The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,99
paper. A prayer, and she read the dreaded words: “REGRET TO INFORM YOU YOUR HUSBAND CPL CLAY PAXTON WAS ON SEVEN JUNE WOUNDED IN ACTION IN FRANCE STOP YOU WILL BE ADVISED AS REPORTS OF HIS CONDITION ARE RECEIVED.”
That wasn’t right, but each time Leah blinked, the words became clearer. Wounded . . . wounded . . . “He was wounded.”
Rita Sue hugged Leah’s shoulders. “Oh, sugar, I’m so sorry.”
“No, no.” An odd little laugh escaped. “He’s only wounded. He’s alive!”
Rita Sue ducked to the side and stared at Leah.
“He’s alive. Thank God, he’s alive.” She laughed and kissed her baby’s head. She didn’t care if he’d lost all his limbs, been burned, disfigured, and maimed forever. Clay Paxton was alive. “He’ll survive.”
Rita Sue massaged Leah’s shoulder. “I pray he will.”
Leah tucked in her lips. True. The telegram didn’t say how badly he was wounded. She had no guarantee he’d survive, but she had hope that one day he’d come home to her.
She lifted Helen and kissed her sweet-smelling cheek.
Leah could picture Clay stepping off the train, breaking out in his gorgeous smile, taking her into his arms, and kiss—
No, he wouldn’t.
Leah pressed up to her knees and then to her feet. Even more clearly, she could see him in the hospital at Camp Forrest, proposing to her, assuring her he’d die in battle and promising—promising to divorce her should he survive.
She wobbled a bit, then sent a grateful smile down to Rita Sue. “Thank you. May I—may I make a call to Texas to tell his parents?”
“Of course, sugar.” Rita Sue led Leah into the kitchen.
Clay would indeed come home, but not to her.
Once again, Leah would have to release someone she loved.
45
US 158TH GENERAL HOSPITAL
SALISBURY, WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND
TUESDAY, JUNE 27, 1944
Clay eased down onto the hospital bed after a long walk around the hospital grounds. He could feel the benefits of the early postsurgical ambulation the physicians now promoted, but boy, did it take a lot out of him.
“Very good, Corporal.” Lieutenant Dugoni, his nurse, winked at him. “Tomorrow we’ll send you on a five-mile march.”
Clay hefted his legs onto the bed and leaned back against the headboard. “I’d prefer climbing a cliff, but a march will do if that’s all you’ve got.”
The nurse laughed and straightened Clay’s bathrobe over his legs. “I’ll see what I can arrange. In the meantime, keep doing your exercises. You’re making excellent progress.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He filled his lungs, careful to keep his shoulders and pelvis straight and to not favor his wounded side. He didn’t want to become a “chest cripple,” permanently bent to one side as were too many veterans from World War I.
Almost three weeks had passed since the Texas had brought him to England and almost two weeks since he’d undergone the second, reparative, surgery at the 158th General Hospital in Salisbury. It had taken forever for him to learn that the Rangers had held Pointe du Hoc until June 8, when forces from Omaha Beach finally linked up with them.
Hearing that the Rangers had succeeded and the Allies were making progress in Normandy was a benefit of surviving.
Another benefit was being able to report Frank Lyons’s confession to the military police. Now Peggy’s family in Florida would have resolution, and the boyfriend of the girl in Braunton wouldn’t be punished for a crime he hadn’t committed.
The ward door opened, and a Red Cross worker entered the semicylindrical Nissen hut. The tall blonde’s heels clicked on the concrete floor, and patients called out “Hiya, Red Cross” as she passed.
She stopped at the foot of Clay’s bed. “Good afternoon. Are you Cpl. Clay Paxton?”
“Yes, ma’am. Good afternoon to you too.”
She peered at him more closely, then grinned. “Oh, I see it. I hear it.”
A curious thing to say, and he tilted his head.
She laughed and extended her hand. “Pardon me. My name is Violet Lindstrom. I’m with the American Red Cross.”
He could tell by her blue-gray uniform with the Red Cross patch on the sleeve and the Red Cross pin on the garrison cap. He shook her hand. “Right nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Her pretty face sobered. “I’m here on behalf of two officers who are looking for you. Your—your brothers, Adler and Wyatt.”
Just like that, the “Prodigal’s elder brother” part of him didn’t want to be found. He cleared his throat. “They’re doing fine then? After D-day?”
“Oh yes. They each had an adventure, but they’re alive and well.” She held out some envelopes with a hesitant look. “I’ve brought