by Sarah Sundin
Icy air snaked around Clay and into his soul.
Adler.
No. It couldn’t be.
But that voice. The way he pulled on his gloves and turned up his collar. Then he strolled aft, and his profile eliminated all doubt.
Clay’s hands coiled around his rifle, and everything inside him burned and ached. That night in the garage, Clay had told Adler if he ever saw him again, he’d kill him.
Now Clay was the one holding a firearm, not Mama.
As soon as the urge rose, it receded, and he shouldered his rifle. He didn’t want to kill Adler. He never had. That night he’d just wanted to banish him from home.
Now he just wanted to banish his brother’s image from his mind.
“Hiya, Pax. I’m relieving you.”
Clay startled.
“Are you all right?” Gene asked. “Thought you never got seasick.”
“Just hungry.” Clay looped his rifle strap over his shoulder and headed downstairs. Only the black-and-white MP brassard on his arm allowed him to tread sacred officers’ country. He rapped a fist on the brass banister.
On the promenade deck, one level down, Clay passed Frank Lyons standing sentinel, and he marched into the blue section and out onto the small area of open deck allotted to enlisted men. Only half a dozen GIs braved the cold.
He grasped the rail and heaved in lungfuls of frigid air. Gray waves spread out below the gray sky, meeting on the horizon in a dark haze.
Adler was alive and thriving. The draft had snared him, but his two years of college bought him an officer’s commission. Clay hadn’t had that opportunity.
The Army Air Forces, the glamour boys. Probably a fighter pilot if he knew his brother. Swooping around in a fancy plane, making girls swoon, not even caring about the girl whose life he’d ruined, not even knowing about the little boy he’d fathered.
He pounded his gloved fists on the railing.
Adler had sinned that day, trying to kill Wyatt, getting drunk, stealing Clay’s girl, and having his way with her. Who had been punished? Not Adler. No, never Adler.
Clay had been punished, and he was still being punished.
Adler was an officer. Clay a private.
Adler soared high and free. Clay was trapped low in a pit.
“Lord, how can I forgive?” he muttered.
Daddy and Mama had already forgiven Adler. They would be thrilled that their golden boy was alive. They’d be proud. They’d lavish him with love.
But they’d worry about him flying. Considering how many dents Adler had put in Daddy’s truck, their fears would be grounded.
Better they didn’t know Clay had seen him. Why get their hopes up for naught?
Clay squeezed his eyes shut. Lord, I know I’m supposed to forgive him, but I don’t know how.
He’d asked Leah how she’d forgiven the couple who’d adopted her only to abandon her. She’d replied that she concentrated on the good. The Joneses had taken her to an orphanage where the people were kind. She’d always had food and clothing and shelter. And she’d found beauty in leaves and clouds and words.
He wanted the serenity she had. Even after she’d been raped and almost murdered, she still found good.
Clay opened his eyes and concentrated. Fresh air filled his lungs. His uniform protected him from the cold. A meal awaited him. He was healthy and stronger than he’d ever been.
He had loving parents. He had good friends in Gene and Leah. Good leaders served over him, and he belonged to the best outfit in the US Army.
It wasn’t the life he’d wanted, but wasn’t that the case for almost every man on board?
They were farmers and shopkeepers and insurance salesmen. But now they were soldiers and sailors and airmen, and they had a job to do.
As for Adler, didn’t the Lord cause the sun to shine on the wicked as well as the good? God had chosen to shine that sun brightly on Adler and let the rain fall on Clay.
A chuckle huffed out. “All my fussing won’t change your mind, will it, Lord?”
“Paxton! D’you hear me?”
Clay’s head jerked up.
Sergeant Lombardi stood in the doorway, his face twisted in annoyance.
Something told Clay that wasn’t the first time Lombardi had called him. “Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant.”
“Get your tail in here.”
That’s right. It wasn’t the Rangers’ hour on the open deck. Now he’d get KP duty, but it had been worth it to put cold air in his hot head. He headed back inside. “Yes, Sergeant.”
Tonight—after he finished cleaning the galley—he’d write a long letter to Leah.
21
TULLAHOMA
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1943
How was it possible for Clay to be even handsomer than in her memories?
Leah admired the snapshot as she walked down Jackson Street. Every day she picked a different photograph to carry. Today she’d chosen the picture of him pointing to the stripe and patch on his sleeve. Such a wonderful grin.
She was also partial to the pictures of him reading a book on the steps of the New York Public Library and of him and Gene at the Library of Congress, arms around each other’s shoulders.
Leah passed the grand brick tower of the United Methodist Church.
Clay had mailed the camera and photographs on November 20, and she hadn’t heard from him since. He said it would be a while, which implied he was heading overseas.
Leah pressed his picture to her chest. Lord, this might be selfish, but please keep him safe.
She crossed Warren Street and tucked Clay’s photo in her purse.
The chipper tone of his letter told her he didn’t yet know she’d been kicked out of the boardinghouse—or why. But then she had taken over a week to summon the words to write him. What would he think to know she had once been a thief and that everyone still saw her that way?
How would Clay react? Would he react like Darlene and Mrs. Perry, wondering why he’d believed a raggedy good-for-nothing? What if he thought Leah had tricked him and manipulated his sympathy, and he annulled the marriage?
Part of her wanted to reject the idea as contradictory to Clay’s character, to insist he would never be cruel.
Except something about her had attracted cruelty her whole life. Orphanage staff who wrenched her from her baby sisters. Adoptive parents who abandoned her. A stranger who decided she deserved rape and attempted murder. A friend who falsely accused her of theft and had her kicked out of her home.
Leah’s jaw stiffened, and her breath and her step quickened. Why? Why did people think she deserved such treatment just because her parents had died?
A middle-aged gentleman bustled past, his shoulders hunched against the cold.
It was well below freezing, although clear and bright. A lady from church had loaned her a maternity coat in a toasty shade of brown. Leah had resisted all the secondhand clothing until Rita Sue assured her even well-to-do ladies shared maternity clothes.
Leah forced her jaw to relax, and she shoved her thoughts toward the blessings. Yes, she’d been treated cruelly, but she’d also been blessed beyond measure.
She still couldn’t fathom the luxury of her new home—a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and living room all to herself. Why, the house was even furnished with a bed, a bureau, a table, and two chairs.
The Lord had been with her. The Lord would continue to be with her.
A sign by the sidewalk read “Coffee Children’s Home.” The two-story Victorian had a friendly feel, despite the faded whitewash and the loose flagstones clinking under her feet.
Leah rang the doorbell.
A slender woman opened the door. Her gigantic eyes and frizzy gray hair gave her a flustered look.
“Good morning. I’m Mrs. Clay Paxton from the library.”
“Please come in. I’m Miss King, the director. Let me take your coat. May I pour you some coffee? Tea?”
“No, thank you.” Leah took off her coat and let Miss King
hang it on the coatrack. Only six months earlier she’d been drinking milk in an orphanage and hanging up her own coat.
The smell of Lysol filled her nostrils, and the sound of small children playing filled her ears. The older children would be at school.
Miss King led Leah into a room filled with long tables and benches. “This is the dining room, where the children do their homework. We’ll put the books in here.”
Scuffed floorboards and scratched-up tables, but all was clean. “This is nice.”
“We do what we can.” Miss King fussed with a wiry strand of hair above her ear. “I’m pleased to say we can officially accept the book donation.”
“Officially?” When she’d talked to Miss King on the phone the day before, she’d heard nothing but enthusiasm.
She tucked the strand into her bun, but it sprang free. “I’m afraid I spoke out of turn. At last night’s board meeting I was in a bit of trouble for accepting the donation without asking. The chairwoman was not pleased.”
Mrs. Channing again. “I’m sorry. Are you sure—”
“Yes, yes.” She pushed a bench into line. “The board voted her down. I practically begged. We’re packed to the rafters with children, and we need to keep them occupied.”
A baby’s cry pierced, and Miss King aimed a sigh upstairs. “With an Army camp in town, you can imagine how many unwanted babies come our way.”
“I—I can imagine.” She stroked her rounded belly and was rewarded by a fluttery greeting from her much-wanted baby.
Miss King cocked her head and picked up a handkerchief under a table. “We still have so many older children who were abandoned during the Depression.”
“But the economy is strong now. Haven’t people begun to adopt?”
“Not with the men overseas and the wives working at Camp Forrest.”
“I—I hadn’t thought about that.”
“And donations have fallen.” She rubbed her foot over a stain on the floor. “The war effort takes priority, so other charities struggle. If it weren’t for Tullahoma’s best families, I don’t know what we’d do. We’re barely staying afloat.”
If only Leah could contribute, but it didn’t feel right to give out of Clay’s allotment. “Do you need volunteers?”
Miss King’s gaze darted to her. “Sure do. It’s hard to hire staff since we pay less than Camp Forrest. And with all the ladies working, it’s hard to find volunteers.”
“I’m interested. I have to quit my job in January, and I won’t return after my baby is born. Would it be possible to bring my baby along?”
Miss King fiddled with that strand of hair. “A woman of your standing? You wouldn’t want your child here. I love these children dearly, but some are a bit rough and uncouth.”
Leah’s chest ached. That was how everyone had seen her. “All the more reason to help.”
The director’s shoulders relaxed. “Well then, I’ll see you in January.”
She managed a smile. “You’ll see me in a few days with a load of books.”
22
BUDE, CORNWALL
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1943
“Those artillery boys will be hopping mad.” Clay chuckled and ran with his squad back to the rendezvous point.
“Happy Christmas to you, old chaps,” G. M. called in an affected English accent.
Thank goodness the foliage kept them concealed from their opponents in the field exercise. And thank goodness Lieutenant Colonel Rudder had assigned the exercise to help the men forget they were spending Christmas far from home.
Not such a happy Christmas for the boys of the US field artillery battalion stationed in Bude. The Rangers had tracked the artillerymen’s position, infiltrated past their security, removed the breechblocks from the 155-mm howitzers, and let air out of the tires. Mission accomplished.
Clay’s squad ran along a narrow path lined with tall hedges and arching tree branches. A cool wind blustered up from the Celtic Sea onto the Cornish downs.
For the past three weeks, the Rangers had traipsed the downs in speed marches and runs. They’d trained with combat-seasoned British Commandos. And almost every day they’d scaled the hundred-foot-tall Upton Cliffs, first with a safety line and then without.
Clay hopped over a low rail fence into the clearing where his platoon gathered. He found Lieutenant Taylor and reported his squad’s success. With Bob Holman injured, Clay had led the squad on this exercise.
Holman sat propped against a tree, surrounded by Gene, Ruby, and McKillop.
Clay joined them. “We’ve scaled how many cliffs, and you sprain your ankle on level ground.”
“If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have heard the scuttlebutt.” Holman’s blink was slow and uncoordinated. Just how much whiskey had he nipped before the exercise? “Overheard Big Jim talking to Tay-Tay. D’you ’member in Florida when that girl went missing?”
“Yeah.” Clay could still hear her father’s anguished voice.
McKillop tapped a cigarette out of a pack. “Betcha they found her holed up in a beach shack with some sailor boy.”
“Nope. Found her dead.”
Clay sucked in a breath. “Dead?”
“Yep. The school commander wrote to Rudder and the COs of the other units at Fort Pierce at the time. They found the girl raped, stabbed, and dumped in a swamp.”
Raped? Stabbed? Like Leah. Clammy air clogged his lungs, and he got to his feet. Where was Rudder? He needed to talk to him.
“Pax?” Gene frowned.
Clay motioned for his buddy to come with him, and he marched back to the rail fence.
“What’s the matter?” Gene sat on the fence.
“Wonder if it’s the same guy who attacked Leah. She was—she was stabbed.” He’d never told anyone she’d also been raped.
Gene’s face scrunched up in thought. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence. There were fifty thousand soldiers at Camp Forrest.”
“Yeah. True.” Clay pulled off his helmet and ran his hand through his damp hair.
Telling Rudder wouldn’t serve much of a point. Only five hundred men had gone to Florida.
But what if Leah’s assailant and the Florida murderer were the same man? What if he was in Cornwall? Clay hadn’t seen the attacker’s face, but the attacker had seen Clay.
His chest squeezed with fear, but he puffed it away. If it were true, the rapist had already had plenty of opportunity to attack Clay. Besides, Clay was going to die in battle, not at the hand of a Ranger.
“That poor girl,” Gene said. “Only seventeen.”
“I know.” Leah was only eighteen. Was she keeping safe?
Half a dozen letters waited at the home in Bude where he and Gene were billeted. When the mail finally caught up to the Rangers, he and Gene had decided to save it for a Christmas treat.
Now it would be bittersweet. In Florida, a family’s worst fears had come true.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1943
Clay pulled the five-button olive drab sweater over his head and tugged it into place. Pretty snug. Mama didn’t know how much muscle the Rangers had put on him.
But those muscles, chilled in the under-heated Cornish home, softened at the warmth of the sweater and the thought of Mama knitting and praying for him.
Sitting in Mrs. Trevithick’s chintz armchair, Gene held up a red-and-blue striped necktie. “What was Betty Jo thinking?”
Clay laughed. “Unless that’s bulletproof, that ain’t gonna help you.”
“No fooling.” Gene knotted it around his neck. “Maybe I’ll wear it under my uniform on D-day to remind me what I’m fighting for—going home.”
“That’s what I like about you, G. M.—your patriotism.” Clay unfolded the note from Mama. She hoped he didn’t mind receiving only a sweater. They’d sent a nice check to Leah for the layette and the nursery.
Layette? Nursery? Babies needed lots of stuff, didn’t they? At least Leah would have more money from him now.
Rudder and Taylor had been pleased with Cla
y’s leadership the day before—and had been appalled at Holman’s drunkenness on duty. Holman had been busted down to private, and Clay was promoted to corporal and leader of the rifle squad.
“Grandma’s ribbon candy.” Gene held up a box and wrinkled his nose. “Wish we’d opened gifts last night. I could have brought it to the children’s party this morning.”
“Reckon you won’t have trouble getting rid of candy.” The kids had enjoyed the party the Rangers had thrown, with Santa Claus, cartoons, and gobs of candy mailed from the States. Since sweets were heavily rationed in Britain, the children were thrilled.
Clay picked up a brown-paper parcel from Leah, postmarked November 1 and labeled “Don’t open until Christmas.” He’d obeyed and hauled it over on the Queen Elizabeth.
Inside lay an olive drab scarf. He looped it around his neck and tossed one end over his shoulder. In her note Leah stressed that she’d purchased the yarn from her library earnings. When would she feel comfortable spending his money—their money?
She’d also written him a Christmas poem, decorated around the edges with crayon bells and candles and angels and mangers, compliments of the Bellamy girls.
Light on the snow, through a Child, in our hearts,
On the hearth, in his words, in ours.
Song in the bells, by the Host, on our lips,
Ringing bright, winging high, bringing hope.
Life in a tree, through the Cross, in our souls,
Ever green, evermore, ever His.
My, how he preferred that to a necktie. In the hands of his dreamy wife, words were more than just playthings.
He found the next letter, dated November 15. It wasn’t like her to leave long gaps between letters. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?
Clay ripped open the envelope. Was something wrong?
Dear Clay,
This is a difficult letter to write. You have given me your good name, your money, and your family. You’ve also given me your kindness, trust, and respect. With this letter I am prepared to lose many, if not all, of these.
Clay’s eyes hazed over. Had she cheated on him? Had she found someone else and cheated on him? They might not be in love, but their vows meant something, didn’t they?
