by Sarah Sundin
Jack puffed as he performed his knee bends. “Let me get this straight. You’d rather whip yourself than whip the Nazis.”
Wyatt sucked in a breath and shot to standing.
“Wouldn’t you?” Jack leveled a hard gaze at him.
“I’d never . . .” His body swayed from the force of the truth. If his inaction led to even one death in Operation Neptune . . . inexcusable. And he’d add even more guilt to his burden.
“Lunges, Wy.”
Yes, lunges. Wyatt set his hands on his hips, stepped forward, and lunged deep. What was most important anyway? Allied victory. And victory required every man to do his best. For Wyatt to do his best, he had to stand up for his work. “All right. I’ve got to do something.”
“Mm-hmm.” Right, left, right, left. “Even if it means you succeed.”
A chuckle escaped. “A risk I’ll have to take.”
“Toe touches.” Jack planted his feet shoulder-distance apart and stretched his arms to the side.
Wyatt bent to touch his right hand to his left toes, straightened, then touched his right toes. “What do you think? Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Geier, tell him we present the reports together from now on, tell him Commander Marino insisted.”
“That’s the way. Talk to Marino too. Tell him if Geier comes to him alone with a report, you respectfully request that he summon you.”
Wyatt finished his toe touches. That might work. No whining. No blaming. At least he’d let Geier know he wouldn’t be a pushover. “All right, then. I’ll do it. Arm circles, backward.”
Jack stood with his feet together and his arms to the side. “Any plans for the weekend?”
“See some sights, read a book.” Wyatt made little circles with his arms.
A drop of sweat trickled in front of Jack’s ear. “Why don’t you go out with that pretty redhead from the park?”
He thought Jack had forgotten about her. “She’s dating Eaton from intelligence.”
“Eaton?” Jack barked out a laugh. “Who isn’t dating him? Other than you and I, of course.”
“Forward.” Wyatt switched directions with his arm circles. “Why do you say that?”
“He dates a different skirt every week. All the men are in awe of him.”
Wyatt grumbled. “I’m not.”
“So you like her?” That stupid grin again.
“Doesn’t matter one way or another. She’s crazy about him, and a gal who likes a guy like that would never be happy with a fellow like me.”
“Side stretches.” Jack set one hand on his hip, the other up in the air, and he bent to the side. “My oldest sister was like that. She dated every bad boy in town. Finally, she came to her senses. Next thing we knew, she’d married the sweet quiet fellow who’d always doted on her. They just had a baby. Happiest couple you’ve ever seen.”
Wyatt leaned to the side, tension dissolving from his muscles. “Good old Jack. Cheering me up.”
“Are you kidding? I’m being selfish. Cheerful Wyatt is fun to have around. But grumpy Wyatt? I want to drop-kick him to France.”
He laughed and stretched to the other side. But he did feel better. He’d only be in London a few more months, probably not long enough for Dorothy to come to her senses about Eaton. After all, she’d had a crush on him for years.
But why should Wyatt keep his distance?
If Eaton had been faithful, Wyatt would have stayed out of the picture. But by choosing to chase other girls, Eaton had thrown away his privilege.
Strength and purpose warmed his muscles. He was free to pursue Dorothy, not with Eaton’s flattery and fancy dinners, but in his way. Slow and steady, as a friend.
Wyatt toweled off his face then smiled at his friend. “So, about this weekend . . .”
11
London
Friday, February 18, 1944
Dorothy gazed around the Queensbury All-Services Club at the uniforms from so many Allied nations. Since men far outnumbered women, she’d have plenty of dance partners. “I’m determined to have a good time this evening.”
“As you should.” Muriel patted her pinned-up brown curls. “Lawrence is out with Helen tonight, so find the handsomest man in the room, dance your heart out, and make him jealous.”
“That never works. And he isn’t here to see me anyway.”
“Regardless, have fun. Maybe a Yank.” Gwen nodded to the door.
Dorothy turned in her seat. Oh dear. Wyatt entered the ballroom with two of the officers she’d met at Kensington Gardens. If only Lawrence shared Wyatt’s penchant for showing up unexpectedly.
“How about that tall cowboy?” Muriel said. “He’s rather delicious.”
“Wyatt Paxton?” She hadn’t given it much thought, but he was quite good-looking in his own way.
“You’re already friendly with him,” Gwen said.
If only her hair didn’t shine like a beacon. “He’s very sweet, but he’s the sort who’d want his egg poached just so every morning. Life would be dreadfully dull. I need excitement.”
Muriel glanced over Dorothy’s shoulder. “That smile is all the excitement I’d need. I love the strong, silent type.”
“Be my guest.”
“Don’t be daft.” Gwen’s voice rose as the band began to play. “He saw us, and he’s coming over. He’s the perfect chap to make Lawrence jealous.”
“I refuse to use him,” she said. “He’s a nice man.”
Muriel lifted a hand in greeting. “Good evening, Lieutenant Paxton.”
“Good evening, ladies.” He stood by Dorothy’s chair and smiled down at her. “You remember my friends Jack Vale and Jerry Hobson?”
“I do, and you must remember my friends Gwen Hamilton and Muriel Shaw.”
Lieutenants Vale and Hobson shook hands with Gwen and Muriel. Dorothy signaled to Muriel with her brows—“Flirt with him. Dance with him.”
Muriel swung a beaming smile in the wrong direction. “Where do you come from, Lieutenant Hobson?”
“Dorothy?” Wyatt touched the back of her chair. “Would you like to dance?”
“Thank you. I would.” A few dances wouldn’t hurt, so she stood and took his arm.
As the band played “Moon Glow,” Wyatt led her to the dance floor. “I may not be the elegant Lieutenant Commander Eaton, but I know a few dance moves.”
“Oh? What sort of dances do they do in Texas?”
“Same as the rest of the US. Plus some square dancing. And Mama taught us the jarabe.”
She simply couldn’t decipher that accent. “Ha-ra-bay?”
“Roll your r’s. Jarabe. You may have heard it called the Mexican hat dance. Did I ever tell you Mama’s Mexican?”
Dorothy studied Wyatt’s profile as they threaded their way through the crowd. She didn’t know much about Mexico, but the pictures she’d seen showed swarthy men in large hats dancing with women in black braids and colorful skirts.
He cracked a smile. “I love seeing people’s reactions when I say that.”
“Oh?”
In an open spot on the dance floor, he held out his arms, and she stepped into the dance position, careful to keep her distance. Wyatt’s dancing might have lacked Lawrence’s elegance, but he did know his steps.
Dorothy tried not to look into his face—the closeness made her jittery—but curiosity overpowered discretion. “One might say it’s rude to provoke a reaction without providing an explanation.”
Crinkles formed beside his eyes. “One might say”—he imitated a British accent quite poorly—“it’s rude to inquire about a man’s parentage.”
It was, and her cheeks warmed.
But he chuckled. “I’ll stop teasing. My mother died when Adler was born—I don’t remember her. Daddy hired his manager’s daughter to care for us boys, and they fell in love and got married within a year. A bit scandalous, but you’ve never met two people who love each other more.”
Certainly not her own parents. Mum never said a kind word about poor Papa. “So your you
ngest brother—Clay? He’s . . .”
Wyatt shrugged, making her too aware of the solidity of his shoulder under her hand. “Legally, he’s my half brother, but I don’t think of him that way. And Mama’s my mama. She treated us all the same. Same love, same discipline. And believe me, when Mama reels out a long rope of Spanish, you run for the hills.”
She smiled. “You do miss them, don’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Why don’t you write them?”
The band shifted to the fast beat of “In the Mood,” and Wyatt stepped back and grasped her hands. “You and I—we always talk about death and loss.”
“We do have that in common.”
“Well, tonight I just want to dance.” He grinned and flew into a jitterbug, legs all over the place. The Americans had the wildest dance moves, even quiet Lieutenant Paxton.
She struggled to keep up, and laughter spilled out. What jolly good fun.
Wyatt pulled her close, spun her around, twirled her under his arm.
If only Muriel had kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to think of Wyatt as attractive, yet he was. He had a nice face and a charming way of dipping his chin when he smiled. And now he swung her around with strong arms. She’d always considered quiet men dull, but not Wyatt. Not this man who jitterbugged and knew how to do that jarabe dance. It almost sounded exciting.
No.
Lawrence, Lawrence, Lawrence. She’d adored him forever. Elegant and cultured and impossibly exciting, with the dark good looks she’d always preferred.
Wyatt spun her so fast, her feet left the floor.
“Oh my!” She couldn’t stop giggling. “You aren’t going to throw me in the air, are you?”
“Only if you want.” He winked. Why did Yankee men always do that?
“Please don’t,” she said as he whipped her from one side to the other. “I’m afraid of flying.”
“The daredevil is afraid of something?” His serious look returned. “Then I won’t make you fly.”
Something about that look felt as cozy and secure as her favorite wool jumper. She flung that security away and concentrated on her feet. It didn’t fit, didn’t belong to her, and she didn’t want it. Not at all.
The music slowed. Thank goodness. Now she could sit down and escape.
However, Wyatt guided her into the dance position, respectful but unyielding.
The band played “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To.” No, he wouldn’t be nice to come home to. This fun wouldn’t last, and life would be plodding routines. In fact, was it even fair of him to offer a taste of excitement when it wasn’t in his nature?
She hefted up her chin so she could see the other dancers over the navy blue ridge of his shoulder. Time to end the fun and return to their usual conversational topics. “If you aren’t going to let me rest, I won’t let you rest either.”
“Hmm?” He turned his face to her.
Oh dear. Too close. She could feel the warmth of him, and she eased away. “I won’t let you rest. You miss your family, so you should write them.”
His mouth thinned. “After I’ve paid my debt.”
“Surely they want to know where you are.”
“I’m sure Adler does, so he can finish what he started.” He released her hand and rubbed the scar on his cheek. “See this? From the day Oralee died. When Adler tried to kill me.”
“Didn’t you say her death was an accident? Why did he blame you?”
Wyatt continued to dance, but his gaze wandered away. “He knew I loved her.”
“Oh dear.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I met her first, the summer before my senior year. I was crazy about her. But as soon as she met Adler, she fell for him.”
“Oh no. How dreadful.”
He shook his head. “No. They were right for each other. They were. I tried to conceal my feelings, but Adler knew I was jealous.”
Dorothy held her breath, but she had to hear the rest. “And the accident?”
His arm tensed around her waist. “We were climbing the hill, the three of us boys and Clay and Adler’s girlfriends. Adler coaxed Oralee to cross a footbridge in her high heels. He’s always talking folks into doing things they don’t want to, and it irks me.”
Dorothy murmured and swayed with the music.
“Well, Oralee didn’t want to, and I took her side. Adler and I, we started fighting. Oralee—she pleaded with us to stop, but we didn’t. So she started ’cross that bridge to make us stop. But she didn’t have good footing. I grabbed her, but she was mad at me and pulled away.” Wyatt uncoiled his fingers from around Dorothy’s, and he stared down as if his hand were empty, as if he could see the woman he loved plunging to her death.
“Oh, Wyatt. How awful.”
He blinked and closed his hand around hers. “Adler blamed me and rightly so.”
“Please don’t say that. There’s nothing you could have done.”
“I couldn’t protect her.” His eyes swam between blue grief and gray regret. “Adler knew. He knew my jealousy started the whole thing. He threw a rock at me. He might have finished the job if Clay hadn’t stopped him.”
“I’m sorry.” The words felt inadequate, but they were all she had.
His eyes cleared. “Do you see why I can’t write home until my debt is paid?”
She caught herself chewing off her lipstick, one of her least sophisticated habits. “Will it make a difference?”
His step faltered for a beat, then resumed. “Can’t go home empty-handed. I want to show I’m contrite. Like the Prodigal Son, I want to go home saying, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.’”
Dorothy hadn’t read that story in years, but . . . “Didn’t the Prodigal Son return home empty-handed?”
Wyatt stared at her, then his brow furrowed. “Yeah, but he offered himself as a slave. I can’t do that.”
“His father didn’t want that anyway. He ran to him. I’m sure your parents would do the same. They must be sick with worry, not knowing if you’re dead or alive.”
His lips mashed together. “I suppose.”
She fought the urge to rub his shoulder. “If this war has taught me anything, it’s that life is short and family is dear.”
Everything in his expression softened. “I—I know.”
The throatiness of his voice unnerved her, but she forged ahead. “Perhaps you could write your parents, but not your brothers.”
“I’ll pray about it. In the meantime, the band has issued an order, and we must obey.”
She tuned her ears to the music—a song called “Let’s Dance”—and she smiled. “Very good, Lieutenant.”
He whirled her into a swing dance, and soon the fog lifted from his expression.
For the rest of the evening, she and her friends danced with Wyatt and Jack and Jerry, and they told stories around the table. Wyatt was always serious on duty, and it was good to see him sporting with his friends.
“Oh dear!” Gwen glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s past eleven.”
How had she lost track of time? “We should leave. The Tube closes at midnight.”
Jack stood. “We’ll escort you home.”
“Wouldn’t we be safer alone than with Yankee sailors?” Muriel gave him a teasing look.
“We’re gentlemen,” Wyatt said. “Dorothy, why don’t I take you home, since your dad already knows me?”
She hesitated, but she had to agree. Besides, he was chivalrous and knew her heart belonged to Lawrence.
The party scurried to the Leicester Square station and down to the Piccadilly Line. Before long, Dorothy and Wyatt parted with the others at the South Kensington station.
As they climbed the stairs to the street, a keening sound pierced Dorothy’s heart. “The air raid siren.”
Wyatt stopped. “Back down we go.”
“No.” Dorothy dashed up, dodging the people who were returning underground. She had to get home bef
ore the bombs started falling.
“Where are you going?” Footsteps thumped behind her.
“Papa—I need to get him to the shelter.” She burst out onto the street and paused. Already the roar of aircraft engines overrode the whine of the siren.
“Dorothy, wait.” Wyatt circled in front of her and grasped her arm. “You need to get back into the station and fast.”
“He won’t go to the shelter without me. You saw. I need to go to him.” Her voice shook, her head shook, and she tried to shake off his grip.
“It’s too late.” He gazed overhead, where searchlights crisscrossed the black sky. “I won’t stop you, but it’s too late.”
True to his word, he loosened his grip. Dorothy stepped around him.
A whistling sound, and the earth rumbled, jarring her bones.
“Please, Dorothy. It isn’t safe out here. Your father’s in God’s hands.”
That was what she feared most. She covered her mouth and gulped down a sob.
“Come on.” Wyatt laid his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get you to safety, and we’ll pray for him.”
More whistles and closer. Men, women, and children in nightclothes streamed past her down the stairs in orderly fashion. Wyatt was right. She could get buried in rubble before she reached the house, so she joined the stream.
The platform was already filling, but Wyatt and Dorothy found a spot by the tiled wall and sat amongst the crowd.
Wyatt crossed his hands on his bent knees and bowed his head. “Father God, we pray for Mr. Fairfax. Please help him get to the shelter in time, and Charlie too. Keep him safe in your mighty hands, and give him peace that Dorothy is safe as well.”
Oh dear. One simply didn’t pray out loud in public. She glanced around, but no one seemed to pay Wyatt any attention.
“Lord, we pray for the whole city. Shield us from those bombs, let them fall where they do no harm, and comfort the wounded and those who lose their homes. And Lord, please be with the RAF pilots and the antiaircraft gunners. Give them accuracy and help them protect this great city and her people.”
He kept praying, his voice low but strong and driven. He prayed for the Allies, that they’d prevail and soon. He even prayed for the Germans, that they’d see the light and overthrow Hitler and the evil men in power.