by Sarah Sundin
“He . . . preached?”
Kay shook back her hair. “He’s a preacher. Are you shocked?”
He nodded slowly, his brown eyes wide.
“You can imagine how shocked he was to have a daughter like me. Irredeemable.” Her voice quivered. Why on earth had she said that? But there it was, out in the open.
Roger closed his mouth, and compassion replaced shock. “Anyone can be redeemed. Even me.”
Heat roiled in her chest. “What would you know? You’re one of them. You’re good.”
“Good? Don’t know about that. And believe me, no one called me good when I was a boy.”
“No one?” Her hands grasped the tip of the wing, the aluminum cool to her fingers.
One side of his mouth twitched up. “I’m the seventh of eight kids. More energy than sense, my ma always said. Pestered my brothers and sisters, pulled pranks on my teachers, painted some of the pigs blue one winter to make my dad think they’d frozen solid. Got my backside tanned so much I’m surprised it’s still there.”
Kay fought a smile and lifted one shoulder. “Harmless childhood—”
“It got worse. Real bad. Did things I’m ashamed of.” He smoothed a page in his Bible, and his voice lowered. “People got . . . hurt. Couldn’t live with myself.”
Kay strained to hear, and understanding drew her nearer.
Roger looked up with pain in his eyes that wrenched her heart. His mouth squirmed, and he patted his knee like a drum.
Did he understand what it was like to be bad? “What happened?” she said, just above a whisper.
He shook his head, and the rhythm changed. “That’s not what matters. What matters is what happened next. After I graduated, I left home. Thought I could run away from myself, but I couldn’t. Then I met Lou.”
“Lou?” She gripped the trailing edge of the wing.
“Trombone player. He showed me the way out of my sin and pain and shame. He showed me even I could be redeemed. Gave me this Bible.”
Kay realized she’d moved closer. She took a step back. “Nothing in there for me.”
“That’s what I thought until I read it. Look.” He beckoned, his face composed again. “See all the notes in the margins?”
She edged forward as if walking toward a cliff. Sure enough, scrawls filled the margins. “You write in the Bible? Isn’t that illegal?”
He winked. “Told you I was a sinner.”
A smile played on her lips.
Roger glanced down, flipped through the pages. “Anytime a verse speaks to me, I make notes, helps me remember. See? Proof that I’ve read Job once or twice.”
The three black letters of the title glared condemnation. She flinched and stood up straight.
Roger’s eyes widened. “Your name’s Jobson. That’s why he preached from Job, isn’t it?”
The memory sliced, and she folded her arms over her stomach. “Sign from God.”
“Did he—did he preach that suffering results from sin? That you have to be good to make it stop?”
For all the Bible reading he’d done, how could he be so ignorant? “Of course. That’s what it says.”
His forehead crinkled up, and he turned pages. “Those ideas are in here, all right.”
“I know that.”
“But they’re not . . .” He tapped his finger on a page. “They’re not God’s words.”
She shifted her feet and crossed her arms tight around her stomach. “They’re in the Bible, aren’t they?”
“Well, yeah. But they were spoken by men who claimed to be Job’s friends but weren’t. In fact, at the end of the book, God sets them straight and gives them a verbal whipping.”
Kay’s thoughts tumbled around and made her head shake from side to side. “But he said—my father said—are you saying he lied?”
Roger didn’t speak, just gave her a steady gaze.
“Nonsense.” Her voice wavered. “Complete nonsense.”
“Have you ever read Job, the entire book?”
“Of course not. Father wouldn’t let us read the Bible, said we weren’t old enough to understand.” Her eyes stung. Had he said that to conceal his lies? Fit better with everything else she knew about his character.
“You should read it. See what the Lord really says.”
Steam expanded her chest. She stepped away. “Couldn’t if I wanted to, which I don’t. I don’t own a Bible.”
He chewed on his lips and rubbed his fingers over the black leather binding. “The chaplain—he has Bibles. Ask him.”
Kay flung up both hands in front of her chest. “The chaplain? Last person I want to talk to.”
Roger’s face contracted, and he lowered his gaze to his Bible.
She’d never felt tinier, emptier, more confused, and she hated it, hated him, hated herself. “Arrivederci.” She strode away.
“Kay! Wait!”
She waved her hand, wiping away his words.
His footsteps thumped up behind. “Wait. Take mine.”
“What?” She spun around.
He almost bumped into her, then backed up as if she were the devil himself.
“What?” she barked.
“You don’t have to go to the chaplain.” He stared down at his Bible, his grip so tight, his knuckles popped up in little snow-capped peaks. “I want you to have my Bible.”
“What?” Her voice sputtered out like a dying engine.
He thrust the book at her. “I’m giving it to you.”
“But . . .” Wasn’t it a gift from an old friend? Filled with his personal notes?
His brown eyes shone with determination. “It’s a gift, and you can’t say no.”
The black leather had worn off in spots. The gold lettering had disappeared. The pages were warped and tousled from use. How could she take something so precious to him? “I don’t want it.”
He took her arm and pressed his thumb at the base of her wrist until her hand unfurled. Then he slipped the Bible into her hand. “Too bad. It’s yours.”
Her breath came hard and fast. He was so close, so incredibly attractive, his grip powerful but gentle, his message unbearable, his gift . . . unfathomable. “Why would you?”
Roger let go, but he didn’t back away. “Because I remember.”
5
Pomigliano Airfield
April 1, 1944
Roger’s fingers itched for his drumsticks, but Veerman would think he was showing off. His energy had to go somewhere, so it flowed out his heels to the dirt floor of the tent.
On the camp stool beside him, Shelby glanced at Roger’s bouncing knees and smirked. He got an elbow in return.
Veerman glanced from his watch to the tent entrance. “Anyone seen Marino?”
Grant Klein snickered. “For once, we’re waiting for someone other than Cooper.”
A quip danced on Roger’s tongue, but the acidic look on Veerman’s face stilled it. So Klein’s little barbs didn’t carry weight with the commander. Instead, Roger put on a bland smile and turned it to Klein. A startled reaction made a sweet reward.
Sunlight and a rush of cool air, and Bert Marino burst through the tent entrance. “Sorry I’m late, Major. I—”
“I don’t want excuses. I want punctuality.” He motioned to the empty camp stool.
Roger squirmed. That didn’t bode well for him and his chronic tardiness.
“All right, men. We flew up here for medical air evacuation flights this morning, but plans have changed. Just got a telegram.” Veerman tipped up his chin to look through his reading glasses at papers in his hand. “Seeing as how it’s April Fools’ Day, I didn’t believe it at first. But it’s officially confirmed. The 64th Troop Carrier Group received orders for an emergency deployment to the Tenth Air Force.”
The Tenth? In India? Roger sat up straighter, and he chomped his chewing gum. He’d like a change in scenery and wouldn’t mind steamy heat, primitive living conditions, or increased danger. But the China-Burma-India Theater demanded a lot from a p
ilot. What if the CBI demanded more than Roger could deliver?
Veerman flipped through the papers. “The situation in Burma isn’t good. The Japanese launched a major drive early in March and are pushing the British back into India. Meanwhile, American and Chinese troops are fighting for their lives in northern Burma. The roads are abysmal. Air transport is the only way to supply our boys. The Tenth Air Force is overburdened, and since we have a stalemate in Italy, we’ve been loaned out.”
Klein’s eyebrows tented in mock concern. “Uh-oh, Cooper. We won’t be flying over water. Next time you lose a plane, you’ll have to do it in the jungle.”
“I’m more worried about you. You might break a sweat.”
“Gentlemen!”
Roger winced. That comeback wasn’t worth it, and it wasn’t even that good. “Just ribbing between friends.” He grinned and punched Klein in the shoulder, a bit harder than necessary.
One narrowed eye told him he hadn’t fooled his CO.
“As I started to say, we will not be taking any patients today. We’ll head straight back to Comiso, pack up, and fly out tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Klein sat forward. “That—that doesn’t give us much time to say good-bye. How long will we be gone?”
“A month. Maybe longer. And . . .” Veerman slapped the folder shut. “You men are officers. You know the routine. You can tell your sweethearts you’re shipping out, but you can’t say where. That goes for your crews too. They’ll be briefed en route.”
He dismissed them to their planes.
Roger headed outside with Shelby and Marino. He’d miss Italy but he wasn’t sorry to leave. Not after the previous day’s conversation with Kay Jobson. All his questions about her had been whipped into a frenzy.
Why had the Lord let him see her hurt and anger and shame? Why had the Lord moved him, of all people, to correct the lies she’d been told? Why on earth had the Lord prodded him to give her his Bible? God could have let him fetch a Bible from the chaplain for her, but no, the prompting was clear. It had to be Roger’s Bible, filled with hundreds of personal notes. Very personal.
Why had he obeyed? Sure, the chaplain gave him a replacement, but the thing fit in the palm of his hand, only the New Testament, and no room to write. It could take two months to get a good Bible sent from the States.
Annoyance simmered, but he tamped it down. He’d done the right thing.
Bert elbowed Roger. “Your girlfriend wants a kiss good-bye.”
“I don’t have a . . .” His mouth dried out.
About a hundred feet away, Kay Jobson peered toward the men under a sun-shielding hand. She wasn’t looking for him, was she?
Nope. Grant Klein strode up to her. “Hi, baby.”
Relief and disgust mingled in Roger’s gut. So much for the breakup.
However, Kay gave Grant a cool hello, stepped around him—and toward Roger.
“What’s going on?” Shelby muttered.
“Nothing.” Tomorrow he’d fly to another continent, away from swaying hips and swishing red hair and beckoning green eyes.
“Hi, Coop.”
“Hi, Kay.” He gave her a polite smile and walked past as if he didn’t know she was looking for him.
“Rog—wait. I have a—can I talk to you for a second?”
He faced her, walked backward toward the flight line, and motioned with his thumb toward the planes. “Sorry. We’re in a hurry.”
Ouch. The force of that girl’s glare. “Only a second.”
Fine way to help the dame out. Might as well snatch back the Bible. He stopped and cocked a smile. “Yeah, sure.”
“I’ll tell your crew you’ll be a bit late.” Shelby gave him a mysterious look.
“Ah, they’re used to it.” He headed back to Kay and ignored Bert’s chuckling. Shelby would get an earful about what happened at the Orange Club.
The temperature of her gaze rose from icy to chilly. “I have something for you.”
Roger halted a safe ten feet from her. How often had he seen her give “good luck” kisses to men before missions? “Yeah?”
“An alarm clock.” She opened her hand to reveal a small black case with a brass clasp.
Maybe the pressure of flying in a war zone was getting to her. “An alarm clock?”
She turned the case in her hand. “I heard your new CO is Hank Veerman’s brother.”
“True.”
“That’s good news for you.”
He allowed a small smile. “If I don’t make a fool of myself.”
Her cheeks reddened, and she ground her foot into the dirt as if squashing an insect. “About an hour ago, I overheard Grant talking with Singleton.”
That explained the insect-squishing, but not the clock. “Yeah?”
She chewed on her lips and didn’t meet his eye. “Grant was being a jerk, said you’d never impress Veerman because you sleep too late. He said you don’t even own an alarm clock.”
The ends finally tied up. “They’re forbidden at the Cooper homestead. No farmer worth his salt uses an alarm clock, my parents always say. They get up with the chickens.”
Kay tipped a saucy smile. “You’re not on the farm. No chickens here. You need a clock.”
Roger shrugged. “I get by.”
“That’s not what Grant said.” Her eyes gave off more sparks than Vesuvius’s eruption last week. “You need to get up on time, impress your CO, get that big band spot, and prove Grant Klein wrong.”
Volcanoes had nothing on scorned women. “Why? What did he do to you?”
“Nothing. Really, he didn’t. But I don’t like the way he talked about you. Not after what you did for me, giving me your Bible.”
“Nah. I already got a new one.”
She flipped the clock over and over in her hand. “I know it isn’t just a book to you. I saw the inscription from your friend, all your notes.”
His neck heated up. His Bible was as personal and private as a diary. How much had he revealed in those notes? What had he inadvertently confessed to this woman?
Kay thrust out the alarm clock. “It’s a gift, and you can’t say no.”
Repeating his words, was she? Would she grab his wrist as he’d grabbed hers? He could still feel the warmth, the tight-muscled stubbornness in her slim arm.
“Please?” Her green-eyed gaze reached out to him, just as warm and stubborn. And as fragile as a new blade of grass. “I want to do one little thing to help you achieve your dream.”
His dream? His family saw his dream as foolishness. His friends saw it as wishful thinking. But she looked at him as if she believed he could do it.
“Thanks,” he muttered through a too-thick throat. He took the clock, careful not to touch her fingers. But the black leather case carried the heat of her touch.
Kay gave him a shaky smile and gestured toward the flight line. “I kept you too long. You’d better get moving. I’ll see you later.”
Should he tell her? “Um, actually, you won’t. We’re shipping out tomorrow.”
“Shipping out?”
“Group’s deployed to a new theater. We’re flying back to Comiso now, heading off tomorrow.”
All the color left her face. She opened her mouth, closed it, blinked a few times. “Oh. I had a few questions for you. I tried to read, but it just—it isn’t . . .”
The Bible. Oh, great. He’d given her the tool but not the instructions on how to use it. “I’m sure someone can—”
Kay shook her head hard. “Mellie and Georgie don’t understand. Not like . . . well, never mind. It’s fine.” She raised her usual confident smile and walked away. “Good luck to you.”
Ah, for crying out loud. Her friends didn’t understand like he did. He understood how it felt to be a sinner, to be drowning, to grasp for a lifeline, any at all. The least he could do was throw her a line.
“Kay, wait.”
“Yes?” Poise masked her turmoil again.
He pulled a notepad from the breast pocket of his shirt.
“If you want, you can write me, ask your questions.”
“I could?” The poise dissolved. He’d seen the same hunger in the faces of starving street urchins in Naples.
“Sure.” With teeth gritted, he scrawled down his address and Army Post Office number. What on earth had the Lord gotten him into?
6
Over the Mediterranean
April 4, 1944
The rumble of the C-47’s twin engines vibrated through Kay’s backside as the words in the book of Job ricocheted in her head.
“Behold, God will not cast away a perfect man, neither will he help the evil doers.” Kay squeezed her eyes shut. How many times had her father quoted Job 8:20 to her?
Willard Jobson’s other favorite verse for her was Job 5:2: “For wrath killeth the foolish man, and envy slayeth the silly one,” used to chastise her when she dared to argue with Jemima and Keren, the favored daughters, the songbirds with heavenly blonde hair.
Even as a child, it hadn’t made sense to her. How could she be punished with red hair and tone deafness before she’d committed the sin of envying her sisters for their gifts?
Those verses—the verses he’d attributed to the Lord God Almighty—were spoken by Bildad and Eliphaz, not by Job and not by God. And if Roger Cooper was right, Bildad and Eliphaz didn’t speak the truth.
Kay slammed the Bible shut and stuffed it in her small canvas musette bag. How on earth could she get through all forty-two chapters of the blasted book? She could barely handle one chapter at a time.
Kay pushed herself to her feet and snagged the clipboard with the flight manifest off its hook by the cargo door.
Tonight she’d add more questions to her list for Roger. After she filled a page, front and back, she’d mail it. Would he answer? He didn’t seem terribly enthusiastic, but he also seemed like the kind of man who kept his word.
For now, she had work to do. Only a dozen patients today. Another lull had developed on the fronts at Cassino and Anzio, preparing for the big push, everyone hoped.
Kay opened the medical chest and filled a pouch on her belt with medications and supplies. Sergeant Dabrowski was busy distributing rations and water, lighting cigarettes, and reading letters, so Kay would take vital signs and administer meds.