by Sarah Sundin
Perhaps he should fear what would happen after death. He’d ignored every altar call growing up, and now after what he’d done, no altar call would pry open those pearly gates. Whether he died today or fifty years from now, he’d sealed his fate. No use fretting.
Most men worried about their families, but Adler was already dead to the Paxtons. No use fretting about that either.
Adler checked his breathing. Even and regular. Because he was free. Free of worry and fear. Free to fly over Nazi territory as easily as he’d flown over California.
So why did freedom feel as oppressive as his oxygen mask?
“What a great first mission.” Nick strolled beside Adler in the cold night air. “Not a single loss.”
“Not a single victory either.” The 357th had taken a leisurely cruise over Normandy and the Pas de Calais, marred only by light and inaccurate flak lobbed up by German antiaircraft gunners on the ground.
“Don’t be too eager to see the enemy.”
Adler adjusted his uniform jacket. Couldn’t make ace unless he did, and he couldn’t start his ACES company without that title.
Nick opened the door to the officers’ club, and a scratchy version of “Bugle Call Rag” greeted them from the phonograph. Dozens of officers jitterbugged with local ladies, and dozens more crowded the bar. Some of the girls gave Adler the eye, but he ignored them. Thank goodness Nick didn’t drink or chase skirts.
A small table stood alone and unloved beside the bar. “There’s the coffee.”
Nick followed him. “You’re a mystery.”
“How’s that?” The muscles at the back of his neck tensed in anticipation.
But Nick looked thoughtful rather than prying. “You strike me as the kind of man who’d drink to forget.”
If only he could. Drinking just made him remember. He shrugged and poured coffee.
“Hi, Adler. Hi, Nick.” Violet Lindstrom pushed over a cart, her cheeks pink from the cold.
Adler almost missed the cup. “Hi, Miss—Violet.”
“Miss Violet? How very Texan of you.” She laughed and shifted a tray of donuts from the cart to the table. “The donuts are going quickly. Wish I could say the same of the coffee.”
“We’re doing our part.” Nick poured a cup.
“You’re drinking coffee?” Violet stared into Adler’s cup, and her smile grew.
Apparently she’d pegged him as the drinking kind too. “I like coffee.”
She raised her gaze, and her lips parted.
Before she could ask if he also liked dancing, he gave her a grin. “I’ll let you get back to work. Say, Nick, let’s find a game of darts.” He charged into the crowd, only slowing when Violet wheeled her empty cart out the main door.
“You should’ve asked her to dance,” Nick said from behind him.
“Nope.”
“Too tall for you?”
Her height was one of her most attractive features, and she had many. “Hardly. She’s too . . . She wants to be a missionary.”
Nick barked out a laugh. “You don’t even go to church.”
“Nope.” He’d almost said, “Not for almost three years,” but Nick didn’t need another piece of the puzzle.
Rosario stumbled over, his dark eyes bleary, a shot glass in each hand. “Santa! Paxton! Good to see you, old pals.”
“Good to see you too, buddy.” Adler patted him on the shoulder.
“What’s that?” Rosie stared into Adler’s cup as Violet had, but with a frown. “Coffee? Can’t have that.” He lifted a shot glass.
“No!” Adler covered the cup with his free hand.
Whiskey sloshed over his hand and onto the floor.
The smell assaulted him.
Nick put his arm around Rosie’s shoulder. “Thanks for the offer, but someone’s got to keep his wits about him tonight.”
“Glad it’s not me.” Rosie ambled away.
Alcohol fumes snaked into Adler’s brain, seeking memories in the darkest corners.
That summer night in Texas. Ellen standing in the door of the garage. Dr. Hill’s daughter. Clay’s girlfriend.
Ellen had held up a bottle of whiskey. “Daddy says you should have a good stiff drink. It’ll help you through.”
Adler snatched the bottle and downed a good quarter of it, practiced and steady, and Ellen gave him an appreciative smile. Too appreciative.
Before that, Adler had confined his drinking to campus. Never in Kerrville.
Ellen sat beside him while Adler tried to pick the lock to the truck door so he could hunt down Wyatt, cursing Clay for preventing him from killing Wyatt earlier.
Of all the vices he’d accumulated, why hadn’t he learned to pick locks? The contents of the bottle had inched lower, and Ellen’s skirt had inched higher.
“Adler?”
His breath hitched, and his eyes fought to focus. Nick. The officers’ club.
“You still want to play darts?” Nick’s brow crinkled.
“Yeah. Yeah.” Adler shook the booze off his hand. If only he had a rag. Didn’t dare wipe that stink onto his uniform.
On the far side of the room, a couple of men played darts where the crowd was thin, and Adler worked his way over.
“Stop!” A feminine voice broke through the music and chatter.
An officer had a redhead pinned to the wall, his hands too high, his mouth on her neck. She pushed against his chest, but he didn’t let up.
Something hot burned and baked and broiled every muscle. Adler grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him back. “Riggs. Should’ve known.”
“What the—”
Adler slammed him into the wall.
Riggs shrieked, and something crashed on the floor.
The coffee. He’d spilled it down Riggs’s front. Good. “See how you like it, pinned against the wall, can’t move.”
Riggs cursed him, his face distorted. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Adler shoved him harder against the wall. “You can’t just grab a girl, touch her, take what you want.”
“Break it up, boys.” A hand clamped on Adler’s shoulder. Major Shapiro. “What are you doing, Paxton?”
“He’s protecting me from him.” The redhead pointed at Riggs, her face mottled.
Protecting? Protecting? Adler protecting a woman?
“Is that right, Riggs?” Shapiro set his other hand on Riggs’s shoulder.
Riggs shoved at Adler in vain. “I was just having fun.”
“He had his hands all over me.” The redhead straightened her dress. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
Shapiro sniffed Riggs’s breath. “Go sleep it off. We’ll discuss your punishment in the morning.”
Adler released the weasel. Riggs stumbled away through a gaping crowd, rubbing the back of his head.
“As for you, Paxton,” Shapiro said.
Adler’s breath chuffed out, his vision doubled.
“He hasn’t had a drop,” Nick said. “He did what any gentleman would do. Come on, Adler. Let’s get out of here.”
“Good idea,” Shapiro said. “Go calm down, Paxton.”
Calm down. Calm down. That was what Daddy had told him when they took Oralee’s body from the ravine, when they returned to the house to find Wyatt had fled with Mama and Daddy’s approval, when Daddy locked the truck doors and refused to give him the key.
Calm down. Calm down. He’d gone to the garage, determined not to take that advice.
Nick had his hand on Adler’s upper back, guiding him past the curious faces to the door.
Cold air. Darkness. They failed. Failed to numb the pain. Failed to hide the secrets.
“What happened in there?” Nick asked.
Adler strode down the path. “You saw. You saw what Riggs did.”
“Yeah. Then I saw you fly into a murderous rage.”
“You can’t treat a woman like that, like I—” That wasn’t entirely true. He hadn’t forced himself on Ellen. She was willing, very
willing, cooing that she’d only dated Clay to please her daddy, that Adler was the one she loved.
She’d offered, and he’d taken—taken what he really wanted—revenge on his younger brother for spoiling his revenge on his older brother.
“Like you what?” Nick said, too calm, too firm.
“Nothing.” He walked faster, fists pumping by his side. “Lay off me.”
“How long are you going to keep lying to yourself?”
“I said, lay off.”
“You’re lying, you know, saying it’s nothing, when it’s definitely something.”
Adler glared at him. “I’ll tell you what it is—it’s none of your doggone business.”
Nick matched his pace and his glare. “Except it is my business when I have to fly with you. If you’re not careful, someday you’ll blow up and it’ll be a lot messier than a broken coffee cup and a knot on Riggs’s noggin.”
Adler let out a choice word and wheeled on him. “You want to know?”
Nick stared him down. “Yes, I do.”
A sharp laugh. “No, you don’t. Trust me.”
“Try me.”
Adler shook his head, fast and hard, and he marched away.
“Fine. If you won’t tell me, tell God.”
Another laugh, even sharper. “Don’t you think he already knows?”
“Yes, so stop avoiding him. You’re due for a wrestling match.”
“A what?” Adler turned on his heel. Nick made no sense at all.
But he was nodding as if he did, the corners of his mouth turning up. “You seem to know the story of Jacob and Rachel. I’m guessing you went to church at some time.”
“What of it?”
“Like Jacob, you ran away from home. Like Jacob, you don’t want anything to do with God.”
“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.”
More of that infuriating nodding. “Jacob was a lying, cheating, manipulative thief, and God chose him to be the father of his people, the leader of the faith.”
A squirming sensation, as if someone had dropped ants into his shirt. “That’s where the similarity ends.”
Nick shrugged. “All I know is God likes wrestling matches, and I have a hunch you’re itching for one.”
The last time he’d wrestled was with Clay at the ravine while Wyatt escaped. He’d lost that day, and he didn’t intend to lose again.
Adler stepped closer to Nick and raised one finger. “Listen. The only thing I’m itching for is peace and quiet. I’d suggest you give it to me.”
Nick held up both hands. “I’ll lay off, but I’m not the one who can give you peace.”
One last glare, and Adler stormed off into the night.
Despite what Nick thought, no one could give him peace.
13
Leiston Army Airfield
Sunday, February 13, 1944
Rufus Tate strode into the Aeroclub kitchen. “Hurry up, ladies. The planes will land in less than an hour.”
Violet gave him a sweet smile as she set out the coffee urns. “We’ll be ready, sir.”
Not that it would be easy. The Aeroclub was already busy, plus she had to prepare refreshments for the returning pilots on short notice. Tomorrow she’d talk to the flying control officer and request at least two hours’ notice before the planes were scheduled to land.
Sylvia Haywood fried donuts, her hair tied up in a red kerchief. Kitty laid cooled donuts on trays. Rosalind Weaver made sandwiches for the snack bar, and young Millie Clark swished into the kitchen and out with a tray of sandwiches.
And Rufus Tate was in the way.
Violet edged past him and opened a cupboard. Where was it? “Kitty, did you move the coffee?”
“No, it’s right—it was there last night. We had three sacks.”
“You ran out of coffee?” Mr. Tate’s mustache twitched. “You need to be careful.”
Kitty opened and shut cupboards, her mouth tight. “I keep careful inventory, sir. We had more than enough to last until our next shipment.”
The field director harrumphed.
“Maybe someone stole it.” Sylvia rubbed sweat off her cheek with her sleeve.
“Stole it? Why?” Kitty said. “The men get plenty of coffee in the mess and the clubs.”
Rosalind chuckled. “Ever hear of the black market? And this station isn’t quite secure.”
Violet frowned. “But the English drink tea, not coffee.”
“Some like coffee.” Rosalind set another sandwich on the tray. “And it’s frightfully dear, frightfully scarce.”
“Never mind all that,” Mr. Tate said. “The boys will be here soon, cold and tired. They need coffee.”
“I’ll see if I can borrow some from the mess.” Kitty dashed out the side door.
Violet flung open more cupboards. They had plenty of tea. Why hadn’t the thief taken that instead? “Tea will have to do.”
Mr. Tate peered around her shoulder. “Our boys don’t drink tea.”
She squeezed around him to the coffee urn. “At least it’s hot and invigorating.”
“Just when I thought this club was shaping up.” He marched out the door.
Violet set her teeth and got to work making three urns of tea. She and Kitty had done their best. They’d ordered books and recreational equipment but had only received dribs and drabs. They’d begged and bought and borrowed a mishmash of furniture. They’d painted the walls and hung curtains. But it still wasn’t enough for Mr. Tate.
Kitty slammed the door. “The mess won’t help. Not one lousy bean.”
“Oh dear.”
Kitty jutted out her jaw and mimicked a muscular man crossing fisted arms. “Sorry, lady. The mess gives the boys coffee before the mission. You dolls give it to ’em afterward.”
“Well, thanks for trying.”
The ladies loaded three carts with urns, donuts, sugar, and milk to make the tea more palatable for the tea-teetotalers.
Violet took off her apron and put on her jacket. Then she, Kitty, and Sylvia each wheeled a cart out the side door and headed for the three squadron pilots’ rooms.
She shivered in the cold, but she didn’t have time to grab her overcoat. It was four thirty, and P-51s already circled in the clear sky. They were such pretty little planes, long and slim, unlike the P-47s with their cute, squat, round noses.
If only they’d painted the planes in colors other than olive drab above and dull gray below. But the Eighth Air Force was more concerned with camouflage than beauty.
Had they lost anyone today? The group hadn’t suffered losses on their first two missions, but they hadn’t achieved victories either. Apparently those went hand in hand.
She tried not to think of anyone shooting at a tall blue-eyed Texan.
Yesterday evening Violet had held a meeting about the children’s programs. Adler hadn’t come. Few men had, and they had no interest in activities other than baseball, even after she’d shown them the boxes of craft materials her mother had mailed, donated by the ladies of Salina.
Only Nick Westin had taken her side.
Violet entered Adler’s squadron headquarters building. Already four pilots in leather jackets were being interrogated by four staff officers in olive drab dress uniforms.
At a table in the back, Violet set out the refreshments.
Four more pilots strolled in and made a beeline for the table, yanking off gloves.
A sandy-haired pilot grabbed a cup and opened the spigot on the urn. “Coffee! You’re a lifesaver, Miss Lindstrom.”
“Actually, we’re—”
“What the—” He stared into the cup. “Miss, I think this needed to brew longer.”
“Dimwit.” His buddy jabbed him in the side. “That’s tea. Wrong pot.”
“Where’s the other one?”
“I’m sorry.” Violet clasped her hands in front of her squirming stomach. “We’re out of coffee.”
Another four pilots crowded around, including Adler.
“What do yo
u mean, you’re out?” That awful Riggs.
Violet kept her expression sympathetic and apologetic. “I’m sorry. I made tea instead.”
“Tea?” One man made a face as if she’d offered pickle juice. “I’ve been sitting on my . . . on my tail for over three hours in the freezing cold over enemy territory, and you’re out of coffee?”
“Leave her alone, boys.” Adler’s voice was a welcome tonic. “Drink your tea and stop fussing.”
“Tea’s a sissy drink,” Riggs said.
Nick Westin poured himself a cup. “Tea helped the RAF win the Battle of Britain. If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for us.”
“Yeah?” The sandy-haired pilot frowned at his half-full cup. “Just think what they could’ve done with coffee in their veins. Come on, Red Cross.”
Violet pressed her lips together so they wouldn’t quiver. She’d done her best.
“Leave her alone.” Adler’s voice went hard. “She said she’s out.”
“And if I don’t leave her alone, what’re you going to do?” Sandy-Hair turned right into Adler’s face. “Rough me up like you roughed up Riggs?”
The room fell silent, and Violet held her breath. She’d heard about that dustup.
Adler’s face darkened until it was unrecognizable. “Don’t try me.”
Violet’s emotions hovered between fear and gratitude. He was a dangerous man. But like her cowboy heroes, he was only dangerous to bullies.
“Righto, chaps.” A man with curly dark hair spoke with an affected English accent. “Shall we all have a smashing good cup of tea, what what?”
The men chuckled and stocked up on refreshments.
“Thank you.” Violet relaxed and smiled at the men, particularly Nick and Adler.
Adler helped himself last, but he gave her only a brief nod, his gaze flat and disconnected and still dark.
Something was wrong, and her breathing stilled. “Adler, are you all right?”
His eyes flew open wide. “What? Yeah. Of course.”
She gave him a smile. “We missed you at the meeting yesterday.”
“Yeah.” He studied his donut, and his forehead scrunched up. “I won’t be able to help after all.”
“All right.” But her heart sank. Something told her he wasn’t all right at all.