Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1) by Barbara Bretton Page A

block was throwing snowballs again, she’d take him by the ear and march him back to his mother so fast, his ten-year-old head would spin! One broken window per winter was more than enough.
    “Danny,” she said, swinging the door open wide, “you stop that this minute.”
    But it wasn’t Danny Tesch.
    It was Private Johnny Danza.
    And he was unconscious on her welcome mat.

Chapter Six
    “Oh, my God! Johnny!” She bent down, unmindful of the chill wind whipping through her pink chenille bathrobe. His skin was as white as the falling snow, his jet black hair an angry slash across his forehead. She touched his cheek. “Johnny? Please say something.”
    Dear God, what was wrong? She moved her fingers down to the base of his throat, exposed by the ill-fitting army-issue overcoat. A pulse, shallow but steady, beat beneath her fingertips. She shook him by the shoulders. “We have to get you inside, Johnny. Wake up, please!”
    He moaned softly and his eyelids fluttered then opened. He started to say something, but she pressed the tip of her index finger against his lips. “Save your strength. You’ll catch your death out here in the snow.”
    Struggling to keep her balance on the icy top step, she managed to get her arms around him and slowly, carefully, she pulled him to a sitting position. His head rolled back against her shoulder.
    “You have to help me, Johnny. I can’t do this without you.”
    He was barely conscious. His lean body was a dead weight as she tried to maneuver him into the house. Her bare feet slipped on the top step, and it took every ounce of strength at her command to keep from tumbling backward, taking Johnny with her. God must have been watching over them both because somehow she regained her footing and half-dragged, half-carried him into the foyer where she laid him down on the braided rug.
    “Cathy...”
    She knelt next to him in a puddle of melted snow and brought her ear close to his mouth.
    “Sorry...”
    “You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” she said vehemently. “I’m going to take care of you.”
    But how?
    She loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. How thin he was; those proud angular cheekbones stood out in stark relief in his strong-boned face. He was shivering uncontrollably, so she kept his coat on and covered him with the afghan she’d cuddled under during her nap. She ran to turn up the thermostat, coal shortage be damned. She didn’t care if they froze the rest of the winter; all that mattered was Johnny.
    A shuddering cough racked his body, and it was her turn to tremble at the labored, erratic sound of his breathing. She raced upstairs and yanked the blankets from both her bed and Nancy’s, then hurried back down to the foyer and bundled him up with a few more layers of warmth. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough. His brow was slick with sweat but the shivering increased, and she knew that whatever was wrong with him couldn’t be cured with an extra blanket and a cup of cocoa.
    She rushed to the telephone in the kitchen. Her fingers fumbled with the dial and for a moment Dr. Bernstein’s number played hide-and-seek with her memory. She held her breath as it started to ring. “Please be there,” she whispered. “Please... please...”
    He was. “I’m closing up shop in ten minutes,” he said, after she explained the problem. “Keep him warm and I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
    A half hour later she ushered the doctor into the foyer. “Oh, thank God! I was terrified the storm would—”
    “Storms don’t stop me, Cathy Wilson. You should know better.” Dr. Sy Bernstein had delivered both Catherine and Nancy and over the years seen them through measles and chicken pox and assorted cuts and bumps. Seeing him standing there looking competent and trustworthy, Catherine felt better already. Dr. Bernstein handed her his coat and hat. “Toss them anywhere,” he said, bending down over the unconscious Johnny Danza. “First