The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,9
to kill. It’s perfect for you.”
“Great idea,” Rudder said.
“No.” Clay sucked in a breath at his breach of military etiquette. “Sir, medics don’t fight. I volunteered for the Rangers because I want to fight. I need to fight. Please give me a chance, sir. I can do this.”
Lombardi rolled his eyes at Taylor, and Taylor shook his head at Rudder, and Rudder appraised Clay again.
He tried to look tough.
Rudder didn’t let up his scrutiny. “As a linebacker, you were fast, strong, smart, and a team player. That’s why I wanted you on my team then, and that’s why I want you on my team now. I’ll give you another chance.”
Clay’s grin burst free. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“But you’ll need to show some serious improvement, or you’re out. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Clay left the tent, traded a joke with his buddies, and marched back to his tent.
His secret was out. The brass knew about medical school. If he didn’t learn to fight dirty, they’d make him a medic.
Clay kicked a rock out of the road. Wouldn’t Daddy and Mama like that?
“The Lord didn’t make you a killer,” Mama had told him when he received his draft notice. “He made you a healer.”
Telling his parents about his recurring dream hadn’t helped, not even when he’d related how he felt overwhelming peace and joy each time he awoke. How he knew he was meant to die in combat saving his buddies—a good purpose he’d embraced. How the dream was a message from the Lord, a welcome one, assuring him the miserable years in the pit would soon end.
In the Bible, not everyone liked Joseph’s dreams either, but they’d come to pass.
Since that talk with his parents, Clay hadn’t mentioned his dream to a soul. It was a treasured secret between him and God.
Daddy and Mama would love to see that dream thwarted.
And his brothers? They’d shown him they believed a half-breed didn’t deserve fancy goals like going to college or becoming a physician or marrying the doctor’s daughter.
His gut burned—he’d have to mine that anger next time they practiced hand-to-hand combat.
Why did Leah Jones’s thoughtful little face flash before him? “I can understand why you haven’t forgiven them.”
“Lord, they took everything from me,” he muttered. “Let me keep this dream. Don’t let anyone steal it.”
5
CAMP FORREST
THURSDAY, JULY 1, 1943
Miss Mayhew parked a cart in front of the circulation desk. “Here are this month’s acquisitions for you to shelve.”
“What a treasure.” Leah leaned over to read the titles, including The Clinical Recognition and Treatment of Shock. She’d have to show Clay the next time he came in.
The previous Sunday he’d insisted she call him Clay. Sometimes he visited on weekday evenings too. Although he always looked exhausted from training, he never failed to be cheerful.
Leah sorted the books by category. Darlene had coached her on how to act with Clay, to be friendly but not too eager. She’d also taught Leah some flirtation techniques, but when Leah practiced them, Darlene said perhaps it would be better for Leah to be herself.
Why would she try to be anyone else?
Beside the Army technical and field manuals, plenty of other books enticed Leah to explore. Would any yield clues about her background? Finding those would require serendipity, and one couldn’t plan serendipity.
“Good evening, Leah.”
She smiled at the familiar Texas twang, grabbed the medical handbook, and spun around, coaching herself to look friendly but not eager. “Hello, Clay.”
He had a friend with him, taller than he, but lankier, with strawberry blond hair and freckles.
Leah hugged the book. Clay had asked her not to mention his medical interests, and she’d honor that.
“Leah, this is my friend Jim.”
She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Jim.”
They both laughed. “It’s G. M.,” Clay’s friend said. “Short for Gene Mayer. We’ve got to teach this cowboy to talk right.”
Clay pointed with his thumb at G. M. “Got to teach Mr. Hollywood here to listen right.”
Leah joined the laughter. It felt strange to laugh with men, but very nice.
“Clay isn’t as stupid as he looks,” G. M. said. “He speaks fluent Spanish.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Clay nodded at her. “My mama’s Mexican.”
“Oh!” That explained his bronze coloring and obsidian hair. “But Paxton . . . your father—”
“As white as the pages of that book. Blond hair, blue eyes, the works.”
Why, yes. She studied his features. He’d certainly received excellent traits from each side. “How fascinating.”
Clay dipped his chin. “Never heard it called fascinating before.”