Gayle Wilson - Wednesday's Child

He’d known from the first time he walked into the surgeon’s office that he’d found a kindred spirit. Between the framed degrees and awards had been an old poem Jeb had remembered reading as a child. It hadn’t made much of an impression then, but the final lines “I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul” had, at the time, seemed to reflect his own determination. And obviously McKey’s philosophy as well.

The problem was determination apparently wasn’t going to be good enough, he acknowledged bitterly, running his palm down the scar that bisected his thigh. Although that was now the most visible of the injuries he’d sustained when the land mine had exploded under his Humvee, it was the mangled foot and ankle that had defied his attempts—and those of his doctors—to regain the mobility he’d had before the injury. That was what the Army was demanding before they would consider returning him to CAG.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand their insistence. Or accept it. He did. After all, the lives of others might one day depend on how well he was able to perform. What he couldn’t seem to accept was that no matter how hard he worked, he might not be able to change what he feared was going to happen during the upcoming review at Walter Reed.

Disgusted with how skewed his thinking had become this morning, he put the evaluation out of his mind. He wiped perspiration from his neck before he ran the towel across his hair.

From upstairs came the familiar sounds of Lorena fixing breakfast. The soft clink of china. Water churning through the ancient pipes. And no voices.

He glanced at his watch. It was only a little after six. Probably too early for their guest to be up. Which meant that if he didn’t want any further disruption to the routine he’d established since he’d been here, he should go up now and have his breakfast before she came downstairs.

He didn’t bother to analyze why he wanted to avoid Susan Chandler. All he knew was that even after he’d cut out his bedside lamp last night, certain things about their meeting had replayed over and over, stuck in his mind like the notes of some half-forgotten melody. The way the dim light of the old-fashioned chandelier had put threads of gold in her hair. The way her eyes, their irises an unusual blue-gray, held on his, determined not to look at his damaged leg.

He was doing it again, he realized. Dwelling on those few awkward minutes they’d been thrown together last night. It had been a long time since he’d been this conscious of a woman. Actually, Susan Chandler was the first woman he had reacted to this way since he’d been wounded.

Just horny, he assured himself, his mouth relaxing into a grin. And a good sign. An indication of returning normality.

In truth, she was a damn fine-looking woman. He should be worried if he wasn’t aware of her sexually—and therefore aware of how long it had been since he’d been with a woman.

There was another sound from upstairs, one he couldn’t quite identify. Head cocked, he listened with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, but again there were no voices.

He dropped the towel, running his left hand across the top of his hair as if to groom it. Then, balancing on his right leg, he pulled his sweatpants up over the gym shorts he wore.

He could smell the biscuits as he climbed the basement stairs, his muscles still trembling from the routine. The area where he’d set up his equipment had at one time served as cold storage for things like apples and potatoes. It was always ten or fifteen degrees cooler than the rest of the house.

Lorena’s age and the steepness of the stone steps prevented her from using it anymore. Since he’d been here, the basement under the kitchen had become his domain. One he would probably retreat to more often than before if their guest spent many more nights in the house, he acknowledged.

He opened the door at the top of the stairs and stepped into the light and warmth of the kitchen. His great-aunt was standing at the stove, brushing melted butter over the tops of the biscuits she had just taken out of the oven.

“Morning,” she said without turning. Whatever frailties of aging she suffered from, Lorena’s hearing was excellent.

Despite his belief their guest wouldn’t be up yet, Jeb took time to check out the small table that stood before one of the windows. It was set, as usual, with only two places. Relief he couldn’t quite explain washed over him in a flood.

“Those smell good.” He limped over to kiss Lorena’s cheek.

“I thought this morning we’d have some of that home-cured ham Isaac brought with the eggs yesterday rather than bacon. You can’t get ham like this at the store.”

Several slices of it lay sizzling in a cast-iron skillet, its scent mingling with that of the biscuits. Underlying both was the inviting smell of coffee, which perked gently on the back of the stove. In the months he’d lived here, he had become accustomed to having it prepared this way, so that he’d finally packed away the electric coffeemaker he’d brought with him.

Using a hot pad, he picked up the pot and poured a stream of black coffee into his mug, which Lorena had already set out on the counter by the stove. He stood sipping it, watching as his aunt broke eggs into the same pan from which she’d just taken the steaming slices of ham. The bits that had stuck to the bottom were churned into the eggs as she scrambled them.

“You go on and sit down,” she ordered as she did every morning. “Drink your coffee in peace.”

They had come to an unspoken understanding shortly after he’d arrived, one that satisfied them both. Lorena had desperately wanted to wait on him. At mealtimes he let her. She would bring the platter over when everything was ready, and then she would sit down opposite him, bowing her head as she invoked the Lord to bless their food.

The first few weeks he had waited through her prayer, eyes defiantly open. After a while he’d given in to her devotion and his own upbringing, bowing his head now as a matter of course.

Carrying his coffee, he made his way to the sunlit table. It was going to be another warm day, despite the calendar.

For some reason, that reminded him of Susan Chandler. Maybe it was the memory of her crushed-linen skirt. Or the sleeveless silk blouse she had worn with it. Or how damp tendrils of hair had curled at her temples and against the back of her neck.

“I thought I’d go into town,” Lorena said right beside him, startling him out of those memories. She set the platter of eggs, ham and biscuits down and then slipped into her place. “I can’t feed a guest what we eat.”

“Why not?” he asked, putting a biscuit onto his plate.

“Not fancy enough. That was one thing the bed-and-breakfast association told me. Folks that pay good money to stay in a home expect something special when it comes to food.”

“There’s nothing more special than what you fix every day,” Jeb said, smiling up at her. The crease between her brows smoothed with the compliment. “I mean it, Lorena. You serve Mrs. Chandler what you serve me, and I guarantee you she’ll be happy as a pig in mud.” His great-aunt wouldn’t have put up with the usual description in that phrase. “Besides, she isn’t a guest in the strictest sense of the word. I don’t think she expects you to go out of your way to cater to her every whim.”

“She certainly does not.”

Hearing Susan Chandler’s voice produced a jolt of sheer physical reaction. Jeb raised his eyes to find her standing in the door of the kitchen. She was dressed less formally today in a pair of brown knit slacks and a brown-and-white striped top.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said apologetically. “I smelled the coffee and hoped there might be enough for me.”