one square of window, but it was too far away to know for sure.
He couldn’t say why he was relieved that Ivan had gone back to his seat. It’d been good to see his friend, to know there was someone else, someone he knew, who could understand what he’d gone through.
But then, looking into Ivan’s face, Red had been able to recall the war that much clearer, when what he really wanted to do was forget it, not be reminded of every detail, every death. There were too many.
Rubbing his fingertip across the corner of one of the envelopes in his pocket, Red resisted the urge to pull them out again. He knew what the letters said. He had most every word memorized. He could see Bertie Moennig’s face against his closed eyelids—her sweet, saucy smile, her thick, fair hair, and turned-up nose.
The letters he’d gotten from her were nearly falling apart, he’d read them so often. The latest ones, of course, were full of questions, full of worry and wondering why he hadn’t written. Those were the ones that ate at him.
He remembered one letter he’d gotten last year, soon after he returned from leave. It had been even harder than leaving the first time, and it’d apparently been hard for Bertie, too.
I’ve made a decision, the letter had said. I’m going to learn how to be good at waiting, because I know there are some things—some people—worth waiting for. Dad and Uncle Sam are urging me to take some training and work in one of the defense plants, and I think I’ll do it. I want to do all I can to help win this war, and get our men home again. Write me soon, Red, and let me know you’re okay.
He’d written to her then, telling her how much he already missed her, how proud he was of her. He’d written more during just one week of war than he’d done all through school. Bertie had always been so good for him.
Problem was, he didn’t know what to write now. Whatever he told her, it wouldn’t be something she’d want to read. And she didn’t need to know. Not yet.
He’d even told Ma not to let Bertie know about his injury. What good would it have done? Ma, of course, had argued, but he knew she’d done what he’d asked.
Thing was, he’d seen too many hearts broken already in this war. Too many of his buddies had died, leaving wives alone to grieve as widows, leaving mothers brokenhearted over their dead sons.
He’d also seen too many friends going back home as damaged goods, to wives who’d have to take care of them the rest of their lives. He couldn’t do that to Bertie.
Nosiree, Joseph Moennig had a good farm that needed running, and what with his son, Lloyd, off in Kansas with a wife and family, his only daughter Bertie would be the one to take over the farm someday. She’d need a husband who was whole to help with that. A woman like her wouldn’t have any trouble finding someone.
Red closed his eyes and tried to think of something else, because the thought of Bertie loving another man almost made him sick to his stomach.
Bertie watched the suture needle prick the skin of her knuckle in the first stitch. She jerked, in spite of her determination not to. How embarrassing! All this time she’d followed all the safety rules, been so careful about every single movement. And now this.
That was what happened when a person got in a hurry. She’d known better.
“That hurt?” asked Dr. Cox as he tied the stitch.
“Not at all. You do what you have to do.”
“Are you left-handed?” He started the next stitch.
“No, sir.”
“Good, because I would have to warn you against using your finger any more than necessary. Flexing that knuckle will make the healing time longer.”
“I’m glad it didn’t come to that. I have letters to write.”
He worked quickly, his fingers moving with precision. He was the company doctor, and had probably done this a lot. “You have a beau in the war?”
Bertie hesitated. Was Red her beau? She nodded. It was how she thought of him, even if he couldn’t seem to write now that he was on leave.
“Is he from Missouri, too?” Dr. Cox asked.
Bertie blinked up at him, her attention distracted from the needle. “How’d you know I was—”
“I pride myself in my ability to pick up on an accent within seconds of meeting someone. Southern?”
Bertie stared into his kind eyes. “You mean Southern Missouri? Yes, Southwest, almost into Arkansas.”
“Ozarks, then. Your beau is from the Ozarks, too?”
“He sure is.” Bertie felt herself relaxing. “We grew up in the same town along the James River.” How she wished for those times again. “We went to school together and were close friends for as long as either of us can remember.”
The doctor smiled. “Think you’ll get married once this war is over?”
Bertie felt herself flushing at the thought. She’d considered it a lot. In fact, the thought of marrying and settling with Red was one of the things that had gotten her through her homesickness, her worry, her fretting. Until now.
“My father wouldn’t mind,” she told the doctor. “Red comes from a good, solid family. Dad knows Red real well.” There were times Bertie had felt as if Dad preferred Red’s company to her own. “He’s already like a son to Dad.” She grimaced. “Why am I telling you all this? You don’t want to hear my life story.”
Dr. Cox chuckled. “Sure I do. It keeps your mind off what I’m doing, and when you’re relaxed, I can work better.”
“Do you see many more patients now that so many doctors are helping in the war?”
“I sure do. Two of the other doctors with offices in this building are on hospital ships somewhere in the Pacific.” He looked at her. “I love hearing stories from my patients, especially those involved in the war effort. Now,” he said, fixing her with a pointed stare, “you were telling me about Red?”
She smiled at him, relaxing further, enjoying the chance to talk about her favorite subject. “Before Red’s father died, the Meyers had two hundred acres of prime farmland along the James River. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Meyers sold off a parcel of land every couple of years to the town, which was expanding and needed more room.”
“To help get her family