The Sea Before Us

by Sarah Sundin

  “You are? Where—”

  “Well, if it isn’t the gunslinger.” Commander Pringle marched over and shook Wyatt’s hand. “We can’t stop talking about how the Oglesby went down in a blaze of glory.”

  “Thank you, sir.” It hadn’t felt glorious at all.

  More officers gathered around, including Eaton, but Wyatt kept his smile propped in place.

  “Now we can hear the story from the horse’s mouth.” Pringle crossed his arms. “Go ahead, my boy. Nothing makes an old sailor happier than a sea yarn.”

  “Uh . . .” Wyatt glanced around, but Dorothy had disappeared from the room. His shoulders slumped. His presence probably reminded her of the worst night of her life, of a kiss she most likely regretted.

  “Less of a sea yarn,” Eaton said. “More like one of your Western movies. Tell me, Lieutenant, were you a cowboy back in the States?”

  “No, sir. An accountant.”

  The officers laughed.

  The attention made him uncomfortable, but he told his tale. No embellishment, no exaggeration, just the facts. They asked questions, pried for more, and he did his best. If only Dorothy could have told the story with all her voices and gestures and enthusiasm.

  But she’d skedaddled.

  After a few minutes, the officers shook his hand, told him he’d made a jolly good show of it, and left him alone.

  Alone. He drew a long breath and smoothed his jacket. He’d completed his mission. Dorothy was better than fine, and he’d said thank you and good-bye. It was time to leave and open the next chapter of his life.

  He turned for the door and stopped.

  Dorothy stood in the doorway, staring at him with her eyes stretched wide and her lips tucked in tight.

  She looked terrified. Why on earth? He gave her a questioning look, but her eyes only got rounder.

  She clutched something in front of her stomach. What was it? Looked like a roll that would make a nice pulled pork sandwich.

  A loaf?

  A whole loaf.

  48

  If the loaf of National Wheatmeal hadn’t been as stale as a stone, Dorothy would have crushed it to bits. This slithering sense of nakedness and helplessness and fear and mortification—was this how Wyatt had felt when he’d told her he loved her?

  He stared at the loaf, furrows dividing his forehead.

  Then he snapped his gaze up to her, piercing, unbending, probing.

  Oh dear. She couldn’t withstand the scrutiny. She dashed to the worktable, where Gwen and Muriel sorted envelopes for filing. She set down the bread and blindly grabbed an envelope.

  Gwen chuckled. “Hungry, Dorothy?”

  She shook her head and shuffled envelopes. What had she done? What must he be thinking?

  Solid footsteps approached. Wyatt’s warm presence hovered behind her, and a broad hand settled on the loaf.

  Her cheeks flamed, and she rearranged envelopes. All week she’d kept that little loaf in her handbag in her locker downstairs, dreaming of this opportunity. Now he’d come. But now her gesture seemed utterly ridiculous.

  “For me?” Wyatt’s voice sounded clipped and raspy.

  Her chin bobbed in response, but she couldn’t look at him.

  “Come with me. Please.” Then he left the office.

  She stifled a groan. Now she’d hear it. But at least she could tell him everything. With a lurch, she followed him.

  “Dorothy?” Gwen called after her.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Wyatt was already halfway down the stairs.

  She scampered after him. “Oh, Wyatt. I’m so sorry. You were right when you said I threw you crumbs, and I was wrong to do so. You’re the best sort of man, and I—I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it.”

  Wyatt didn’t glance back at her. He strode down the hallway, and she could barely keep up with his long-legged pace.

  She jogged a few steps to close the gap. “I want you to know it’s over with Lawrence. I told him most emphatically. If only it hadn’t taken me so long to realize how much I love you.”

  A hitch in his step, then he resumed his pace.

  “I do, Wyatt. I love you so very much. You’re the kindest, sweetest man, and you’re so good to me. You always have been. You deserve more than crumbs. You deserve the whole loaf, the whole bakery.”

  He flung open the door and paused and looked around.

  Dorothy ran to his side. “Please say something.”

  He shook his head, his gaze darting around the grounds.

  “Wyatt, please.” She touched his forearm. “Say something. Tell me you hate me, tell me you love me. Something.”

  He looked her full in the eye, startled, as if he’d forgotten she was there. Then he tugged on his cap, grabbed her hand, and marched across the lawn.

  She struggled to keep up. Where was he taking her? Someplace private to give her a piece of his mind? Before he could, she’d give him all the pieces of her heart.

  Dorothy watched her footing. “I was wrong when I said I’d ruin you. I was afraid I’d treat you like my mum treated my father. I love you too much to risk that. But Papa showed me the truth. I may be like her in some respects, but I’ve never been cruel to Papa, and I could never be cruel to you.”

  Still not a word, still the brisk pace toward a copse of trees.

  She held tight to his hand, so strong and warm and firm. “I also want you to know I’d leave England for you. I’d go anywhere to be with you. Papa is doing so well since we stopped Mr. MacLeod. And we did—we did stop him.”

  Wyatt slowed as they entered the copse.

  Dorothy followed him through the trees and over the underbrush. “Papa—well, he’s the man he was before the war. He’ll be fine on his own, and he wants me to be happy. He told—”

  Wyatt wheeled to her.

  She bumped into his chest and took a step back. The way he stared at her, so many emotions she couldn’t pick one apart from the other. “Oh, would you please say something?”

  He nodded a few times, then he folded her in his arms and kissed her.

  She gasped from the suddenness of it. But then she melted into his embrace, unwrapping the emotions one at a time, each a gift—the surprise, the joy, the love. He didn’t kiss her with the hungry urgency of Edinburgh but with confident assurance. Without a word, he’d told her he’d forgiven her foolishness and he loved her as much as ever.

  She drew back so she could see that love in his eyes. A breeze cooled her warm cheeks, and she pulled off his cap and smoothed his soft hair. “Say that again, please.”

  His smile rose, long and slow, and he kissed her again, long and slow and even better than she’d imagined, accepting her, lingering in her company, and reveling in their love.

  Why had she longed for Peter Pan and Neverland? Now she had a grown man with his feet on the earth, a man who’d never endanger her but always protect her, a partner for the adventures and the routines, the joys and the sorrows.

  She sighed and rested her cheek on his shoulder, over his heart, and the pounding echoed her own. “Tell me all about Texas.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’d go anywhere in the world to be with you.”

  He kissed the top of her bare head. “After this war’s over, I’ll come back to London and marry you, then . . .”

  Marry? She lifted her head. “Are you . . . proposing?”

  His face scrunched up. “I—I didn’t mean to. Not yet. Not like that.”

  She stroked his cheek and the long white scar. “But you want to? Oh, Wyatt.”

  He lowered his forehead to touch hers. “Someday I’ll make a more romantic proposal than that. I promise.”

  He always kept his word, and her mouth quivered. “And someday . . . someday I’ll be honored to accept.”

  “All right, then.” He pressed her head back down to his shoulder, his voice husky. “You know my intentions. Reckon there’s something to be said for that.”

  She squeezed him. He
loved her enough to want to spend his whole life with her. She’d gladly trade romance for that assurance. “There is.”

  “So, Lord willing, after the war I’ll make you my wife. Then we’ll visit Texas so you can meet my daddy and mama.”

  “And your brothers? Have you heard from them?”

  He caressed her hair. “No. The mail was impounded for D-day. But I’ve been away from Plymouth a few days. Maybe I’ll have letters waiting for me. I hope so. I’m worried about Clay. The Rangers took a beating. And Adler—fighter pilots are always in danger.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine, and I know they’ll forgive you.”

  He kissed her forehead. “You know, a man can do a lot in life when the woman he loves has faith in him.”

  She fingered the gilt buttons on his jacket. “I do.”

  Another kiss to her forehead, sliding down to the tip of her nose. “Even if my brothers never forgive me, I’ll be fine. God forgave me, which is all that matters. And my parents forgave me, which is a gift.”

  “They’ll be so happy to see you.”

  “It’ll be good to go home for a visit.”

  “A visit?” She frowned and raised her head.

  He wore a serious, decisive look that suited him well. “I’m not needed at Paxton Trucking. My dad needs a man like him to take the helm—a man like Adler. I’ve decided to let him take the place Dad meant for me. He’ll do a much better job than I would.”

  She searched his face for anxiety but saw none. “What will you do?”

  Wyatt shrugged, and mischief sparkled in his eyes. “I’ll take the job offer I received this morning—from your dad.”

  “My dad?”

  “It wasn’t a serious offer, but I reckon he’d be glad to make it serious.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re cute when you’re confused.” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “I was in London for a meeting. I went to your dad’s office to say good-bye. You’re right—he looks really good.”

  “He does.” Her lips tingled.

  “Well.” He ducked his chin in that adorable way of his. “He said he’d hoped to make me his son-in-law.”

  She kissed that wonderful chin. “He’s very fond of you. So tell me about this offer.”

  “He said he could always use a good accountant.”

  “Oh! He’d hire you in an instant.” She planted a kiss on his lips. “You’d do that? You’d leave Texas and your family?”

  “To be with you and make a new family?” One side of his mouth crept up. “In a heartbeat.”

  “Oh, my love, you’ll make it Fairfax & Sons again. Papa will be the happiest man in the world.”

  “He’ll have to get in line behind me, darlin’.” He squeezed her waist. “God is so good. The ring, the robe, the fatted calf, and the whole wonderful loaf. He sure knows how to throw a party for his prodigals, doesn’t he?”

  “He does.” Dorothy relished the joy in his eyes. If only she could stay in his arms forever . . . but she couldn’t. “Oh dear. I’ll miss you dreadfully. You said you’re leaving England soon, and so am I.”

  “You?” He scowled. “What happened?”

  “It’s a long and unpleasant story, and I refuse to ruin this moment. But yes, I received orders the other day. I’ll be stationed in Algiers.”

  “Algiers? North Africa?”

  “You know about Operation Anvil, of course.”

  “The invasion of southern France. They keep arguing about it and postponing it.”

  “And planning it.” She ran her hand along the solid ridge of his shoulder. “I’ll be doing what I did here—studying holiday snaps and postcards, creating maps and diagrams.”

  “You have no idea how much those helped on D-day. All the destroyer men raved about them.” A smile wiggled in the corner of his mouth. “Glad I’ll benefit from your work again.”

  She studied the growing grin. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to Algiers too.”

  Dorothy squealed and hugged him tight around the neck.

  He laughed. “DesRon 18 will be transferred to the Mediterranean as soon as the Allies take Cherbourg. In the meantime, I’ll be at Allied Force Headquarters making plans.”

  “I’m making plans too.” She nuzzled in his warm neck. “To spend as much time with you as they’ll allow.”

  “I like those plans a lot.” With a deep laugh, he picked her up off her feet and twirled her around.

  She was flying, but safe in the protection of his love. The greatest thrill of her life.

  Off San Francisco Bay, California

  Saturday, October 2, 1943

  Wars weren’t won with caution, and aces weren’t made in straight and level flight.

  Lt. Adler Paxton tipped his P-39 Airacobra to the right and peeled away from the poky formation.

  “Paxton? Where’re you going? We’re not in position.”

  Adler ignored Lt. Stan Mulroney’s voice in his headphones and thrust the stick forward.

  Five hundred feet below, Lt. Luis Camacho’s flight of four P-39s grazed the top of the fog bank moseying toward the Golden Gate Bridge. By the time Mulroney found a position he liked, Cam would spot him and dive away into the fog.

  Adler wouldn’t wait that long. He lined up the afternoon sun with his tail, the engine thrumming in its strange position behind his seat. Most of the pilots in the 357th Fighter Group didn’t like the Airacobra, but Adler had taken to it. They had an understanding.

  The fighter plane screeched down to its prey at one o’clock below. Adler pulled out of his dive and aimed his nose just forward of Cam’s nose. If he’d had any bullets, Cam would’ve flown right into them. Maybe the wreckage of his plane would’ve hurtled out of control and taken out another Airacobra or two like bowling pins. A pilot could dream.

  He spoke into the radio. “Howdy, Cammie. Got you. Perfect deflection shot.”

  “What?” The wings waggled below. “Paxton? Where’d you come from?”

  “Out of the sun and into your nightmares.” Mama would scold him for cockiness, but it was part of the game. And he’d never see Mama again.

  He tightened his chest muscles against the pain, then sent Cam a salute and wheeled away.

  Good-natured curses peppered the radio waves, but Camacho would pull the same move on Adler, given half a chance.

  Alone again in the sky, Adler got his bearings and headed for base. The twin orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge tempted him as always.

  He’d beaten the fog, and the air and waters were calm for once, so he succumbed.

  “Come on, darlin.’ This may be our last time.” In a few days the 357th was transferring to bases in the Midwest, and soon they’d head overseas. Into combat. Finally Adler could do some good.

  He eased the plane into a shallow turning dive, aiming for the center of the bridge between the towers.

  Down he went to seventy-five feet, his prop wash whitening the wave tops. Plenty of clearance, but the folks on the bridge wouldn’t know that. He shot a glance to the pedestrians pointing and gawking, and he chuckled. Folks needed entertainment with the war on.

  The girders rushed by over his clear canopy. He whooped, pulled back the stick, swung over Alcatraz, and did a neat roll over Treasure Island and the Bay Bridge.

  Nice day for flying. Strange thing about the San Francisco Bay—autumn was warmer and clearer than summer.

  Even though Adler had spent the better part of two years in California, he still hadn’t gotten used to the hills in summer, toasted to tan. Not like the green of the Texas Hill Country.

  A cheek muscle twitched. Nothing there for him anymore anyway.

  Adler contacted the control tower at the Hayward Army Airfield and made a smooth landing. After he and the crew chief finished the postflight check, Adler pulled off his flight helmet and life vest, slung his parachute pack over his shoulder, and strolled toward the equipment shed.

  Maj. Morty Shapiro, the squadron c
ommander, ambled toward him, tall and lean and angular. “Good flight? Heard you bounced Cam.”

  “Sure as shooting.”

  “Mulroney’s not happy with you.”

  “Neither’s Camacho.” Adler sent him half a smile.

  Shapiro didn’t send even a quarter back.

  “All right.” Adler dipped his head to the side. “But I saw an opportunity and took it. Got in a great deflection shot.”

  “Your specialty.” Why did Shapiro’s eyes narrow? “Pull a muscle?”

  “Hmm?”

  Shapiro pointed to Adler’s chest.

  He paused, his right hand caressing his left breast pocket as if he’d indeed pulled a muscle. Yes, the scrap remained pinned inside, the fabric that had torn from his fiancée’s dress when she fell to her death.

  Adler rolled his left shoulder. “Reckon I shouldn’t have done those extra forty push-ups in calisthenics this morning.”

  Shapiro glanced behind him toward two men crossing the field in dress uniform. “There he is. Paxton, I want you to meet our newest pilot.”

  “Want me to show him the ropes?”

  Shapiro’s gaze slid back to Adler. “Actually, he’s an ace. Nick Westin. He flew a tour in the Pacific.”

  The competition, then. Adler studied the two men. Westin was a big man, his chin high, a swagger to his step, a plume of cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

  Adler had no intention of coming in second again, not that being first would be easy with all the hotshot pilots in the 357th. “Who’s the other fellow?”

  “New staff officer. Fenelli’s the name.”

  Little guy, clipped step, soft about the face. The squadron needed pencil pushers to keep the planes in the air, and Adler would greet him as warmly as the ace.

  “Capt. Nick Westin, I’d like you to meet Lt. Adler Paxton.”

  The little guy stuck out his hand.

  Adler blinked, recovered, and returned the handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

  The man must have stood on tiptoes to meet the five-foot-four minimum height for fighter pilots, just as Adler had slouched to meet the six-foot maximum.

  Westin’s smile was soft too, but his handshake was good and firm. “Adler? That’s an interesting name.”