The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,48
boy.”
“Nope. Found her dead.”
Clay sucked in a breath. “Dead?”
“Yep. The school commander wrote to Rudder and the COs of the other units at Fort Pierce at the time. They found the girl raped, stabbed, and dumped in a swamp.”
Raped? Stabbed? Like Leah. Clammy air clogged his lungs, and he got to his feet. Where was Rudder? He needed to talk to him.
“Pax?” Gene frowned.
Clay motioned for his buddy to come with him, and he marched back to the rail fence.
“What’s the matter?” Gene sat on the fence.
“Wonder if it’s the same guy who attacked Leah. She was—she was stabbed.” He’d never told anyone she’d also been raped.
Gene’s face scrunched up in thought. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence. There were fifty thousand soldiers at Camp Forrest.”
“Yeah. True.” Clay pulled off his helmet and ran his hand through his damp hair.
Telling Rudder wouldn’t serve much of a point. Only five hundred men had gone to Florida.
But what if Leah’s assailant and the Florida murderer were the same man? What if he was in Cornwall? Clay hadn’t seen the attacker’s face, but the attacker had seen Clay.
His chest squeezed with fear, but he puffed it away. If it were true, the rapist had already had plenty of opportunity to attack Clay. Besides, Clay was going to die in battle, not at the hand of a Ranger.
“That poor girl,” Gene said. “Only seventeen.”
“I know.” Leah was only eighteen. Was she keeping safe?
Half a dozen letters waited at the home in Bude where he and Gene were billeted. When the mail finally caught up to the Rangers, he and Gene had decided to save it for a Christmas treat.
Now it would be bittersweet. In Florida, a family’s worst fears had come true.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1943
Clay pulled the five-button olive drab sweater over his head and tugged it into place. Pretty snug. Mama didn’t know how much muscle the Rangers had put on him.
But those muscles, chilled in the under-heated Cornish home, softened at the warmth of the sweater and the thought of Mama knitting and praying for him.
Sitting in Mrs. Trevithick’s chintz armchair, Gene held up a red-and-blue striped necktie. “What was Betty Jo thinking?”
Clay laughed. “Unless that’s bulletproof, that ain’t gonna help you.”
“No fooling.” Gene knotted it around his neck. “Maybe I’ll wear it under my uniform on D-day to remind me what I’m fighting for—going home.”
“That’s what I like about you, G. M.—your patriotism.” Clay unfolded the note from Mama. She hoped he didn’t mind receiving only a sweater. They’d sent a nice check to Leah for the layette and the nursery.
Layette? Nursery? Babies needed lots of stuff, didn’t they? At least Leah would have more money from him now.
Rudder and Taylor had been pleased with Clay’s leadership the day before—and had been appalled at Holman’s drunkenness on duty. Holman had been busted down to private, and Clay was promoted to corporal and leader of the rifle squad.
“Grandma’s ribbon candy.” Gene held up a box and wrinkled his nose. “Wish we’d opened gifts last night. I could have brought it to the children’s party this morning.”
“Reckon you won’t have trouble getting rid of candy.” The kids had enjoyed the party the Rangers had thrown, with Santa Claus, cartoons, and gobs of candy mailed from the States. Since sweets were heavily rationed in Britain, the children were thrilled.
Clay picked up a brown-paper parcel from Leah, postmarked November 1 and labeled “Don’t open until Christmas.” He’d obeyed and hauled it over on the Queen Elizabeth.
Inside lay an olive drab scarf. He looped it around his neck and tossed one end over his shoulder. In her note Leah stressed that she’d purchased the yarn from her library earnings. When would she feel comfortable spending his money—their money?
She’d also written him a Christmas poem, decorated around the edges with crayon bells and candles and angels and mangers, compliments of the Bellamy girls.
Light on the snow, through a Child, in our hearts,
On the hearth, in his words, in ours.
Song in the bells, by the Host, on our lips,
Ringing bright, winging high, bringing hope.
Life in a tree, through the Cross, in our souls,
Ever green, evermore, ever His.
My, how he preferred that to a necktie. In the hands of his dreamy wife, words were more than just playthings.
He found the next letter, dated November 15. It wasn’t like her to leave long gaps between letters. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?
Clay ripped open the envelope. Was something wrong?
Dear Clay,
This is a difficult letter to write. You have given me your