Coming Home for Christmas by Carla Kelly Page A

moment will come when my wife needs me, he thought, as she came into the room again—such a graceful walk—and sat beside the soldier. He looked at the clock, marveling that he had been married twenty-four hours and wondering just at what moment he had decided he already loved her. Maybe it had happened during the night when he sat up with his patient, thinking of ways to resurrect Laura’s good name in the eyes of—oh, let us be honest—this hypocritical group of busybodies. Maybe it was when he woke up warm, because she had covered him with the blanket. Possibly it had happened months before, when he had started admiring her, back when she’d had all the class and style and he’d had none. Perhaps it was when she had given him that anxious look, as if he could make it all better. Well, he could and he would, because she was his wife.
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    He watched his patient for another hour, leaning in the doorway, his eyes drooping, until to his delight, Laura took him by the hand and led him to his ownbed. “There now, señor, you have showed me what to do and Juan is sleeping. You sleep now.”
    He didn’t argue, especially when she knelt to remove his sandals, as though she was his servant. He protested, but she merely told him to hush as she slipped them off and displayed one of those peremptory gestures that reminded him of the old Laura.
    â€œVery well, madam,” he told her, happy enough to lie down and close his eyes.
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    He didn’t open them until much later in the day, comfortable in his bed, even though the day was uncharacteristically cool for San Diego. On opening his eyes he discovered, to his delight, that someone had wrapped a warm stone and placed it under the cover at the foot of the bed. This could be a better bargain than I reckoned, he thought drowsily and drifted back to sleep.
    He woke up later as shadows were beginning to slant across his bed, prodded awake by gentle pummeling, which grew more insistent. He took her hand. “Laura, what on earth…?” he said.
    A look at his wife’s anxious face had him up and scuffing for his sandals. “Is it Juan?” he asked.
    â€œNo, no, he is sleeping,” Laura said, her hand still on his arm, tugging him. “It is Señor Gooding. Please hurry!”
    As his head cleared, Thomas noticed the smears of blood on her apron and fingers.
    Still she clutched him. “I didn’t know what to do!” she cried.
    He paused long enough to touch her face, then tug gently on her auburn hair peeking out from under her matron’s cap—where had she found such a thing sofast?—because she looked so terrified. “Don’t worry, Laura. I’ve been expecting this.”
    She had hold of his hand now, and she didn’t release it as they went quickly into the ward, where Juan still slumbered and Ralph bled.
    Thomas went right to work, propping up the terrified carpenter, then applying styptic and gentle pressure to the open lesion on his neck. All the while, Laura knelt beside him, holding Ralph’s hand, as the bleeding slowed and then stopped. Calm returned to his patient’s face, even though his pallor was more pronounced than before.
    And now it begins, Thomas thought. How much longer can he survive? He glanced at Laura, who was on her feet now and pouring warm water in a basin to cleanse away the blood. She was pale, too, her fine eyes betraying all the worry he knew she was too shy to express.
    He went to her and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Would you rather I tended Señor Gooding alone, or do you want to learn?”
    â€œLet me think about that,” she whispered as she returned to the bed with the warm water and a soft cloth. She helped Thomas remove their patient’s nightshirt and replace it with a clean one, then delicately dabbed at his face and ruined neck. Through it all, Ralph Gooding’s eyes remained closed, his feelings a