The Sky Above Us

by Sarah Sundin

  Her vision blurred, and she groped across the desk for his hand. “I promise, I promise, I promise.”

  Adler gathered her hand in his, bowed his head, and groaned. “Not yet. One more big thing. The biggest. Should have done this one first.” A quick kiss to her hand, then he dropped it and leaned back, his expression stark.

  “What—what’s the matter?”

  “I promised God, promised Nick, promised myself I’d be completely honest with you. Before you make a decision, you need to know what I’ve done. My sins.” His voice cracked.

  Her hand felt cold and empty, tingling from his kiss. “You already told me. You—you tried to kill your brother.”

  Adler dropped his head into his hands. “There’s more. There’s so much more.”

  His distress shredded her insides. “You don’t have to say anything more.”

  “I do.” His fingers mussed up his neat combing. “You know what I did to Wyatt, but you don’t know what I did to Clay. He—he stopped me from killing Wyatt, tackled me, pinned me down. He saved Wyatt’s life—and mine too. I would have gone to the electric chair. I was so angry at him for spoiling my revenge. So angry.” His voice shuddered, his shoulders.

  Violet had to be closer to him, had to stop him from doing this to himself. She got up, perched on the edge of the desk beside him, and laid her hand on his shoulder.

  He shook her off. “You don’t know. You don’t know.”

  Yet she did. He had a temper. He’d taken it out on Riggs, on Wyatt, and on Clay. Now he was taking it out on himself, and he needed to stop.

  “I have to tell you.” A moan hunched his shoulders. “You need to know.”

  Something writhed inside her. If it made her think less of him, she didn’t want to know. And if it increased his anguish, she couldn’t allow it.

  Violet leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her face in that mussed-up hair. “I know everything I need to know about you.”

  “No. No.” He squirmed in her embrace.

  “I do. I know all that is in your past. It isn’t who you are today. You asked God to forgive you, and he did.”

  Adler groaned. “Yes, but—”

  “Then it’s forgiven.” She kissed his hair, breathing deep the clean scent of shampoo. “If God has forgiven your sins, don’t dredge them back up.”

  “But you need to know.”

  “What more do I need to know about you?” She stroked his soft hair, his warm, tense neck. “I know you’re a fine man, brave and strong and chivalrous and kind.”

  His neck muscles relaxed under her caress, but then he shook his head. “But this . . . Violet—”

  “But this is tearing you up. Please stop.” She nuzzled another kiss in his hair. “Oh, Adler. Nothing you could say could change how I feel about you. Nothing.”

  He quieted, and she kissed his bowed head, stroked the nape of his neck, and prayed over him. Prayed he’d accept God’s forgiveness. Prayed for the Lord’s peace to flood his soul.

  After several minutes his shoulders lifted and fell, and he straightened up, forcing her to sit up too. “So, will you be my girlfriend?”

  She’d never met a man who could change moods faster than Adler Paxton. She smoothed his hair and smiled. “I think I already am.”

  A smile broke out, slow and breathtaking as the dawn. He set his hands on her waist and guided her down to his lap.

  Violet hadn’t sat on a man’s lap since she’d outgrown her father’s knees. “I’ll squish you.”

  “Nonsense. This is nice.”

  It was, and her cheeks warmed. His legs made a sturdy seat, his arms settled around her waist in the sweetest way, and his handsome face was so near she couldn’t think straight.

  She rearranged her arm so it draped along his shoulder and her hand rested on his epaulette with its two silver bars.

  Two? “Adler? I thought you were a lieutenant.”

  A chuckle puffed warm and minty on her cheek. “I was until about an hour ago. Nick gave me his captain’s bars when he was promoted to major.”

  “Oh my goodness.” She grinned at him. “What good news.”

  Adler’s smile fell. “It’s not all good news. We flew a long mission today.”

  “I heard. Twenty-three victories.”

  “And three losses. One was Morty Shapiro, my squadron commander.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I saw his chute. He should be all right. A POW, but he’ll survive.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Adler squeezed her waist and gave her a reassuring smile. “Colonel Graham made Nick the new squadron commander. He’s the right man.”

  “I agree. Good for him.” She fingered the shiny silver bars. “And you?”

  “Nick should have made Riggs the flight leader. He’s an ace. But it turns out Shapiro—well, I’d won him over. He liked how I’d changed, how I stuck with Nick no matter what. He and Nick had been talking about promoting me.” Adler wore the same modest smile he wore when he hit home runs.

  “I’m so proud of you.” She stroked his smooth, square jaw. He’d changed indeed, and his humility and determination moved her. “You’ll do a great job.”

  He lifted a slight shrug. “Riggs is furious. He doesn’t like Nick much, and now Nick’s his commander. And I’m in charge of his flight. A double insult.”

  “Nonsense. You earned it, and you’re the better man for the job.”

  One eye narrowed in a thoughtful way. “Reckon that’s what Jesus meant when he said the last would be first.”

  Violet chuckled. “Not quite, but your hard work and strong character did pay off. You’ll be an excellent leader.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead.

  “Very nice,” he murmured. “But this would be nicer.”

  He tilted up his face and captured her lips with his.

  She never wanted to be released. He didn’t hesitate or hunger this time, but every motion spoke of assurance. Savoring, lingering, appreciating. Nice didn’t even begin to describe it.

  The door creaked. A feminine gasp.

  Violet sprang up straight.

  Kitty stood in the doorway, gaping. Then she laughed and clapped her hands. “Hooray!” She spun away and shut the door behind her.

  “Oh dear.” Violet tried to stand.

  Adler didn’t let her, and he grinned. “She wants us together?”

  Her cheeks flamed. “She . . . she wanted us to have a fling.”

  “A fling?” His laugh tumbled out of his mouth and into her heart. “Reckon she’ll be disappointed.”

  “Disappointed?”

  Adler set his hand behind her head and spread kisses over her cheeks, her forehead, her nose. “Darlin’, this is so much more than a fling.”

  28

  Over Germany

  Thursday, April 13, 1944

  It felt good to be in front.

  Adler peered in Texas Eagle’s rearview mirror. Floyd Miller was behind him to the right, his wingman. Willard Riggs and Theo Christopher were echeloned behind him to the left.

  Farther behind, the string of B-24 Liberators faded away. The bombers had dropped a big old load on the Luftwaffe airfield at Lechfeld in southern Germany. Another group of fighters would escort them on the next relay leg while the 357th Fighter Group headed home.

  Uh-oh. Where was Nick?

  Adler laughed at himself. Nick was in the squadron’s lead flight, where he belonged. For almost two months Adler had focused on Nick, but now he needed to focus on the enemy and trust Floyd to watch his back, while never losing his swivel-headed ways.

  The P-51s reduced altitude to decrease oxygen consumption, passing puffs of cumulus clouds. Those not-so-innocent puffs could conceal Nazi fighters.

  Nick said Adler would be a better leader because he’d been a wingman. He’d show proper concern for the rest of the flight. That’s why they’d passed over Riggs for the promotion. The man only tho
ught of himself.

  If Adler hadn’t changed, he would have been passed over too.

  Nick had told Adler to lead like Jesus, putting others first.

  Violet’s cute little smile from when he’d misinterpreted “the last shall be first” popped into his mind. He thought he’d been put in first because he’d put himself second. That wasn’t how it worked after all. He needed to keep putting himself second even when he was in first. He’d scoff if he hadn’t seen how well it worked for Nick.

  A patch of brown smudged the edge of a cloud beneath him, and he squinted at it. “Yellow leader here. Two bogeys at two o’clock below. I’ll take the one on the right. Yellow three, take the one—”

  An olive drab streak to his left—Riggs throttled up beside him and tipped into a dive, crossing below Adler.

  “Watch out!” Adler yanked back on his stick to avoid a collision. “Yellow two, pull up!” he called to Floyd.

  Riggs dove toward the enemy fighter on the right, Adler’s target.

  Adler chomped off a cuss word and aimed for the fighter on the left, but he’d lost too much speed evading Riggs. His quarry sped away.

  Below him, Riggs chased a Focke-Wulf 190 with Theo lagging in the distance.

  Heart thumping, Adler searched for Floyd behind him. “Yellow two, you all right?”

  “Yes, sir. What on earth?”

  That was what Adler wanted to know. “Yellow three, what kind of stupid stunt was that?”

  “Busy now. Shooting down the enemy.”

  “We’ll talk at base.” Adler kept his voice sharp but calm, although he wanted to call Riggs every name in the book.

  Adler resumed his northwesterly course, just the two of them now. His chest burned, and his fingers pulsed on the throttle and stick. Riggs wasn’t just trying to get a victory for himself—that would have been fine. But he’d also meant to deprive Adler of a victory. Not fine.

  Their flight could have knocked down two Fw 190s instead of one—if Riggs even succeeded. And he could have collided with Adler or Floyd, maybe tangling Theo in the mess.

  He’d reprimand Riggs this evening and write him up. This wasn’t a baseball game. Lives were at stake, and they had to work together.

  The Allies needed air superiority to succeed on D-day. The month of May was on the horizon, and the Luftwaffe remained strong.

  Now Adler had personal reasons to knock out the Luftwaffe. On D-day, Wyatt would probably be at sea and Clay on the landing beaches, both vulnerable to air attacks. Three years ago Adler had wanted to hurt his brothers, but now he wanted to protect them. They might never know what Adler was doing for them, but Adler would. God would.

  He checked his instruments—altitude fifteen thousand feet, time 1602. A city appeared to the northeast bordered by a wide north–south river. Mannheim, if he’d done his math right.

  At times, Adler entertained fantasies of returning to Kerrville, the whole family gathered, the Gringo Mariachis playing in harmony.

  Not anymore. He’d been determined to tell Violet about Ellen, but she’d insisted on his silence. Oh boy, had she insisted. He could still feel her embrace about his head and neck, warm and soft.

  The woman made good points. Sins forgiven. In his past. His old self dead and buried.

  Later he’d realized he wouldn’t be able to take Violet home. If she and Ellen met . . .

  Adler shuddered and scanned the sky, especially toward the sun in the west.

  Even if he did tell Violet, he wouldn’t want the ladies to meet.

  Maybe Africa wasn’t a bad idea. But that was about the lousiest reason to become a missionary ever.

  “Yellow three here. Scratch one Focke-Wulf,” Riggs boasted on the radio.

  “Yellow leader?” Theo said, his voice hard. “I can’t confirm. No crash, no chute, just some smoke.”

  “I got it!”

  Adler pushed the microphone button. “Yellow three, that’s up to intelligence to decide. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Good.” Theo sounded as miffed as Adler.

  He checked the engine and fuel gauges, and all looked good. Floyd’s plane was the only one in sight . . . or was it?

  Ahead and to the west . . . a fighter, the long silhouette of a Focke-Wulf, flying straight and level, probably returning home after attacking B-17s or B-24s, tired and low on fuel. “Yellow two, bogey at eleven o’clock, heading under that cumulus. Follow me. We’ll split-S over the cloud and come in on his tail.”

  Adler edged Texas Eagle over the popcorn cloud lit up with silver and gold in the afternoon sun.

  On the other side, Adler rolled Eagle onto her back and looped down behind the cloud, blood filling his head, then whooshing back out again.

  He strained to keep the edge of the cloud in sight while checking for the enemy.

  There! One o’clock, not five hundred yards ahead and only a few hundred feet below.

  Leveling off from the loop, Adler gunned the throttle and swung in to attack from the tail. He’d learned from the top aces. Even though he had a knack for deflection shooting, coming in at an angle lessened the time of attack. Too much of a gamble.

  A quick check behind him. He’d lost Floyd in the split-S. Swell. He’d have to watch his own tail until the kid caught up.

  He closed the distance. The Fw 190 still hadn’t seen him. At 150 yards, Adler lined up the German’s tail in his gunsight and squeezed the trigger.

  Hits sparkled along the tail fin, the elevator.

  The Nazi swerved right, and Adler matched his moves, lined up again, fired another burst. Missed.

  The Focke-Wulf spiraled downward, and Adler followed. Nothing could beat a Mustang in a dive, but the Germans didn’t seem to have figured that out yet.

  G-forces shoved Adler to the left, shoved his stomach into his throat. In the spiral a deflection shot was his only choice, so he figured out the angle, the amount of lead he needed, and fired. Only two sets of sparkles lit up the German’s fuselage.

  “Man alive!” His guns were jamming.

  A wisp of smoke spun off the nose of the Fw 190. Adler must have hit the engine. He fired again, saw a paltry set of hits, and felt the telling yaw of the P-51.

  Three of the four guns jammed. He didn’t dare risk a full-blown dogfight with a single gun. But the thickening curlicue of black smoke told him the Fw 190 was sufficiently damaged not to attack anyone else today.

  Adler pulled the stick toward his stomach and eased the rudder pedals to level off the turn. His vision flickered. He was graying out, and he steeled his abdominal muscles to prevent blacking out.

  Texas Eagle swooped up, gaining altitude and distance from the enemy fighter. After his vision cleared, Adler swept the sky and his instruments. All clear.

  Too many pilots were having problems with their guns. The P-51’s thin wing made the Mustang fast, but it forced the ammunition belt to be fed to the guns at a sharp angle. The g-forces of a tight turn could kink the belts and jam the guns.

  Adler checked his compass and determined his course.

  “Yellow leader? I can’t find you. I don’t know where I am.” Anxiety tinged Floyd’s voice.

  “You’re fine. Lay in a course at 310 degrees. That’ll put you over the Zuider Zee in just over an hour. Can’t miss it.”

  “Roger. I’ll recognize that.”

  “Great. Then change your course to 270. When you cross the English coast, call Earlduke for a heading.”

  “Roger.” The warbles vanished from his voice.

  “And, kid? Next time Roy Rogers tells you to follow him, do so.”

  Floyd laughed. “In the movies Roy was always telling me not to follow him.”

  “Close enough. See you at home.” At nine thousand feet, Adler leveled off. He unsnapped his oxygen mask on one side, flipped it away, and wiggled his face muscles.

  He couldn’t expect to start racking up victories on his first mission as flight leader, but he’d kind of hoped he would. Nevertheless, he’d damaged that Focke-Wulf.<
br />
  At least he had a fighting chance of making ace now and securing that company title.

  Then he drew in a long breath, flavored with oil and solvents and sweat. “Lord, I promised Violet I’d ask you to make me willing to be a missionary. You know I want to start my company, and you sure as shooting know I don’t want to be a missionary. So if you want to change my mind, you’d better get started. Because that’s a long way you have to bend me.”

  He tipped his head to one side, waiting for the heavenly nudge.

  It didn’t come.

  But it probably didn’t work that way.

  Part of him wanted to fire off another prayer for God to bend Violet’s heart if he had a hankering to do so. But that felt selfish. He’d leave that between God and Violet.

  A peaceful breath filled his lungs. If God wanted them together, he’d put them on the same heading.

  29

  Leiston Army Airfield

  Saturday, April 22, 1944

  Jimmy Haywood huffed and pushed his paper away on the table in the Aeroclub lounge. “It’s too hard, Miss Lindstrom. I’m not good at maths.”

  Violet smiled at the English wording and slid the paper back in front of the ten-year-old. “Nonsense. If you can add, subtract, and multiply—and I know you can—you can do long division.”

  His blond head sagged back. “There are too many steps.”

  Sylvia Haywood was exasperated at her son’s low marks in math and had asked Violet to help. How could she reach the boy?

  The lounge bubbled with happy conversation as airmen and children painted rocks—the paint sent from Kansas and the rocks to avoid using scarce paper. With the P-51s away on a mission, the ground crewmen could help with Saturday afternoon crafts while they “sweated out” the mission.

  It helped Violet sweat out Adler’s absence too. When he returned, they’d take their usual walk before dinner—the appetizer, Adler called it.

  She turned her attention from his very appetizing kisses to the fidgeting ten-year-old. His short pants exposed knees scuffed from many baseball games.

  Too many steps? “Jimmy, you’re getting very good at baseball.”