The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,100
letters from them. They said they’re very sorry for what they did to you.”
Clay’s eye twitched, and he took the letters. Just how much of his embarrassing life story had they shared with this stranger?
Miss Lindstrom twisted her purse strap. “They dearly wish to see you, but they’ll understand if you don’t want to.”
Clay’s brain felt full of mud. He wasn’t ready, wasn’t sure he’d ever be, and he set the letters on the bedside table. “I don’t need to read these.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrows tented, and she blinked a lot. “They’ll understand, but please keep the letters. Maybe someday you’ll be ready.”
Clay sighed and fixed his gaze on her. “That wasn’t what I meant. I don’t need to read the letters to know that I need to see my brothers.”
“You do?” A bright smile bloomed. Miss Lindstrom seemed to be taking this case awful personally for an objective Red Cross worker. “Right now?”
“Right now? They’re here?” His gaze flew to the door, but he didn’t see them.
“They’re waiting outside, but . . . maybe another day.”
All the air and all the resistance drained out of him. “They’ve come a long way, haven’t they?”
“In more ways than you know,” she said in a soft voice.
Clay nodded to her. “I’ll see them now.”
“Thank you.” She darted forward as if to hug him but stopped. “They’ll be so happy.”
Clay groaned as apprehension and anticipation battled in his heart. Three years had passed. Three years of pain and misery and division. Today it could change—or it could continue. He alone carried the key that could turn the course of his family.
Was this how Joseph had felt in Egypt, waiting for his brothers to be ushered in to his presence?
Miss Lindstrom opened the door and beckoned. Two tall blond officers appeared, one in a navy-blue uniform and one in an olive drab Ike jacket and khaki trousers—Wyatt and Adler.
Clay’s chest constricted, and the apprehension crowded out the anticipation.
Miss Lindstrom pressed her hand to Adler’s cheek, and he kissed her forehead.
Well, that explained why she’d taken the case personally.
His brothers stepped inside the ward and removed their caps. Slowly, cautiously, they approached, sizing him up.
Clay didn’t stand as he should for officers, didn’t smile as he should for family. But hadn’t Joseph tested his brothers three times to see if their repentance was genuine? Nothing wrong with making his brothers squirm.
They stood at the foot of his bed, hats in hand, their faces as familiar as his own, yet changed, older . . . and etched with remorse.
That was enough squirming. “Howdy.”
“Howdy,” they said.
The sound of their voices unraveled his last knot of resentment.
Wyatt gestured to the letters. “I wish you had read our letters first.”
“Wouldn’t change anything.”
His brothers winced and exchanged a glance.
Clay sighed. Why wasn’t he communicating clearly? “You both have letters coming. I wrote them before D-day, before I could see for myself whether or not you were sorry—”
“We are sorry.” Adler’s gaze stretched out to him. “You have no idea how—”
Clay held up one hand, feeling very much like Joseph on his throne. “I wrote those letters to tell you I’ve forgiven you fully and completely. Both of you.”
Words weren’t enough. Clay swung his feet to the floor and pushed to standing.
Both brothers took half a step backward, as if expecting blows, then stood their ground.
Wyatt was closest. Clay clasped his oldest brother’s shoulders and drilled his gaze deep into Wyatt’s hesitant gray-blue eyes. Last time Clay had seen him, Wyatt had been running for his life, on his way to steal Clay’s savings.
Everything buckled inside, and Clay tugged Wyatt into a tight embrace.
His brother stiffened, then sagged and hugged Clay back. “I don’t—”
“No more of that. No more.” He released Wyatt and turned to Adler, whose sky blue eyes widened.
Clay refused to think about how he’d last seen Adler, and he fell on his middle brother, holding him as firmly as he’d held the rope on Pointe du Hoc, as if his life depended on it, as if the life of his whole family depended on it.
“But—but—” Adler’s voice sounded thick and husky. “I ruined your life.”
“We both did,” Wyatt said.
“My life isn’t ruined.” He stepped back and grabbed Adler’s arm, Wyatt’s arm. “It isn’t. It’s different, but it’s good. It’s very good.”
Adler shook his head. “But—”
“Sit down.” Clay sat on the side of the bed and patted the mattress. “I reckon officers can