Hope at Dawn (29 page)

Evelyn’s eyes widened with surprise. The sisters were in charge of all the wards in the hospital, while Evelyn and the other girls from the Army Nurse Corp served as ward nurses. The extra responsibility showed Sister Marcelle’s trust and confidence in her, but Evelyn worried about not performing her best. Especially when her pregnancy sapped her stamina. She’d actually been grateful her turn for the night shift hadn’t come up yet.

These were concerns she didn’t dare voice, though.

“I’d be happy to help, Sister Marcelle.” Her voice carried more assurance than she felt. Somehow she’d make it work, to keep her secret safe until she and Ralph were married.

Sister Marcelle’s ready smile appeared again. “Thank you. Sister Henriette praises your meticulous work. You have undoubtedly proven to be a great role model for all our nurses.”

Evelyn blushed, feeling less than worthy of the sister’s last compliment, and glanced down at her hands.

“Do you enjoy nursing?”

The unexpected question brought Evelyn’s head up. “It’s the same line of work my father did, when he was alive. My grandparents were very proud of him. Naturally they hoped their only grandchild would follow in his footsteps. I-I do enjoy helping others, if that’s what you mean.”

Sister Marcelle nodded, her expression thoughtful, before she sat back. “We appreciate that help, I assure you. Especially now with our supplies being so low. That is something I will need you to be vigilant about. At night we need to use the pain medications spare—”

The rat-tat-tat of raindrops drummed the window behind her, but that didn’t seem to be the sound that made Sister Marcelle stop and turn in her chair. Evelyn heard it too—the distant rumble of motor vehicles.

“It appears we have our next round of patients.” The sister released a quiet sigh as she stood and crossed to the window. Evelyn joined her. Through the rain-splotched panes she could see the line of ambulances driving up the curved gravel driveway.

“More than usual,” Evelyn said.

Sister Marcelle gazed at Evelyn, her expression grave. For the first time, Evelyn noticed the weary lines around the older woman’s eyes.

“We do what we can.” But Sister Marcelle seemed to leave the sentence hanging at the end, almost like a question. The hesitation lasted only a moment, but Evelyn caught a tiny glimpse of the burden Sister Marcelle carried as director of the entire hospital.

Clearing her throat, the sister straightened to her full height, a few inches taller than Evelyn, and a tight smile pulled at her mouth. “You may return to your assigned ward for today, Nurse Gray. Can you start the night shift tomorrow evening?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Unsure whether to curtsey or not, Evelyn settled for a quick nod before letting herself out the door. She hurried down the stairs to the wards. Many of the nurses had gathered at the open doorways along the hall.

“Did you see the ambulances?” Alice asked when Evelyn approached. “One of the sisters said there are at least four.”

Evelyn cringed at the thought of all those suffering soldiers. As much as she couldn’t wait to see Ralph again, she never wanted to see him carried out of an ambulance and placed on a stretcher. “I saw them—the ambulances. From Sister Marcelle’s office.”

Alice’s green eyes widened. “What were you doing there?”

“I’ll tell you at dinner.” The first of the corpsmen had already reached the top of the stairs, an occupied stretcher between them.

Nodding, Alice disappeared into a nearby ward and Evelyn moved swiftly down the hall to her own. She passed a nurse smoothing a fresh sheet over one of the three empty beds. Evelyn lifted another sheet from the basket and went to the vacant bed in the far corner. A minute or two later the hallway outside boiled over with noise—nurses and sisters calling out directions to the corpsmen, wounded soldiers moaning with pain, the clatter of boots against the wood floors.

A rush of adrenaline throbbed inside Evelyn, driving out any lingering sense of nausea, as she heard Sister Henriette call loudly, “Bring those three in here.” It was the same each time they had new patients. Her father used to say the adrenaline was the only thing that got him through those first agonizing minutes when he had to accurately and quickly assess an emergency situation and take action.

Evelyn finished tucking the sheet and pulled it back as two corpsmen approached the bed. The man on their stretcher had his eyes shut tight, his body shivering uncontrollably. His rain-dampened hair looked almost coffee-colored in some places, though the lighter scruff along his jaw and chin proved his hair wasn’t that dark brown when dry. He had a nice-looking, unmarred face, but it was the dried blood on the lower half of his wool uniform that drew Evelyn’s attention.

She backed up a step to allow the corpsmen to place the soldier on the bed, then she moved to his side as they rushed off to bring in the next injured man.

“Hey there, soldier,” she said in a soft voice. “Let’s get you warm first, all right?”

He didn’t respond, but Evelyn placed a blanket over his shaking form. Once his shivers had receded some, she peeled back the edge of the blanket in order to assess his wounds. His right pant leg had been cut in order to place a bandage around his thigh and pelvis and his left arm had been placed in a hastily constructed splint.

Evelyn reached for the medical card pinned to his coat. She needed to know if surgery on his leg was required. She studied the scrawled notes, which indicated a blast wound with shrapnel in his right thigh, underdetermined damage in his pelvic area and a broken left arm.
He’ll definitely need surgery to remove the shrapnel.

“Water,” a voice croaked.

She glanced at the man’s face and found him awake. Hazel eyes gazed intently at her, though his body continued to shiver.

“I’ll get you some water, but first, are you warm yet?”

He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Evelyn pulled up the sheet and blanket, nearly to his chin, then she procured a glass of water from a pitcher on a nearby table. “I’m going to hold it, all right? All you need to do is sip.” She lifted his head gently off the pillow with one hand and brought the cup to his cracked lips with the other. He took a long swallow.

“Better,” he murmured, but he gritted his teeth as she gently set his head back down.

“I know you’re hurting, soldier. And we’re going to get you into surgery soon. Most likely by tonight.” At least she hoped. There would be others with much more immediate need for a surgeon, but she wanted him to know he wouldn’t be forgotten. “In the meantime, I’m going to change that loose bandage for you.”

Crossing to the supply cart in the middle of the ward, she removed a fresh bandage, a pair of scissors and a bottle of iodine. When she returned to the man’s bed, she pushed the blankets aside, just enough, to reach his leg. Still she noticed the flush of embarrassment on his face as she bent to cut away the old bandage.

“Tell me where you’re from, soldier,” she said as she worked, hoping to ease his blushing and distract him from any physical discomfort re-bandaging his injury might cause.

“Iowa.”

“Did you grow up on a farm?” So many of the doughboys she’d served in France were sons of farmers.

“Yes.”

Evelyn lifted her head to shoot him a smile. “Me too. I’m from Michigan.” Once she had the soiled bandage off, she checked the leg for possible signs of infection—thankfully, there were none—and applied some of the iodine. She’d grown used to the acute smell, though it seemed much stronger now that she was pregnant. The man flinched as the chemical met his torn flesh.

“So your name is . . .” She glanced at his medical card she’d set on the bedside table. “Corporal Joel Campbell. Which regiment are you in, Corporal?”

He murmured the number. It was the same regiment as Ralph’s. Worry flared inside her. Ralph must have been in the same battle as Corporal Campbell. Her worry grew stronger, more insistent. Was there a way to know if Ralph was safe or not? Perhaps the corporal knew him, though with so many men in a regiment, it seemed unlikely.
If they’re in the same company, though . . .

“What company are you in?” She did her best to keep the dread from her voice as she wrapped his leg with the fresh bandage.

“Company F,” Corporal Campbell replied in a tight whisper.

His answer brought her head up and stilled her fingers. The corporal had to know Ralph. Was he safe or was he here, too? To think, Ralph might be in the next ward, his injuries being attended to. Evelyn’s heart beat faster with equal hope and terror. If only she could see him this very moment, touch his handsome face, kiss those masculine lips. Assure herself that he was alive and well.

Evelyn ducked her chin, directing her next question toward the bed to appear as nonchalant as possible. “Do you by chance know Private First Class Ralph Kelley?”

Silence from the bed sounded louder in her ears than the racket in the room and hallway. She lifted her head and found Corporal Campbell staring hard at her.

“Are you all right, Corporal?”

Instead of answering, he countered with a question of his own. “Are you . . . Evelyn?”

She couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped her lips. “Yes, but how do you know my name?” Fresh panic pulsed through her veins.

“Because Ralph said it several times today.” He turned his face toward the wall. “Right before he died.”

A loud rushing sound filled Evelyn’s ears as her mind shied away from his words. Had the rain picked up? One glance at the nearest window proved it wasn’t raindrops causing the flood of noise in her head.

Ralph’s dead?

“No . . . no!” Was that her strangled voice? Evelyn felt as if someone had torn the exclamation from her throat and hurdled it at the frowning corporal. She reached for the table to steady herself and knocked the scissors to the floor with a clatter.

“Evelyn?”

Who had spoken her name? Ralph? No, he wasn’t here. He was still at the front. He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be.

“Evelyn,” the corporal said with more insistence. “Look at me.”

Slowly she dragged her gaze back to Corporal Campbell’s. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Keep your eyes focused on my face, okay? Then you won’t faint.”

She wanted to; she tried. But she couldn’t hear him anymore, though she could see his mouth moving. She looked at the rain-soaked windows and the walls of the ward, which were tilting at a funny angle. What was happening to the room?

Her knees felt too heavy, the sorrow in her gut too great. She attempted to look at the corporal’s face again, hoping with all her heart to see the lie there instead of his earnest expression. But the edges of her vision had begun to fracture into tiny spots, which conjoined until all she knew was smothering blackness.

Dear Reader,

While reading CHRISTMAS IN JULY one last time before sending it off to my editor, I had an “oops, I did it again” moment. In the first book in the series,
The Trouble with Christmas
, there’s a scene where Madison, the heroine, senses her late mother’s presence. In this book, our heroine, Grace, receives a message from her sister through her son. Grace has spent years blaming herself for her sister’s death, and while there’s an incident in the book that alleviates her guilt, I felt she needed the opportunity to tell her sister she loved her. Maybe if I didn’t believe our departed loved ones could communicate with us in some way, I would have done this another way. But I do, and here’s why.

My dad was movie-star handsome and had this amazing dimple in his chin. He was everything a little girl could wish for in a father. But he wasn’t my biological father; he was the father of my heart. He came into my life when I was nine years old. That first year, I dreamed about him a lot. The dreams were very real, and all the same. I’d be outside and see a man from behind and call out to him. He’d turn around, and it would be my dad. I always said the same thing: “You’re here. I knew you weren’t gone.” Almost a year to the day of his passing, my dad appeared in my dream surrounded by shadowy figures who he introduced to me by name. He told me that he was okay, that he was happy. It was his way, I think, of helping me let him go.

I didn’t dream of him again until sixteen months ago when we were awaiting the birth of our first grandchild. I “woke up” to see him sitting at the end of my bed. I told him how happy I was that he’d be there for the arrival of his great grandchild. He said of course he would be. He wouldn’t be anywhere else.

A week later, my daughter gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. When I saw my granddaughter for the first time, I started to cry. She had my dad’s dimple. No one on my son-in-law’s side, or ours, has a dimple in their chin. He used to tell us the angels gave it to him, and we like to think he gave our granddaughter hers as proof that he’s still with us.

So now you know why including that scene was important not only to Grace, but to me. Life really is full of small miracles and magic. And I hope you experience some of that magic as you follow Grace and Jack on their journey to happy-ever-after.

Dear Reader,

Usually, inspiration for books comes to me in a variety of ways. It could be a man I see (anywhere), a movie, a song, the unusual workers in a bookstore.

With SWEET DREAMS, it was an idea.

And that idea was, I wanted to take a hero who is, on the whole, totally unlikable, and make him lovable.

Enter Tatum Jackson, and when I say that, I mean
enter Tatum Jackson.
He came to me completely with a
kapow!
I could conjure him in my head, hear him talk, see the way he moved and how his clothes hung on him, feel his frustration with his life. I also knew his messed-up history.

And I could
not
wait to get stuck into this man.

I mean, here’s a guy who is gorgeous, but he’s got a foul temper, says nasty things when he’s angry, and he’s not exactly father of the year.

He had something terrible happen to him to derail his life and he didn’t handle that very well, making mistake after mistake in a vicious cycle he pretty much had no intention of ending. He had a woman in his life he knew was a liar, a cheat, and no good for anyone and he was so stuck in the muck of his life that he didn’t get shot of her.

Enter Lauren Grahame, who also came to me like a shot. As with Tate, everything about Lauren slammed into my head, perhaps most especially her feelings, the disillusionment she has with life, how she feels lost and really has no intention of getting found.

In fact, I don’t think with any of my books I’ve ever had two characters who I knew so thoroughly before I started to tell their story.

And thus, I got lost in it.

I tend to be obsessive about my storytelling but this was an extreme. Once Lauren and Tate came to me, everything about Carnal, Colorado, filled my head just like the hero and heroine did. I can see Main Street, Bubba’s Bar, Tate’s house. I know the secondary characters as absolutely as I know the main characters. The entirety of the town, the people, and the story became a strange kind of real in my head, even if I didn’t know how the story was going to play out. Indeed, I had no idea if I could pull it off, making an unlikable man lovable.

But I fell in love with Tate very quickly. The attraction he has for Lauren growing into devotion. The actions that speak much louder than words. I so enjoyed watching Lauren pull Tate out of the muck of his life, even if nothing changes except the fact that he has a woman in it that he loves, who is good to him, who feeds the muscle, the bone, the soul. Just as I enjoyed watching Tate guide Lauren out of her disillusionment and offer her something special.

I hope it happens to me again someday that characters like this inhabit my head so completely, and I hope it happens time and again.

But Tate and Lauren being the first, they’ll always hold a special place in my heart, and live on in my head.

Happily,

Dear Reader,

I’m the oldest of three girls, and my husband is the oldest of three boys, so we grew up watching out for our siblings. Now that we’re all adults, they look out for us, too. While my sisters and I may have argued with one another as kids, we instantly banded together if anybody tried to mess with one of us. My youngest sister topped out at an even five feet tall, yet she’s the fiercest of us all, and she loses her impressive temper quite quickly if someone isn’t nice to me.

I think one of the reasons I enjoyed writing Matt’s story in SWEET REVENGE is because he’s the eldest of the Dean brothers, and as such, he feels responsible for them. Add in a dangerous military organization trying to harm them, and his duties go far beyond that of a normal sibling. It was fun to watch Matt try to order his brothers around and keep them safe, while all they want to do is provide backup for him and ensure his safety.

There’s something about being the oldest kid that forces us to push ourselves when we shouldn’t. When our siblings would step back and relax, we often push forward just out of sheer stubbornness. I don’t know why, and it’s sometimes a mistake. Trust me.

SWEET REVENGE was written in several locations, most notably in the hospital and on airplanes. Sometimes I take on a bit too much, so when I discovered I needed a couple of surgeries (nothing major), I figured I’d just do them on the same day. Why not? So I had two surgeries in one day and had to spend a few days in the hospital recuperating.

With my laptop, of course.

There’s not a lot to do in the hospital but drink milkshakes and write, so it was quite effective. Then, instead of going home and taking it easy, I flew across the country to a conference and big book signing. Of course, I was still in pain, but I ignored it.

Bad idea.

Two weeks after that, I once again flew across the country for a book signing and conference. Yes, I was still tired, but I kept on going.

Yet another bad idea.

Then I returned home and immediately headed back to work as a college professor at the beginning of the semester.

Not a great idea.

Are you seeing a trend here? I pushed myself too hard, and all of a sudden, my body said…
you’re done.
Completely done. I became sick, and after a bunch of tests, it appeared I’d just taken on too much. So at the end of the semester, I resigned as a professor and took up writing full time. And yoga. And eating healthy and relaxing.

Life is great, and it’s meant to be savored and not rushed through—even for us oldest siblings. I learned a very valuable life lesson while writing SWEET REVENGE, and I’ll always have fond memories of this book.

I truly hope you enjoy Matt and Laney’s story, and don’t forget to take a deep breath and enjoy the moment. It’s definitely worth it!

Happy reading!