The Land Beneath Us

by Sarah Sundin

  Leah clutched her arms around her belly, trying to hold herself together. Oh no. It had to be someone from the boardinghouse.

  Mrs. Whipple’s face grew stern. “That’s a strong accusation.”

  Mrs. Ross lifted her round chin. “Her name is Minerva Perry, and she used to rent a room to Mrs. Paxton. Kicked her out for stealing from her roommate.”

  “That couldn’t be true,” Mrs. Whipple said.

  Leah’s eyelids drooped shut. Would she ever be seen as anything but a dirty, thieving orphan? “My roommate did accuse me of stealing, but I never took anything from her.”

  “Just what a thief would say.” Mrs. Ross’s voice rose high. “How can we have someone like that working with impressionable young people—children already predisposed to a life of crime?”

  Leah groaned. Just when she’d found someplace where she belonged, someplace where she could help other orphans belong. “I admit that I used to steal when I was younger. Growing up in the orphanage, sometimes I took things other children had lost or neglected. Or food. I told my roommate in the boardinghouse about it. When she lost twenty dollars, she accused me of taking it and told Mrs. Perry about my past. Mrs. Perry believed her. There was no way to prove the money was mine.”

  “An admitted thief.” Mrs. Ross’s voice called down judgment. “A bad influence.”

  Leah’s head hurt it was so heavy. She’d given up her sisters for their own good. She had to give up Clay for his own good. And now she had to give up the orphans for—

  “Leah . . . ?” Miss King had never used her given name before.

  She peered at the orphanage director.

  Miss King implored her with her eyes. “You’re so good with the children.”

  Which was she? A bad or a good influence?

  Leah sat up taller. She’d talked to Mikey about not lying about his homework and to Marty about avoiding fights. She’d helped Hattie see her skin color as beautiful. And she’d shown so many children the joy of stories.

  Rightness and purpose straightened her shoulders, and she held Miss King’s gaze. “I belonged to no one, and no one belonged to me. That’s why I took things. I’d imagine I had a father to bring me candy and a mother to tie pretty ribbons in my hair.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.” Mrs. Ross sniffed.

  Leah swept her gaze around the circle. “No, but it does mean I understand these children. I understand their desperate need to belong. I understand the ridicule and exclusion they endure. And I understand the temptations they face. But with the Lord’s help, I have overcome all this. It’s behind me and forgiven. I can help them overcome too. If you will, I am the very best person to work with these children.”

  Miss King smiled softly at her, and Mrs. Whipple dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and nodded.

  Still standing, Mrs. Ross tapped the table like a judge with a gavel. “I want her out, and I call for a vote. Who’s with me?”

  “I’m afraid I agree with Mrs. Ross.” Mrs. Susskind’s lips squirmed.

  “I vote no,” Miss King said. “I want her here, and so do the children.”

  “I vote no too,” Mrs. Whipple said in a firm voice. “Where is your Christian mercy, ladies?”

  That left Mrs. Channing, and Leah’s heart plummeted. She threaded her arm through her purse strap so she could leave.

  Mrs. Channing scanned the board with her steely gaze. “Let me tell you a story about Mrs. Paxton.”

  A story? What story could that be?

  Mrs. Channing removed her reading glasses. “A few weeks ago, my daughter said Mrs. Paxton came to her house to return an old postcard tucked inside an encyclopedia they’d donated to the Victory Book Campaign—and that ended up at this orphanage.”

  Leah’s jaw flopped open. “Mrs. Mason is your daughter?”

  Mrs. Channing nodded. “That postcard was worthless, a scrap of paper long forgotten and fit only for the scrap bin. Mrs. Paxton told my Alice the postcard was lovely and reminded her of her childhood—and yet she returned it. Do those sound like the deeds of a common thief?”

  “Indeed not,” Mrs. Whipple said.

  “Indeed not.” Mrs. Channing raised her chin higher than Mrs. Ross ever could hope to. “Those are the deeds of a woman of integrity, the kind of woman we want influencing these impressionable young minds. Mrs. Ross, you’re outvoted.”

  Leah managed to inhale and then to exhale a “thank you.”

  Mrs. Channing winked at her and raised half a smile. “If you can help these ruffians turn out half as well as you’ve turned out, we’ll all be delighted.”

  Leah smiled back. On her way out, she’d hug the orphans with extra zest.

  47

  TROOP TRANSPORT USS WEST POINT

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 5, 1944

  “The Yankees are coming! The Yankees are coming!” the soldier next to Clay whooped. “One if by land and two if by sea!”

  Clay grinned and leaned his elbows on the railing of the troop transport USS West Point. The soldier might have mixed up his quotes, but Clay felt his excitement about sailing into Boston Harbor.

  The ship chugged past vessels and piers, and Boston’s skyline cut a jagged line in the blue above.

  When he’d sailed from New York nine months earlier, he thought he’d never see America again. Now here he was. Not just in America, but in historic Boston. If he had to wait for a train to Tennessee, he’d see the Old North Church, Paul Revere’s House, and—

  “Bunker Hill Monument!” A soldier pointed to the gray obelisk.

  That too. Maybe the Boston Public Library for Leah’s sake.

  But the sooner he could get to Tullahoma, the better. Then he’d head to Kerrville, with the timing dependent on Leah. He didn’t have to report to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio until the first of September.

  “First thing, I’m finding me a real American hamburger.” Sweeney, Clay’s bunkmate on the voyage, rubbed his belly.

  Clay’s mouth watered, then even more as his thoughts drifted homeward. “Mama’s chili, that’s what I want.” Since San Antonio was only fifty miles from Kerrville, he might be able to indulge more than once during his three-month training period.

  His healing time had come. Right after he’d decided to go to college and medical school, he’d also decided to train to become a medical technician. Only fitting. Might as well spend the duration of the war doing what he was meant to do.

  Maybe they’d send him back to the Rangers. Sure would be nice to work as a medic alongside Doc Block and to see his buddies. Gene had returned to the battalion. He’d promised to write, but Clay missed him.

  The ship slowed as it neared an empty pier.

  The Rangers’ exploits on D-day were getting plenty of press, and Mama said the Kerrville Times had mentioned Clay’s involvement. He resisted the urge to stroke the third stripe on his sleeve for his promotion to sergeant, or the ribbons for the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart on his chest. Every man on the beaches of Normandy deserved a shirt full of medals.

  Clay pushed away from the railing. “I’m going below to get my gear. I want to be the first one off this ship.”

  Sweeney whistled. “Someone’s in a hurry to get home to the missus.”

  “Yes, sir.” Although not for the reason Sweeney assumed. He worked his way through the crowd of men in olive drab to the stairway.

  He passed a military policeman by the doorway. Clay laughed to himself. On his last Atlantic crossing, he’d seen Adler and hadn’t wanted to. On this crossing, he would have loved to have both brothers by his side.

  They’d each visited him once more before he shipped out from Liverpool. Reading their letters of apology had only deepened his forgiveness, if that were possible.

  Clay trotted downstairs, then headed down the narrow passageway to the ballroom where he’d been quartered. The West Point could carry eight thousand troops, but on this westbound trip, only thirteen hundred men had sailed. A lot roomier
.

  Clay checked his duffel to make sure he’d packed everything. Leah’s most recent letter lay on top, and he opened it again.

  She described a work party she’d helped organize at the orphanage, a rousing success from what he could tell from her modest wording. She’d accomplished more than any fund-raiser could have—she’d helped make those orphans part of the community.

  “You’re an incredible woman, Leah Paxton,” he murmured.

  He lingered over his favorite section.

  Recently I’ve learned that not everything in my hands is meant to stay there. Some I am meant to release, like my sisters. Although I pray we will be reunited and I will always hold them close in my heart and prayers, I have let them go.

  But God has placed some things in my hands that I am meant to cling to hard, like my daughter and the orphans. I will fight for them with everything in me.

  Clay folded the letter and closed his duffel. Her letter reminded him of the third chapter of Ecclesiastes, where he’d spent a lot of time recently. “A time to keep, and a time to cast away.” Leah had learned the difference.

  What about Clay? Did she mean to keep him or to cast him away?

  He hefted his duffel over his shoulder, pausing to let a twinge of pain in his wound follow its course. He pressed a lungful of air against the pain, mastering it.

  In their letters since D-day, he and Leah had skirted the topic of their marriage, but the time to speak had also come. He’d do everything he could to persuade her to remain his wife.

  Clay straightened his garrison cap and made his way down the passageway, the rumbles of the giant engines working through his legs.

  Leah intended to fight for Helen and the orphans, and Clay rubbed his thumb along the warmth of his wedding ring. “Well, darlin’, I’m fixin’ to fight for you with everything in me. Don’t make me resort to dirty fighting, you hear?”

  When he reached the stairs, soldiers were streaming down, grinning and chatting. Clay worked his way upstream to the deck of the former ocean liner. Even though he’d still have to wait for his group to be called to disembark, he wanted to be at the front of the line.

  Outside, he filled his lungs with fresh American air. Alive.

  Ever since D-day he’d been puzzling over the recurring dream. God knew everything. God knew Clay would dodge that bullet and live. So why did he send the dream?

  Clay leaned against the railing. Down on the pier, men muscled thick lines into place to secure the mighty ship.

  He’d been so miserable for so long, the dream had come as a relief, assuring him the misery would come to an end.

  That dream had served good purposes, leading him to join the Rangers and to marry Leah. But if those were the only purposes, why hadn’t the dream stopped after the wedding?

  It had also made him fearless in training and in combat, but was that enough of a reason? Was he such a coward that he couldn’t charge a casemate without that dream? He hoped not.

  Clay gazed over the land he thought he’d never see again. All he knew was the dream had stopped, and his new life was about to begin.

  48

  TULLAHOMA

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 9, 1944

  Leah checked the clock hanging under the eaves at the railroad depot. It was 6:32, only three minutes until Clay’s train was expected. Her stomach wriggled more than Helen did in her baby carriage.

  If only she’d had more time to prepare for his arrival. He’d sent a telegram when he arrived in Boston, saying he’d be in Tullahoma as soon as the trains allowed.

  Then this afternoon he’d called the Bellamy home while Leah was on her way to the orphanage. Rita Sue had called her there, and Leah had said her hellos, apologies, and good-byes, and she’d hurried home as quickly as she could push the baby carriage.

  She’d rushed to make phone calls, prepare dinner, feed and change the baby, and get dressed.

  “Time to meet your daddy, sweetie.” Leah picked up the four-month-old and smoothed her yellow dotted swiss dress, made from remnants after Rita Sue made dresses for Luella and Sally. The girls were thrilled that Helen had a matching dress.

  Leah had taken extra care with her own grooming—her hair rolled in a fashionable style under her summer hat, her lips red and her nose powdered, her grassy green suit pressed, and her cream pumps shiny. She had to look capable of caring for herself and her daughter on her own.

  Bouncing Helen on her shoulder, Leah paced on the short platform and avoided glancing up the tracks toward Nashville too often.

  Her heart did a little trill at the thought of seeing Clay, but she had to be careful. Everything she did and said tonight had to be just right.

  She needed to—wanted to—greet him warmly as the dear friend he was. But it was vital that she conceal her love so he’d feel no guilt or concern when he went his way in the world.

  A chugging sound rose to the north, and Leah spun that direction. He was coming.

  Lord, help me. Clay deserved to find a woman he adored as much as Leah adored him.

  The maroon-and-yellow locomotive of the Nashville, Chattanooga & St. Louis Railroad came down the tracks, steam pluming behind.

  Passengers stepped out of the main waiting room and the colored waiting room, ready to board, and Leah retreated to an open spot by the white frame depot where she wouldn’t be in the way.

  “Chattanooga Choo Choo” played in Leah’s head. With Clay’s radio in the house, she was becoming familiar with popular music, but the lyrics anticipating a romantic depot reunion didn’t help her state of mind.

  The train stopped with a sigh of steam, and doors opened. Soldiers and civilians streamed out, but where was Clay?

  Then he stepped out in uniform, as grand as an Indian chief, and he slipped on a garrison cap over his shiny black hair.

  His gaze landed on her, and a grin spread, broader than any she’d seen from him.

  That grin unleashed her own. Without thinking, she waved wildly. She tried to restrain herself, but it was too late.

  He strode right up to her, even more handsome and bronzed and strong than she remembered. “Hello, Leah.”

  That voice. It wove its way deep into her heart and resonated. She swallowed hard. “Hello, Clay.”

  “Well.” He set his hand on her shoulder, ducked down, and planted a kiss on her cheek, so fleeting, she wouldn’t have known its existence but for the lingering warmth.

  Her right hand had found his waist as if it had a mind of its own.

  With his hand on Leah’s shoulder, Clay turned to Helen. His smile changed, new and wondrous.

  “Say hello to your daddy,” Leah said.

  Helen crowed, and Clay and Leah laughed.

  Clay took Helen’s hand and made a courtly bow. “Miss Helen Margarita Paxton, it is a pleasure to meet you.” And he kissed that tiny plump hand.

  Leah’s heart melted and molded into a new shape, completely contoured around this man before her. She would never love any man as much as she loved him.

  Clay released Helen’s hand.

  Before he could straighten up, the baby grabbed his ear and crowed again.

  Clay twisted to face Leah with a comical look, and he laughed. Leah laughed too, and Helen added her adorable throaty giggle.

  For one blissful moment they stood there, linked and laughing, in a perfect triangle of happiness. If only it could last.

  Clay extricated himself from the baby’s iron grip. “Reckon I ought to fetch my duffel. Be right back.” He tipped a little salute to Leah and marched down the platform.

  Leah settled Helen into her carriage for the walk home and settled her heart back into its proper place.

  Clay returned with a canvas bag over his shoulder and a hesitant expression. With only a telegram and a phone message since his arrival, they’d had no opportunity to discuss accommodations.

  She took the reins. “If you haven’t eaten, I have dinner ready at my—your house. You do pay the rent.”

  “Our house.” H
e opened the door to the depot for her. “You’re the one who lives there.”

  Leah pushed the carriage through the waiting room, and Clay darted ahead to open the door on the other side.

  “For tonight at least, you’ll have to live there too.” Leah headed south on Atlantic. “I’m afraid the house is rather small, but the hotels don’t have any vacancies.”

  He shrugged. “All I need is a blanket and a spot on the floor. In this heat, the blanket is optional.”

  “Nonsense. Alice Mason just gave me her old couch. I’ll sleep there and—”

  “No, you don’t.” Clay’s dark eyes crinkled with amusement. “I won’t kick you out of your bed.”

  “But you’re fresh out of the hospital.”

  “And the couch sounds just dandy. No arguing.”

  She glanced him up and down. “How are you? You look well.”

  His teeth shone white. “I feel great. A few twinges of pain, nothing to speak of. Remarkable, considering a bullet passed through my chest.”

  Leah’s throat clogged. What if that bullet had hit his heart?

  “They’ve made incredible progress in thoracic surgery since the war started,” Clay said. “In World War I, a soldier with the same injury would have ended up a chest cripple, but here I am, cleared for active duty.”

  “That’s wonderful.” She turned left on Moore. “So, what are your plans? How long will you be in Tullahoma? Are you going home? You said something about more training, but you didn’t elaborate.”

  “So many questions.” His voice had a delightful teasing lilt. “I’ll spend some time here, some in Kerrville. Then on September 1, I report to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio to train as a medic.”

  “A medic! But I thought you didn’t want to be a medic. I know you wanted to be a physician, but—”

  “Want. Not past tense anymore. I want to be a physician, and Lord willing, now it can happen.” The look on his face was new to her—determined and content.

  Leah stopped beside her house and studied him. “You can? Oh, Clay, that’s wonderful. I want to hear all about it.”

  “Keep walking. Starving man.” He made a darling pathetic face.