Shadowed by Grace

by Cara Putman

  “Follow the truck in front of us as long as it turns at the next left.”

  Rachel feigned sleep as she listened to the two in the front seat. Their dialogue made her imagine a bad short involving Abbott and Costello. Constant bickering with a humorous edge. Often a sharp edge, but she had to work to keep her face slack when she wanted to smile. The last thing she needed was to let the handsome lieutenant any deeper into her soul. She’d already told him more than most. Details she shared with no one.

  Most people couldn’t fathom a good reason for an absent father. Problem was she couldn’t either. They all cycled back to not being enough. For whatever reason her momma hadn’t been enough to keep him. Rachel hadn’t been enough to entice him to form a family. Her heart cried to understand. The realistic portion understood if she found him, all she could hope was to remind him of his love for her momma so he’d part with enough money for Momma’s treatments. Anything else was a dream that couldn’t come true apart from the pages of a book or the celluloid of a film.

  The next time the jeep stopped she’d take photos. The light was still good, but in another hour or so twilight would alter that. The light values would make shooting a waste of film unless bombs streaked across the sky. Maybe she could replicate Margaret Bourke-White’s stunning photos of the German bombing of Moscow. Rachel would never forget seeing the streaks and explosions behind the Kremlin. The photo had defined an aerial assault to those in the United States.

  Tyler cursed and braked. The momentum threw her against the front seat back, and she groaned.

  Scott turned and offered her a hand up. “You okay?”

  She reached for his hand from her cramped position trapped between the two seats. “Not sure you can yank me free.”

  “I’ll try.” He gripped her forearms, and with a yank she broke free. It felt like someone had poked her ribs hard.

  “What’s with the stop, Salmon?”

  The man shrugged and pulled his cap lower over his eyes. “You’d have to ask the half-track in front of me. And the troop mover in front of him. Then move on up the convoy. Maybe someone knows. At least we aren’t sitting ducks out here on the open road. Nothing but fields on either side of us.”

  Scott scanned the sky in the familiar motion that let Rachel know he was alert to potential dangers.

  Rachel rubbed her side and sank lower. The open jeep wouldn’t provide protection if Germans waited to ambush the convoy.

  “Put your helmet on.” Scott thrust it at her. “Leave it on from now on.”

  “Won’t do much for my hair.” She tried to smile, but the seriousness of where they were flattened it.

  “I’d rather you travel with smashed hair than die.”

  She didn’t want him to believe her petty. She adjusted the helmet, wishing it sat a little snugger on her head. As loose as it was, the first close shell might knock it off.

  “Here.” Scott reached for it.

  She slapped it into his hand. “Why give it to me if you wanted it back?”

  “I might not look like a seasoned soldier, but I served in the National Guard before this stint. I can tighten your helmet.” In a quick sliding motion he adjusted the chinstrap, then handed it back. “Try that.”

  “Thanks.” She took the helmet, examined where he’d played with it, then slid it back on. “Much better.”

  “I’m here to tighten the army’s sloppy helmets.”

  The journey north would be long as they snaked between refugees on the road. The people were worn, shoulders hunched, clothes dirty and tattered. Children walked among the adults. One child was dressed in a yellow dress a couple sizes too small as it hung above her knees. She must have sensed Rachel’s stare because she turned, and a shy smile softened her face.

  Rachel returned the smile, then shuffled through her bag until she found the sketchbook. Might as well take advantage of the fact she had an art expert with time in the vehicle. Maybe he could generate ideas about the artist. It didn’t hurt to ask.

  She slipped the book toward him. “Would you look at these?”

  Chapter 17

  Asking an art historian for an opinion tasted a bit like throwing Brer Rabbit into the briar patch. As a child, Scott had heard plenty of stories about Brer Rabbit’s penchant for trouble. When Rachel tapped his shoulder with the book, Scott accepted.

  “Why carry this journal around Italy?”

  “I’d like to find the artist. My mother may have acquired it while she studied in Tuscany. She hasn’t told me anything about it though.”

  Space carried a premium with two bags, so something more motivated her to bring it. Scott wanted to dig deeper but would wait until he knew if he could help her. “The artist could have died long ago.”

  “Possible, but the clothes look like they’re from the twenties, so not that old.” She sighed as she braced herself against the back of the front seat. “What do you think?”

  Scott opened the cover carefully. If it was important enough to drag across an ocean into a war zone, he’d treat it with respect. The heavy cardboard cover appeared undamaged. Someone had treated the book with care. “How long have you had it?”

  “I found it right before sailing on the Queen Mary.”

  “Any thought who created the drawings?”

  She hesitated, just a second, but enough to make him wonder why she formulated an answer to a simple question. She definitely held something back.

  “All I could find was one sketch with initials.” She flipped to the page.

  Scott glanced at them. “RMA. Any idea who that is?”

  “No.” Her gaze flicked away before returning to his. “Momma never mentioned anyone who had those initials.”

  Okay. He scanned several more pages. “These look like concept sketches. Artists use them to map out how a painting will look. They play with perspective, spacing, and other elements without committing them to oils. Let them determine the best arrangement.”

  “Momma did that when she found the time to paint. Her sketches had repetitive elements like these.” She pointed to the woman, the layout of the hill, and the item she held in her hand.

  “Could it be your mother’s?”

  “I don’t think so. She would have just said that. The style is wrong too.”

  Scott pulled the journal closer as he studied the woman. “Who is she?” Rachel’s silence caused him to look up and catch her stare. “If you told me, I could narrow down the location.”

  “I’m not sure. Even if I’m right, she’s unknown.”

  “Your choice, Justice. Keep your secrets.” He turned a couple more pages. “I don’t see any initials or name.”

  “I didn’t notice them either.”

  “Then I guess that’s that.” He handed the book back to her. “Your guess on the time frame is right. There aren’t enough details to place it anywhere. Could be Italy, might be Provence. Wish I could be more help.”

  “Am I crazy to think the artist is Italian?”

  “He could be. But he could also be English, French, German, or even American. People traveled in the twenties. It’s not hard to travel between the European nations when they’re at peace.”

  A drone began in the distance and built.

  “That’s a plane, Lieutenant. We’ve got to get out of here. We’re too visible.” Tyler stopped the jeep, hurdled out his side, and headed for the ditch at the side of the road.

  “Come on, Rachel.” Scott offered his hand but withdrew it as she rummaged through her musette bag. The color had drained from her face again, and she looked ready to get sick. He shook her shoulder. “We’ve got to move.”

  “Just a second.”

  Scott eyed the now-visible plane. “We don’t have time.”

  “Got it.” She held up a small book and a handful of film canisters. After she shoved both in her shoulder bag, she
scurried from the vehicle. The next moment she had her camera open and pointed to the sky. Her movements tracked the motion of the planes.

  “In the ditch, Rachel, in the ditch.” Didn’t she understand she was a sitting duck? Exposed and vulnerable? And the metallic glint of the sunlight off the front of the camera invited the enemy to aim for her. He jumped in and then tugged her after him.

  She skidded down the slight embankment, her feet not finding a grip in the soil. She shrieked then fell backward on top of him.

  His breath was forced from his lungs as she sat on his stomach. Her camera dangled against his jaw banging into his mouth, yet she seemed frozen in place. She felt so light, he’d need to make sure she ate, or the pace of war might do her in.

  A shrill whistle filled the air, overlapping the drone, followed an eternity later by the thunder of explosions he felt through the ground. Dirt and debris towered into the air before cascading back to earth. Men screamed as shrapnel embedded in the men unlucky enough to be close to the detonation.

  Rachel shuddered and covered her ears. Scott rolled, placing himself on top of her, sheltering her as best he could.

  A second wave of planes flew by dropping more bombs.

  Each explosion seemed to roll through him. More screams followed by moans.

  How close were they?

  He didn’t dare look around since moving would be foolhardy and create a target for the pilots.

  He felt a vibration as Rachel twisted beneath him, her mouth moving. The words didn’t reach him. His ears were filled with the echoing concussions of the detonations.

  At synchronized intervals death and destruction rained about them.

  He pushed her head down.

  Long minutes passed, and then the silence became real enough to touch.

  Rachel shuddered, and he eased to the side.

  He eased up, then helped her. Her eyes were wide, shock enlarging her pupils, her cheeks slack. He traced his hand down her cheek, then leaned closer to hear her words.

  “We’re alive?”

  “Yes.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and held on. He memorized the moment. The feel of her tucked next to him, then tipped her chin up and pulled her close. His lips settled on hers, and he deepened the kiss as she matched his fervor. He needed to end this. Put a stop to the kiss before it got out of control. But all he could think was how close he had come to losing her. One misplaced bomb and they’d both have died.

  Tyler stumbled toward them, shock pulling down his face.

  Scott jerked away from Rachel but not before he noticed her touch her lips.

  Several cars were stopped in front of them, a half-track smoldering in flames. He tried not to imagine what had happened to the men who had been in it. The fields on either side of the road were decimated, civilians bloodied and still. Moans filled the air with a mournful wail. Men writhed not ten yards from the jeep, while others lay still . . . too still.

  “We have to get out of here.” Tyler pointed to the jeep. “What if they come back?”

  “He’s right.”

  Rachel nodded and scrambled up the hill to the road before he could stop her. He raced after her scanning the sky. What if the planes weren’t done? He collided with her, but she didn’t move. Her gaze was locked on a family they had passed only moments before the attack.

  She pointed to a girl, her yellow dress soaked with blood from a shrapnel wound. “We have to help her.”

  Another glance confirmed his first impression. Nothing they did would help that girl or her family. But if they didn’t move, they could all be killed.

  A lone drone buzzed, and Scott froze, then raced to the jeep. “Get this thing moving, Salmon. We need shelter.”

  “There’s no time.”

  Tyler was right, so Scott grabbed Rachel’s arm. “Back to the ditch.”

  She jerked next to him, as if in a trance. He tugged her after him. A lone Messerschmitt soared overhead, and Scott thrust Rachel’s head down as he edged toward her. He had to shield her from anything that landed near them.

  Salmon hurried across the road and slid down next to Scott. The plane got so close he could see the outline of the pilot. “Why isn’t he shooting?”

  “Maybe he got lost.” Salmon kept his head down, his words disappearing into the soil at his face.

  Rachel shook her head and then pulled her camera out and aimed it at the sky, tracing its flight with the lens.

  The plane circled back around, this time chased by an American P-38. A cheer rose from the men around them, then the convoy launched back to life. Rachel hesitated as she walked toward the child.

  Tears streaked down her cheeks. Scott touched one, but she didn’t stir.

  “She was alive. Just minutes ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would God let this happen?”

  That was a question he would never be able to answer.

  “Time to go, princess.” Tyler patted the jeep as he climbed in and started it.

  Rachel nodded but didn’t move. Scott took her hand, noting how icy her fingers were. He rubbed her hands between his, trying to ignore how delicate they were next to his longer, calloused paws. “Come on. We’ve got to stay with the convoy.”

  Rachel stared at the sky, scanning for any other sign that a plane waited to swoop down on the vehicles. Her senses spun with a horrifying mix of adrenaline, the scent of burning rubber, and dread the planes would return. The image of the little girl with the jagged metal sticking from her chest assailed her. One moment the child was alive and smiling. The next impaled by a shell.

  She shuddered as the groans and screams of the injured blended in a horrible cacophony with the yells of others to get the convoy moving. Leaving those killed felt like abandonment. Yet Tyler was right, they had to move.

  If the planes returned or others took their place, she’d join the soldiers with nowhere to hide. How many times would she find herself in this position . . . risking her life for a series of photos that might land in a newspaper?

  No, not just photos. There was much more at stake. Much more that could be destroyed by one bomb.

  The German plane had passed so quickly, she’d had a moment to adjust her camera’s settings. She prayed she’d selected the best settings in the split second she had.

  When Scott had pulled her into the ditch, she wanted to fight but couldn’t. Her body had frozen as he held her, then shifted to position himself between her and anything that might rain from the sky.

  “Rachel.”

  She snapped her attention from the sky and back to Scott. “I’m moving.”

  “Tyler is moving faster.” He gestured toward the car, and when she reached him, Tyler had the car moving forward.

  She hurried and slipped inside, clutching her camera strap with one hand and her bag with the other. “I’ll need to develop the photos when we arrive. See what I captured.”

  It took all night to push the destroyed vehicles off the road. The next morning the convoy inched forward. Each kilometer took hours as the minesweepers did their job. She wanted to believe the Germans hadn’t had time to inflict serious damage, but all around her a different story played out.

  She closed her eyes and tried to pray for those injured and the families of those killed. When the image of the girl in the yellow dress filled her mind, she snapped her eyes open to find Tyler watching her over his shoulder. The man’s attention unsettled her, maybe magnified by the fact she sensed others watching.

  As long as Scott was near, she felt safe. The moment he’d leave, she’d remember she was the lone woman in a caravan of men. A certain edge kept her from wanting to spend any time alone with Tyler. Maybe she just didn’t understand men; yet with Scott she didn’t mind.

  After a couple days the convoy reached a village. Many of the buildings stood lik
e shadowed ruins in the fading daylight. She’d get up early to take dramatic images of the first light falling on them. Right now, she longed for something to eat and a place to lie down and pretend she wasn’t in the middle of an advancing army. Funny how one moment she could practically hum like a hummingbird with an enhanced ability to sense things, and the next she felt sedated.

  As they traveled, her thoughts returned to Scott’s kiss. She had never felt the way she did about Scott. Somehow he reached a place deep inside her she hadn’t known existed. Her cheeks flushed with the intense memory.

  Tyler stopped the jeep when a group of soldiers hailed them. After examining their orders, the lead soldier motioned Scott out. “Where you headed?”

  “Following the Fifth per those orders.”

  “To do what?”

  “Work with headquarters on monuments recovery.”

  The man snorted, his face hidden in the shadow cast from his helmet. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Check with HQ. They’ll verify the orders.”

  “Love to if I knew where that was.”

  “Then I guess you have to rely on the orders.”

  “Those can be forged. Saw some last week. Germans and the Fascists will try anything to get behind the lines and access to officers.”

  Scott stayed at ease, but his hand slipped toward his hip where his pistol rested. Tyler kept his hands visible on the steering wheel. Lot of good these two did protecting her. At this rate her own army would shoot her.

  “Soldier, I’m here on orders too.” She pointed to the patch over her left jacket pocket. “See, I’m with the press. Here to take photos of our brave soldiers. Men like you.”

  “Orders.” He held out his hand, and she passed them over. He pointed at Scott. “You’re with me. You two keep the others with the vehicle.”

  His fellow soldiers trained their guns on the jeep, and Rachel tried to ignore the weapons pointed at her. This situation couldn’t get much worse unless the Germans decided now would be a good time for another bombing run. She looked at the buildings in the village that were disappearing in the dusk. The church’s steeple pierced the sky, but the bell hung as if its last cord would snap any moment, plummeting it to the ground. She didn’t want to be underneath when that happened.