up. “Whatever for? Considering you’re in tolerable health otherwise, I can’t imagine anything more depressing.”
Gilbert could. And did. His mother’s fawning attention. Thomas’s grating good nature.
Annemarie’s pitying gaze.
Wetness slid down his left cheek, escaping from the eye that still occasionally blurred and watered. He swiped at his face with the back of his good hand and tried to keep his breathing steady, though his chest ached from the effort.
“Look, son,” the doctor began in a condescending tone, “I’ve been a military surgeon for longer than you’ve been alive. War is hell, to quote the late General Sherman, and you’ve just lived through it. Now it’s time to quit feeling sorry for yourself and start thanking the Lord above for what you do have instead of mourning what you don’t.”
With a final shake of his head, the doctor marched away.
Gilbert squeezed his eyes shut. Curse this screaming headache! “I am not a coward, not a coward, do you hear!”
“I hear.” Samuel approached the bedside, a concerned smile turning up one corner of his mouth. “And so does half the city of Hot Springs by now. What was that all about?”
Embarrassment burned Gilbert’s face. He glanced at the patients on either side of him, who quickly averted their stares. “He doesn’t understand. If he’d spent even one day in a field hospital—”
Samuel slid his gaze to the man in the white coat examining a patient at the far end of the ward. “Did your doctor call you a coward?”
“Not in so many words.” Locking his fingers around Samuel’s wrist, Gilbert lowered his voice to a rasping whisper. “This isn’t self-pity, Sam. It isn’t cowardice or weakness. I led my platoon through some of the worst fighting along the Marne, and I never flinched, not once.”
“Of course, you didn’t.” Samuel lowered himself into a chair.
“I just—” His stupid left eye started leaking again, and this time he couldn’t restrain the muttered curse.
Samuel passed him a handkerchief. “Take it easy, Gil, and tell me what the doctor said.”
Dabbing the corner of his eye, Gilbert heaved a frustrated groan. “He wanted to talk about my surgery. He won’t do it until after Christmas.”
“You sound disappointed. Weren’t you just telling me yesterday he shouldn’t waste his time?”
“Just shut up, will you?” Teeth clenched, Gilbert fought to keep from insulting his friend with an even stronger spate of expletives.
“I don’t think you mean that, seeing as how I’m one of the scant few willing to put up with your guff.” Samuel drew his chair closer and folded his arms along the edge of Gilbert’s mattress. “So . . . this is all because your doctor gave you a surgery date?”
Gilbert rubbed his mangled left arm. Sometimes it burned like the stabs of a thousand needles. “He’s giving me a pass to spend Christmas at home.”
“I see.” Samuel’s expression said just the opposite.
“I can’t do it, Sam. You know why, and it has nothing to do with being a coward.”
“No, but I do think you’re afraid of something—and not just your mother’s hovering or your brother’s admiration.” Samuel sat back and crossed his arms. “I think it’s because you know you couldn’t avoid seeing Annemarie.”
The mere mention of her name shot waves of agony through Gilbert’s chest. He let Samuel’s words hang in the air while a nurse stopped at the foot of the bed to check his chart. Not the young redhead this time—he hadn’t seen her since yesterday’s fiasco—but a wizened hag who looked ancient enough to have served in the Civil War. She made a tsk-tsk sound, tapped a pen against her yellowed teeth, and moved on.
Apparently he’d have to wait awhile longer for his next pain injection.
“Gil?”
“ What ?” As soon as the snappish word left his lips, he wanted to snatch it back.
Samuel filled a glass from the water pitcher on the bedside stand and offered it
Gilbert could. And did. His mother’s fawning attention. Thomas’s grating good nature.
Annemarie’s pitying gaze.
Wetness slid down his left cheek, escaping from the eye that still occasionally blurred and watered. He swiped at his face with the back of his good hand and tried to keep his breathing steady, though his chest ached from the effort.
“Look, son,” the doctor began in a condescending tone, “I’ve been a military surgeon for longer than you’ve been alive. War is hell, to quote the late General Sherman, and you’ve just lived through it. Now it’s time to quit feeling sorry for yourself and start thanking the Lord above for what you do have instead of mourning what you don’t.”
With a final shake of his head, the doctor marched away.
Gilbert squeezed his eyes shut. Curse this screaming headache! “I am not a coward, not a coward, do you hear!”
“I hear.” Samuel approached the bedside, a concerned smile turning up one corner of his mouth. “And so does half the city of Hot Springs by now. What was that all about?”
Embarrassment burned Gilbert’s face. He glanced at the patients on either side of him, who quickly averted their stares. “He doesn’t understand. If he’d spent even one day in a field hospital—”
Samuel slid his gaze to the man in the white coat examining a patient at the far end of the ward. “Did your doctor call you a coward?”
“Not in so many words.” Locking his fingers around Samuel’s wrist, Gilbert lowered his voice to a rasping whisper. “This isn’t self-pity, Sam. It isn’t cowardice or weakness. I led my platoon through some of the worst fighting along the Marne, and I never flinched, not once.”
“Of course, you didn’t.” Samuel lowered himself into a chair.
“I just—” His stupid left eye started leaking again, and this time he couldn’t restrain the muttered curse.
Samuel passed him a handkerchief. “Take it easy, Gil, and tell me what the doctor said.”
Dabbing the corner of his eye, Gilbert heaved a frustrated groan. “He wanted to talk about my surgery. He won’t do it until after Christmas.”
“You sound disappointed. Weren’t you just telling me yesterday he shouldn’t waste his time?”
“Just shut up, will you?” Teeth clenched, Gilbert fought to keep from insulting his friend with an even stronger spate of expletives.
“I don’t think you mean that, seeing as how I’m one of the scant few willing to put up with your guff.” Samuel drew his chair closer and folded his arms along the edge of Gilbert’s mattress. “So . . . this is all because your doctor gave you a surgery date?”
Gilbert rubbed his mangled left arm. Sometimes it burned like the stabs of a thousand needles. “He’s giving me a pass to spend Christmas at home.”
“I see.” Samuel’s expression said just the opposite.
“I can’t do it, Sam. You know why, and it has nothing to do with being a coward.”
“No, but I do think you’re afraid of something—and not just your mother’s hovering or your brother’s admiration.” Samuel sat back and crossed his arms. “I think it’s because you know you couldn’t avoid seeing Annemarie.”
The mere mention of her name shot waves of agony through Gilbert’s chest. He let Samuel’s words hang in the air while a nurse stopped at the foot of the bed to check his chart. Not the young redhead this time—he hadn’t seen her since yesterday’s fiasco—but a wizened hag who looked ancient enough to have served in the Civil War. She made a tsk-tsk sound, tapped a pen against her yellowed teeth, and moved on.
Apparently he’d have to wait awhile longer for his next pain injection.
“Gil?”
“ What ?” As soon as the snappish word left his lips, he wanted to snatch it back.
Samuel filled a glass from the water pitcher on the bedside stand and offered it
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