The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,67

from her “good” gray dress from the orphanage. “Go take care of the baby, and I’ll get the frijoles refritos cooking. The beans soaked all night.”

“Thank you—Mama.” The word was difficult but came easier each day.

Leah settled down with Helen in the nursery chair. Rita Sue said bottle feeding was the modern and civilized way to feed a baby, but Dr. Adams and the mother’s book from the Department of Public Health insisted nursing was healthier for the baby—and far less expensive. Leah enjoyed how her daughter molded to her body and heart and soul when she nursed.

After Helen was satiated, Leah changed the wet diaper and dropped it in the pail. Tomorrow morning she’d wash diapers again. Thank goodness Rita Sue let Leah use her washing machine and wringer.

“Here she is, all fresh and happy,” Leah said.

“There’s my girl.” Mrs. Paxton made faces at Helen. “She’s always so bright-eyed in the late morning. See how she watches us?”

“I know.” Leah kissed a tiny hand and passed the baby into her grandmother’s eager arms. “What can I do for dinner?”

“Nothing for now.” Mrs. Paxton sat in the rocking chair, and Leah pulled up a kitchen chair.

The living room looked much homier. The Paxtons had brought Clay’s little tabletop radio, his violin, and a couple dozen books, which Leah was devouring. They’d also brought some of Clay’s boyhood toys and books for Helen.

“We made the tortillas yesterday, and we’ll start the carnitas and sauce in an hour.” Mrs. Paxton waved a rattle in front of Helen. “This is Clay’s favorite enchilada recipe. Mind you, don’t tell him you’re learning my secrets. Just surprise him when he comes home.”

Leah tried to smile, but it wobbled.

Mrs. Paxton lowered her eyebrows. “Don’t worry. He’ll come home.”

“Yes, Mama.” He’d taken to writing daily, and so had she. Each morning could bring the invasion, and after that, how long would he have?

“Has he . . . has he ever mentioned a strange dream?” Mrs. Paxton’s brow furrowed.

With the truth unlocked, relief flowed out. “Yes. He says it comes weekly.”

“Even now? But everything’s changed.” She rocked harder. “For so long, he didn’t want to live. But now he has you. Now he has his daughter, his own blood.”

Leah’s heart ripped. Mrs. Paxton thought Helen was Clay’s blood—hers too—the only child of her only child. It was a lie.

Leah clutched her arms across her belly. “Oh, Mrs. Paxton, I have to tell you the truth.”

“Not Mrs. Paxton. Mama.”

“No. Mrs. Paxton. I’m not really your daughter.”

“You’re married to my son, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but he only married me because of the baby.”

Mrs. Paxton’s mouth rounded, then she dropped her chin. “I see. I—at least you did the right thing and—”

“Oh! Not like that.” Leah’s fingers dug into the too-soft flesh around her waist. “Please don’t think less of Clay. Think more of him.”

“I won’t tell anyone. Not even your father-in-law.”

“No, it’s not like that.” Leah stood and walked to the wedding portrait on the wall. Clay looked so handsome in his service uniform, his smile white in his strong face. “He—he told you I was attacked and stabbed, and that he saved my life. But he didn’t tell you I was also—I was—that man—violated me.”

“Oh my goodness. Oh no. You poor child.”

Her breath strained in her tightened chest, and she stroked the rim of the wood frame, forcing herself to concentrate on Clay rather than the wolf. “When I found out I was pregnant, Clay offered to marry me so I wouldn’t have to put my baby up for adoption. So she could have a good name. So I could have his allotment to raise her.”

Mrs. Paxton murmured.

Leah faced her, and her heart wrenched at the turmoil on her face. “Helen—she isn’t really Clay’s daughter. And she isn’t really your granddaughter. I’m so sorry.”

Mrs. Paxton pressed the baby to her chest and lowered her face over the downy black hair on Helen’s sweet head.

The only sound in the room was the creak of the rocking chair.

Leah hugged herself. Now she’d driven away someone she was growing to love, someone who loved her little girl like a real grandma. But she had to tell the truth.

Mrs. Paxton drew a deep breath, her head still bowed over Helen’s. “You know I didn’t give birth to Wyatt or Adler, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She raised dark eyes just like Clay’s. “They look nothing like me and don’t carry a drop of my blood, but they’re my sons. I love them the same as I love