The Land Beneath Us

by Sarah Sundin

  “Quick thinking saved your life.”

  “And good training.” He managed a smile.

  “I’ll talk to Lyons.” Taylor set a hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Skip the next climb and take a rest. Glad we didn’t lose you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Clay wandered away alone, praying thanks for his survival. He wanted to die doing something good, not in an accident.

  The prayer and the scenery calmed him down. The Isle of Wight tucked neatly into the triangle of a bay at Southampton and Portsmouth, and gray ships passed below, warships and freighters and troop transports. Blue skies and wispy white clouds arced over bright green downs, white cliffs, and frothy blue sea.

  Even prettier than the Texas Hill Country. If Leah were here, she’d write a poem.

  Far from the Rangers’ exercise, Clay sat down, stretched his legs before him, and leaned back on his elbows. Since Christmas, the tone of Leah’s letters had shifted. Darlene’s betrayal was causing her to question in a way the assault hadn’t. Maybe it was the proverbial final straw.

  She’d raised a flurry of questions. Why did people feel it was all right to mistreat her because her parents had died? Why did people exclude other people from stores and restrooms and train cars because their skin was black? Why did people persecute and murder other people because they had different religious beliefs?

  Clay puffed out a hard breath. He had no answers. That’s what had started the whole war—people declaring other people had no worth and no right to land or life.

  His fingers dug into the grass. He’d assigned similar motives to his brothers. When they stole from him, he’d felt worthless. He, as the half-breed half brother, didn’t deserve to go to college and become a physician and marry the pretty blonde. Maybe Wyatt and Adler thought that way, and maybe they didn’t, but that’s how it felt.

  Worthless.

  Clay got back up to his feet. Leah wasn’t worthless, and neither was he. And hadn’t his brothers always treated him fairly before that day? Hadn’t they always defended him and stood up for him? Maybe their actions on that day stemmed from pure fear and grief and anger. Didn’t make it right. But it also didn’t mean they considered him worthless.

  And was Clay really any better than they were? Both he and Adler had lost the women they loved that day. Both he and Adler had lashed out in rage.

  Clay’s head sagged back. He wasn’t any better. Not one whit.

  Leah’s letters overflowed with hope that he would forgive his brothers and be reconciled with them.

  Forgiveness, yes. But reconciliation?

  Clay strolled to the edge of the cliff. Little waves washed the pebbly beach below, inching toward the bluff.

  Spring and the invasion approached as relentlessly as the tide. He wanted to forgive his brothers fully before he died. Maybe he’d send letters to them in Kerrville in case they ever came home.

  Reconciliation required seeing them in person, and he had no interest in that. Even his brief sighting of Adler on the Queen Elizabeth had been too much.

  At least the war made reconciliation impossible. While Clay scaled cliffs on the southern coast, Adler would be stationed at an airfield north of London. And who knew where Wyatt was?

  Something Leah had written poked at him. She’d given up hope of finding clues about her family.

  Leah had two sisters, and she’d do anything to see them again.

  Clay had two brothers, and he’d do anything not to see them again.

  “Lord, could you—” He groaned and kicked a pebble down the slope. For the sake of the war effort, he didn’t dare pray to postpone D-day. “Help me out. I’ve got a long way to go.”

  25

  TULLAHOMA

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1944

  Leah admired Heidi on the bookshelf at the Coffee Children’s Home. Keeping the book for herself didn’t seem right when her dear friend belonged with the orphans.

  Two fifth-grade boys knelt before the eight volumes of the 1921 World Book Encyclopedia.

  “All right, Mikey.” Leah massaged her aching lower back. “Your report is on James Polk. Which volume will you choose?”

  He mouthed the alphabet. “This one—it has J.”

  “Dumbbell,” his twin brother Marty said. “It’s by last name—P.”

  “No name-calling.” Leah sat at a table, careful to keep her knees together despite the baby’s weight pushing them apart. “Marty, your report is on Woodrow Wilson.”

  “I already have it—W.” He thumped into his chair, almost tipping it over. “I’ll find mine before you do, Mikey.”

  Unruly brown hair flopped as the boys raced each other, and Leah smiled at their competition.

  Did her sisters compete or work together? Were they inseparable or torn asunder like the Paxton brothers? Were they even in the same location?

  “Found it!” Mikey jammed a bony finger at the page, then groaned. “It’s so short. How can I write a three-page report?”

  “You’ll check out books from the school library,” Leah said. “This will help you know what to look for. Also, watch for asterisks—those mean there’s an entry in the encyclopedia.”

  “Like ‘Mexican-American War’?” Mikey’s narrow face contracted over each syllable.

  “Yes.”

  Mikey darted from his chair and closed the encyclopedia.

  Leah stuck a finger in place just in time. “Use a bookmark.”

  “Mine already has a bookmark.” Marty slung a color postcard onto the table. “But listen. This here says Woodrow Wilson’s still president.”

  “Yes, it’s old but . . .” Leah slid the postcard closer, and her heart stilled.

  A glorious library. Tall stained glass windows sent a rainbow of light over tables and bookshelves, and a Gothic ceiling soared above, studded with electric lights like a starry sky.

  She could almost smell the leather and lemon oil.

  All disappeared around her, all sight, all sound, all but the memory. Somehow Leah’s numb fingers turned over the postcard—University of Chicago, Harper Memorial Library.

  Chicago. She came from Chicago. The picture and her memory fused and expanded and came to life, and she laughed for joy.

  “What’s so funny, Mrs. P.?”

  All this time she’d been looking for the answer in books, and now she’d found the answer inside a book. “I’m from Chicago. Chicago.”

  “Mrs. P.?” Two sets of brown eyes stared at her, bewildered.

  She gathered her senses. “Read your articles and take good notes.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison.

  Leah stroked the postcard. She could almost feel her parents’ hands in hers, one on each side, as she gazed at the magnificent ceiling. The University of Chicago. Had her parents been students, faculty, staff, or simply visitors?

  If only she could hop on a train and visit, but travel was discouraged late in pregnancy and would be extremely difficult with a baby.

  Besides, where would she go? The Chicago area had to hold dozens of orphanages, and could they help with so little information?

  The only details she had were the year of 1929 and the sisters’ first names—Thalia, Callie, and Polly. She believed Callie and Polly were short for Calliope and Polyhymnia, so that all three girls would have been named after Greek muses of poetry.

  Searching dozens of orphanages would take days, and staying in a hotel would be expensive and impractical with a wee one.

  Still—she pressed the card over her heart—she knew where she came from. Tonight she’d tell Rita Sue and write a gushing letter to Clay. They would be delighted.

  “Mrs. Paxton?” Miss King leaned inside the dining room. “Time for the board meeting.”

  “Thank you.” Leah tucked the postcard inside her purse. “Good-bye, boys. Check out books, and we’ll work on the reports over the weekend.”

  She pushed herself to standing. If she was this large at eight months, how much larger could she get? She smoothed the cran
berry gabardine over her belly, thankful the coat-like cut of the dress gave her a more professional look for when she presented her proposal. She couldn’t wait to surprise Miss King.

  Leah followed the orphanage director to a room with a square table. Five ladies stood chatting, including Mrs. Channing, but sweet Mrs. Whipple from church was also present.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.” Miss King scarcely looked like herself in a smart navy suit, but her hair still defied bobby pins. “Please meet Mrs. Clay Paxton, our newest volunteer.”

  “Well, Mrs. Paxton.” Mrs. Channing raised her chin. “You’re certainly trying to insert yourself into Tullahoma society.”

  That didn’t sound like a compliment, but Leah smiled. “Tullahoma has been kind to me, and I enjoy returning the favor.”

  “You sweet girl.” Mrs. Whipple took both Leah’s hands, and pretty wrinkles fanned around her gray-blue eyes. “We’re so pleased to have you.”

  After the ladies fussed over Leah’s belly, they took their seats and started the meeting.

  Leah could barely pay attention between her excitement over Chicago and her eagerness for her proposal. What a lovely day.

  Baby Helen rolled, as if dancing for her mother’s double joy.

  “Any new business?” Mrs. Channing said.

  “I’d like to make a proposal.” Leah smoothed her notes and restrained her smile so she wouldn’t look childish.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised.” Mrs. Channing took off her reading glasses. “Go ahead.”

  Leah dove in. “Since the Coffee Children’s Home is having financial woes, I’d like to propose a fund-raiser. We could hold a pancake breakfast in early summer. We could set up tables on the lawn, and the children could serve. The only rationed ingredients are a bit of oil and sugar, so we should have no trouble making the purchase. With a tasty breakfast and darling children in attendance, the people of Tullahoma will be eager to support this worthy cause.”

  She looked up with a smile. However, Mrs. Channing’s eyes blazed, Mrs. Whipple frowned down into her lap, and the two other ladies wore stern expressions.

  “Mrs. Paxton?” Miss King looked almost frantic. “You should have consulted me first.”

  Leah’s stomach fell as far as the baby allowed. What was wrong?

  “Financial woes?” Mrs. Channing’s thin red lips agitated. “I beg your pardon. The Channing family donates generously, as do all the families on this board.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Channing.” Miss King’s voice warbled. “All our needs are met. We lack for nothing.”

  Leah gaped. That wasn’t what Miss King had told her, what Leah saw with her own eyes.

  “Yankee carpetbagger,” the lady next to Mrs. Channing muttered. “Prancing into town, thinking she knows what’s best for us.”

  “Oh dear. That isn’t what I meant.”

  “Be kind, Mrs. Ross.” Mrs. Whipple frowned at the woman. “She may be misinformed, but her heart’s in the right place.”

  “Even if we did need money, your proposal would fail.” Mrs. Channing closed her notebook. “In case you’re unaware, there’s a war on. The needs of our boys in the service prevail. The orphans are a drain on society, especially now. Folks would resent being asked to pay for luxuries for the children of immoral mothers and ne’er-do-well fathers.”

  Leah sucked in a burning breath. How could someone who felt that way sit on an orphanage board?

  “With all the war bond drives, folks are tired of giving.” Mrs. Whipple’s brow furrowed, and she wouldn’t meet Leah’s gaze. “I’m afraid very few people would attend.”

  “Especially if the children served the food.” Mrs. Ross grimaced.

  Leah’s back stiffened. “The children are clean, and the house is sanitary.”

  “We—we do our best, but I know what folks think.” Miss King worked a strand of hair between her fingers.

  Why wasn’t the director defending her home, her hard work, and her children?

  Mrs. Channing stood. “Motion dismissed and meeting adjourned.”

  Miss King leaned forward. “Before y’all leave, please know I appreciate your generosity in supporting our little home. I’m most grateful, and so are the children. We want for nothing.”

  “I’m glad someone sees that.” Mrs. Channing swept out of the room.

  The other ladies departed without giving Leah a glance.

  Standing up required even more work than usual. Her whole body felt like lead.

  “Mrs. Paxton, I appreciate your help with the children.” Miss King twiddled her hair at a frenetic pace. “I do. But please don’t make plans without consulting me.”

  “I won’t. I—I’m so sorry.” Leah trudged to the door.

  She hadn’t meant to insult the donors, but she had. She thought she’d understood the needs of the home and the heart of the community, but she hadn’t.

  Who did she think she was? A dirty orphan had no right to sit on boards with society ladies and make proposals.

  Leah stepped outside and opened her umbrella. The rain tapped accusations on the fabric above her.

  She didn’t belong in Tullahoma or Des Moines or even in Chicago.

  She trudged back to her borrowed home in her borrowed clothes with her borrowed name.

  Leah would never belong anywhere.

  26

  BARNSTAPLE, NORTH DEVON

  TUESDAY, MARCH 21, 1944

  “Thanks for the ride.” Clay leaned inside the truck window and handed the driver two ration packs of cigarettes.

  The older gentleman’s face lit up. “If I had the petrol, I’d take you blokes all the way to London.”

  Clay laughed and joined G. M. at the roadside as the truck chugged on its way. Cigarettes were better than cash, which was good since the men had no cash.

  Gene studied the map. “About a mile to Barnstaple Junction.”

  The men headed up a narrow lane through high hedgerows, fragrant with spring.

  “Time for us to show initiative.” Clay used one of Lt. Col. Jim Rudder’s favorite words.

  After breakfast, Clay’s company had been ordered to divide into pairs and meet at the Marble Arch in London at 0900 the following morning. No money allowed. No questions would be asked about how they’d arrived.

  Many of the men “requisitioned” bikes or cars. Clay understood the purpose. One day the Rangers might be behind enemy lines and need to steal vehicles. But in friendly England, it didn’t seem right. Gene agreed, so they’d decided to sneak onto a train and pay for their tickets after their return.

  They passed through a village of white homes with slate roofs. Training hadn’t let up since they’d returned to Bude from the Isle of Wight. Rudder and the top brass in the Rangers had visited London recently and returned ashen faced. Speculation was, they knew the invasion plan and it was a bear.

  All the more reason to train hard.

  Hedgerows crowded the lane, and Gene ducked under an overhanging branch. “How’s the missus? Another month or two to go, huh?”

  Less than that, but Clay nodded. “Her doc thinks she may deliver early. How’s Betty Jo?”

  “Great. They work her hard at the laundry at Camp Forrest, but she likes it.”

  “Good. Leah misses working at the library, but she enjoys her volunteer work.”

  But what he wouldn’t give to have a word with that Mrs. Channing for talking to Leah in such an overbearing way. Leah was only guilty of innocence and zeal and standing up for the downtrodden, all of which were virtues in Clay’s eyes.

  Soon the town of Barnstaple came into view, and they found the depot, built of mismatched brownstone with cream trim and a slate roof, full of rustic English charm.

  Clay straightened his waist-length olive drab “Ike jacket” and made sure his drab trousers were still tucked into his Corcoran boots. They needed to look wholesome.

  Inside the depot, they instigated their plan and stood in the ticket line. When the man in front of them went to the window, Clay glanced at h
is watch and motioned Gene to the timetable on the wall.

  Barnstaple had a direct line to London’s Paddington Station, so they wouldn’t have to transfer trains.

  After a few minutes, they went out to the platform. They might not have tickets, but at least they’d been seen in line.

  “What do you want to see in London?” Clay asked.

  Without money, they couldn’t see much, but the conversation made them look like fellows on a furlough. Too bad Clay couldn’t visit the British Library for Leah. Of course, he’d sent her the camera, so he couldn’t take pictures anyway.

  She’d sent him a dozen photos—standing outside her house, sewing tiny nightgowns on Rita Sue’s sewing machine, sitting in a rocking chair in a sparsely furnished living room, and more. He couldn’t believe how big she was, or how cute she looked so big.

  The train huffed into the station, and Clay and G. M. stepped into an empty compartment. They planned to fake sleep to ward off the conductor. If caught, they’d get off at the next station and repeat the ruse on the next train.

  A man in his fifties joined them, a gray mustache breaking up his square face.

  The British were reserved, but Clay didn’t want to be rude. “Good morning, sir.”

  He peered at Clay, not smiling, but not frowning. “Going on a bit of leave, are you, chaps?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make the most of the time you have.” He gazed out the window as the train pulled away from the station. “I was at the Somme in the trenches.”

  In the First World War. Clay pulled in a long breath. “I reckon that was tough.”

  “A Hun bayonetted me in the side, but I muddled through.” He kept looking out the window.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Gene yawned loudly. “Pardon my manners.”

  His buddy had a point. They couldn’t be seen as awake when the conductor arrived. “Pardon us, sir. We were on maneuvers all night. Reckon we’ll be mighty poor company.”

  “Rest while you can.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Clay settled down with his pack for a lumpy pillow.

  Soon Gene was snoring, nothing fake about it. The man could sleep anywhere.