by Cara Putman
“Ah, Rachel.” Scott took a step closer. “It’s somewhere.”
“I’ve looked. Everywhere.” She whispered the words through a tight throat.
“Sure. I’ve done that too. Certain I’d checked every conceivable place only to find it later. I’ll help you search.” He took another half step, then must have noticed the resting nurse because he stopped. Still he didn’t meet her gaze.
“Why would someone take it?”
“Because it’s valuable.”
Rachel stared at him. “That book?”
“You’d be surprised.” He opened his mouth as if he might say more, and Rachel waited. There had to be more to back up such a crazy claim. However, he kept his peace, then blew out a breath. “Early preparatory works have sold for good prices.”
“When the buyer knew the famous artist.”
“Someone knows your artist.”
“Nobody’s seen the book except you and me. Tyler, I don’t know who this mystery artist is. Do you?”
“I’m not sure.” His face twisted as if he battled with the idea.
“It doesn’t matter because it’s gone. And I could be reassigned any day. Then I’ll never find it.” And with it disappeared the one, slim lead she had. Rachel sank onto the edge of her cot, ignoring the squeaking canvas.
“I’m sorry. You’re sure you checked everywhere?”
She shoved another pair of socks into her bag. “Yes. How will I explain to Momma?” It had disappeared. Or been stolen. She tried to force back the thought, but with the task General Tucker had given Scott of identifying who was stealing small pieces, it was possible.
She still wondered about Scott’s reaction to the book. He acted like it was a treasure, one he couldn’t believe someone had entrusted to her. Why wouldn’t he tell her who the artist was? Wouldn’t most art experts gladly share their superior knowledge on an item? Yet Scott had buttoned up regarding the book. Had he taken it? She shook her head. That seemed as likely as Tyler acquiring it. Neither had a reason.
Scott looked at his watch. “We need to hit the road. Can I help you look tonight? After we get back? Or do you want to stay here?”
A flash of disappointment arched through her. If she left, she admitted the book was gone. Irretrievably lost.
After one last look at her cot, she grabbed her bag and camera. “I’m coming.”
Chapter 23
Renaldo’s sketchbook burned a hole through the bag at Scott’s feet.
Scott backed his thoughts up. He didn’t know for sure it was Renaldo’s sketchbook. But he would. It’s why he’d done the one thing he would have thought impossible. Then he watched her panicked hunt and said nothing, the whole time feeling like a cad.
Then when she mentioned she could be reassigned, he’d known he did the right thing. Maybe someday she’d understand and in a fairy tale forgive him.
Rachel wasn’t interested in cooperating so he’d taken the sketchbook in part to protect it. He had to know who the artist was. Maybe then he’d understand how she had acquired such a valuable item. As interested as she seemed in what he did, she still didn’t have the background necessary to identify and preserve the piece of art history. Someday it would matter as a sign of the development of an artist’s style and career. Someone with art training would know the sketches were more than doodles.
It could be Renaldo’s, Mario’s, or someone else’s. He hadn’t found a clear indication the night Rachel let him examine it. So many men had the initials RMA, and those alone didn’t indicate something as vital as nationality. He’d scoured the drawings without finding a name or other clue. Instead, it had been the overall impression and feel he’d acquired as he kept looking at them that made him think Renaldo was the creative genius crafting the sketches. But it could just as easily be Mario. Either way he valued the walk through the pages and the artist’s creative genius as he played with ideas.
Rachel stared out the jeep’s side, a look of loss cloaking her. He’d done that to her. By taking and keeping the sketchbook, he’d hurt her, the woman he’d allowed to creep into his heart.
When she found out, she would never trust him again.
He couldn’t return it. Not yet. First he had to learn whose it was and why she had it.
Now he knew how easy it would be for a soldier to lift a small piece here, another there. Had he become like the thief?
The thought kept his attention as the jeep bounced along roads. Someone was taking art from churches and small repositories. Thieves. Just like him.
He shook off the heaviness.
He was different.
He valued the art. That’s why he’d borrowed it.
The thing that aggravated him most with the disappearing art was he had no suspects. It was as if the pieces disappeared into thin air. No one ever had a description of the thief. Instead, they woke up one morning and it would be gone, when the day before it waited in its proper place.
Someone knew enough to pick small items with value.
A warm breeze threatening to take his hat rippled through the jeep as they joined a small convoy of four vehicles headed to the village. It was impossible to tell if anyone trailed them in this crush. Occasionally Tyler lagged behind so he could race over hills, willing the vehicle to fly over each ridge faster than the last. The jeep sailed over another hill, and Rachel gasped when it jolted to the ground.
“Slow down.”
Tyler pushed harder on the accelerator. “We’re nuts to be out here in a convoy. We’re sitting ducks in contested territory.”
“General Tucker’s staff assured me it’s safe.”
“Maybe yesterday, Lieutenant. This morning’s different.”
What did Tyler know? Scott glanced into the backseat. Rachel’s face had taken on a shade of green, whether from Tyler’s words or his driving Scott couldn’t tell. “It can’t be that bad or they wouldn’t have sent other vehicles.”
“You’ve never been to the front.” Tyler scanned the sky, then focused on the road. “Lines don’t stay nice and neat. Get on the wrong side and you’re dead.”
Scott pointed down the road. “There’s the village. Let’s do what we need to do and head back.”
As Tyler slowed a fraction, Scott examined the town. It wasn’t large. Maybe forty homes, a few businesses, and a church. To the east of town stood a villa he’d heard served as a collection point for art. He’d need to confirm that gossip. Then he met Rachel’s gaze. She was fearless, yet he had to keep her safe. That was his task.
The distant pounding of artillery shells didn’t grow closer as they approached the town. “See? Safe and sound.”
A barrage of bullets assaulted the vehicles in front of them.
A half-track spun out of control, crashing off the road. A platoon of men swarmed from the back of another canvas-topped truck, using the vehicles as protection as long as possible. Then they fanned along the front of the buildings. Brick by brick, man by man, they worked their way into the buildings.
Time slowed. Crawled. Limped. Scott waited and prayed.
His pistol appeared in his hand without conscious thought. Ineffective as a child’s toy, it rested there.
A bullet punctured the windshield, spiderwebbing it before lodging in the backseat.
Rachel screamed and Tyler cursed.
“Get us off the road!” Scott turned to search for Rachel. He couldn’t do anything to save her. God, help us!
“I’m trying.” Tyler took the jeep through curlicues as he tried to turn it around. There was a muffled explosion. “At least we’re at the end of this convoy.”
Gears ground as the trucks in front tried to get out of the road.
“What is going on?” Rachel’s voice was muffled by her crouch, hands over her head holding the helmet in place.
“We got ahead of the lines.” Tyler’s
words strangled at the end as he sent the jeep through another maneuver.
The world seemed to tunnel as Scott glanced through what remained of the windshield.
He saw a glint from the top of a building. “Sniper. Three o’clock.”
Tyler grunted. “Right, Sherlock. And he has friends.”
Several more soldiers scuttled along the edge of a block of buildings. Each wore the right uniform. So why didn’t they find the shooters?
Tyler kept the vehicle moving, watching over his shoulder as he drove.
Whack!
Scott jolted as a blaze of fire burned along his left shoulder. He slumped to the side.
Rachel screamed. “Scott!” She reached for him around the seat.
“Stay down.” He gritted the words through his teeth as he clapped a hand over his shoulder. It burned. Man, it burned. Was this his penance for taking the book? “I’m grazed. That’s all.”
Her wide eyes watched him. “There’s blood.”
Scott groaned. “Nothing a bandage won’t cover.”
Tyler rocked the vehicle to a stop beneath a tree. “Had to pick a village without a grove around it.” He examined Scott’s shoulder. “Looks like you’re right. Just grazed. You are one lucky man.”
“Protected.”
“What?”
Scott forced a grin as he responded to Rachel’s strained word. “Protected by God.”
He didn’t want to think what would have happened if the bullet had strained a few inches to the right and into his chest.
The fighting continued in front of them.
Rachel slipped from the jeep, her camera clutched in front of her, secured around her neck by its strap.
Scott stiffened, fighting the nausea. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To take photos.”
Scott and Tyler exchanged a look, and Tyler exited the jeep and grabbed her. “Hope you’ve got a good lens. This is as close as you’re getting.” Tyler gripped her shoulders.
She struggled a moment, then turned to Scott. “Tell him to let me go.”
“And have you killed? Not a chance.” The thought of her this close about stole his breath. He hadn’t wanted her anywhere near the fighting, and now they lingered outside the range. The saving grace was that the snipers didn’t seem to have anything stronger than a rifle. Otherwise they’d all be dead.
Rachel took a few photographs, then played nurse on his shoulder. He’d been right—the bullet had only grazed him. Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like blazes when she used supplies in their first-aid kit to clean the wound. By the time she finished tormenting him with her touch and nursing, he’d flushed hot and cold so many times, he needed a shower and distance . . . lots of it.
“It’s quiet now.” Her soft words pulled his gaze from her hands messing with the bandage.
Scott listened a minute, then nodded. “You’re right. Where’s Tyler?”
“Right here, boss.” The man reappeared. “They’ve got the village contained. Medic will take a look at you where he’s set up. We were lucky. The lead driver was killed, but nobody else was seriously injured this time.”
“Guess we should move out.”
They all climbed back in the jeep, and Tyler drove them into town.
Rachel pulled her camera apart so it ballooned in front of her, ready for her to frame and shoot photos. “Glad to see this village is almost intact.”
She was right. As Scott glanced around, it was clear the town had avoided most of the harm of war. As they approached the center of town, Tyler slowed and then parked. A few curtains were pushed aside with small faces looking out. Rachel must have noticed as well because she pulled the camera to her eye and took a couple pictures. Then she slipped away to shoot more and he followed. No way he was letting her out of his sight.
She had a gift and used the camera like an artist used a canvas, to paint an image for the public to engage with the personal side of war. To see the individuals, families, and communities impacted. Sometimes that meant a soldier. Other times the civilians left after the battle passed through their backyards and homes.
The medic was involved with injured soldiers, and that was fine with Scott. He’d recover in no time compared to some of the soldiers the man worked to save.
Scott led her to the church. If he found the parish priest, he could soon connect with the art community.
The door to the small edifice stood closed but opened when he pushed a shoulder into the heavy oak door. The engravings on the door captured his attention. A craftsman of high skill had worked intricate details into the figures that graced each of the panes.
“Beautiful, sì?” A priest rose from his place in front of a wall of lit candles.
Scott nodded. “Exquisite. Who made them?”
“A humble woodworker graced the church with the story.”
In the topmost panel Scott made out a crowd at the foot of a hill, with one man speaking. “Jesus?”
“Sì.” The priest stepped closer, running his fingers across the carvings. “Hundreds of years later the story still exists for eyes to see.” He turned and smiled. “The wisdom of the Messiah has much to teach.”
“The Beatitudes?”
“Come. I doubt you came to ask after the door.”
“No.” But if he’d known to add it to the list of art to check, it would have been reason enough. “I’m with the Allied army.”
“So I see.” The man waved at his uniform. “Thank you for freeing our village. Why are you here? At my church?”
“I work with local officials and priests to find and repair historic buildings or art.”
“Our heritage.”
“Yes, Padre.”
“Come.”
Scott followed the father into the small sanctuary, vaguely aware Rachel continued to take photos. Light filtered through the stained glass in rainbow waves of color. Dust danced in the air, and the faint scent of incense tinged the space. He paused and looked toward the altar and the cross with Christ hanging on it. The image caused him to remember all Christ had suffered on his behalf. So much suffering around him. Did it help them to remember Christ had suffered too?
“It is good to remember, no?”
“Yes, very good.” More so on a day he needed to beg for forgiveness. Scott sank onto a pew and waited as the father claimed a chair from behind the altar.
“The pew is hard on my back.” The priest adjusted the cushion and then sank onto the chair. “Why here?”
Scott studied his hands a moment. “Men and women in the United States and Britain have created lists. These lists contain items to be preserved if possible. This church is on that list.”
“This small place?” The father scoffed. “We treasure it, but there is little for the world to value.”
“Someone disagrees. Maybe it’s your beautiful doors. Maybe it’s the age. I am glad it survived.”
“As are we.” The priest studied him, curiosity in his eyes as he leaned toward Scott.
“I need to work with local art superintendents. Who fills that role around here?”
The man shrugged. “Most is under Florence. Renaldo Adamo made trips, then the fighting arrived.”
“Where can I find Renaldo?”
“I don’t know. I’ll show you the art.”
Rachel sensed Scott’s excitement as they headed back to headquarters. Even with an injury and shattered windshield, he looked energized.
“Bring everything tomorrow. Don’t leave anything behind.”
Tyler thumped the steering wheel. “We heard you the first six times.”
“Why?” Rachel leaned forward to make sure she heard his answer against the wind.
“If the father’s correct, we won’t head back. If we had our things, we wouldn’t drive back now.” He rubbed his hands wi
th the glee of a child at Christmas. “We’re getting close.”
“About time,” Tyler grumbled. “I’m ready to get this assignment behind us.”
“Not sure I can accomplish that, but if we reach the art storehouses, our real work begins. Pray the Germans didn’t take anything.”
“Waste of breath.” Tyler harrumphed and pulled out a cigarette. He jammed it between his teeth but didn’t light it.
When they returned to headquarters, Tyler dropped Rachel off at her tent. Seeing the heavy canvas ruffled by the wind brought back a heavy sense of loss. She rubbed her upper arms, then forced her steps inside. She needed to face the reality the sketchbook had disappeared.
It was just a book. She’d watched men die today, so this shouldn’t upset her. The small battle gave her perspective she’d lacked.
After she pushed through the flap, she approached her cot. Her bags sat on the cot, the bedroll in a neat roll. The other cots held bags and bedrolls too, except for one tucked in a corner. A nurse lay curled up on that one, catching a little shut-eye before her shift.
Rachel’s respect and admiration for the women who served as nurses had elevated during her time sharing quarters. Their dedication to their patients humbled her. The conditions they lived and worked in were so far below what they’d find in the States, but they hadn’t complained.
Who had packed her things? Did everything look so tidy because the nurses were moving out?
That news would be what Scott wanted. The skirmish and whatever the priest had said had transformed him from the lost man of the morning to one energized.
She sank onto the cot, ignoring the unique squish of the taut canvas stretched on the frame. She pulled out a V-mail letter and drafted a few lines for Momma, her thoughts turning home.
If she found her father, she could finally ask him why he never came. Would his answer fill the hole in her heart? The ache of never having a daddy?
She’d watched other students at her school interact with their fathers. Watched families in their building. Always the outsider. Always longing to know the hug of a father. Always wondering why she didn’t have one.