Shadowed by Grace (3 page)

She eased back as she shook her head. “No.”

“Then you might have a chance.”

“To change minds?”

He shook his head. “To survive.”

The drone of planes flying across the sky had her ducking, a reflex that had become second nature in the weeks since arriving.

The lieutenant stood tall as if the planes didn’t bother him. “They’re ours.”

Okay, so she needed to spend more time with the flash cards the army handed out. “How can you tell?”

“The shape of the body.” He glanced behind him, then stiffened. “The boy’s gone.”

“He’s smarter than we are.”

“Maybe.” He checked his watch, then tipped the brim of his hat toward her. “Good-day.”

He sauntered away, at ease in a world that threatened to spiral out of control in an instant. Her heart stuttered right along with the plane’s engine. She watched the plane, praying it would find its way out of the city before it landed. When it disappeared from sight, she released a breath. Still her heart raced.

Nothing inspired her attention after he left. It was like a dirty lens clouded her vision. Might as well head back to the press office and demand—again—they assign her to anyone heading north.

She needed to find her father. Somehow. And fast. That wouldn’t happen in Naples, not when the lone clue she had was that Momma had spent her time in Tuscany and Florence. Each day in Naples delayed her efforts to find him. And save her momma.

After a few wrong turns, Scott spied a paper sign that flapped in the breeze created by all the uniforms walking past. Public Relations Division. Scott straightened his shoulders, ready to do battle and convince whoever waited on the other side that his mission mattered. He rapped on the door, then opened it and walked in.

The fiery beauty from the street stood in front of the battered desk that looked like it had taken collateral damage in the bombings. Dark curls escaped the containment of her captain’s cap with its small, circular war correspondent patch. Her pale skin emphasized high cheekbones and soft chocolate eyes that gave him the impression she saw deeply. The top of her head reached the edge of his shoulder, yet she stood as if trying to look taller. Somehow she’d slipped around him and beat him to the office. When he’d talked to her about the child’s photo, he wondered if she might be Rachel Justice but hadn’t asked. Looked like he’d find out soon.

“Can’t you see? I’ve got my press credentials.” She thumped a piece of paper on the sergeant’s desk.

The man stared at her impassively. “I can’t help you, Miss Justice.”

So he’d guessed right. The way she stood straight and stared at the sergeant telegraphed she knew how to handle herself, and he found himself rooting for her even as he dreaded the idea of babysitting her. Scott might not receive much respect from his peers, but it looked like she got less.

“You won’t help me. And it’s
Captain
Justice.” Air hissed through her teeth, her shoulders so stiff it looked painful.

“Ma’am.”

Scott stepped forward. “Miss Justice? I’m sorry, Captain Justice.”

Her spine tightened and she didn’t bother to turn his direction. All righty. “I’ve been assigned to assist you.”

Sergeant Bowers, at least that’s what his name tag stated, looked his way. “You gonna help this dame?”

“I. Am. Not. A. Dame. I’m a captain in the United States Army.” Her fists clenched and released as she leaned toward the desk.

“It’s an honorary classification and you know it, miss.” Sergeant Bowers rolled his eyes and thumped his desk. “It’s to keep you from getting harassed if you’re a prisoner of war.”

Miss Justice sputtered like an engine running low on gasoline. He had to save her from her righteous indignation. “Sergeant Bowers, seems Captain Justice has been assigned to travel with me. You should have those orders somewhere.”

“She’s assigned to you?”

“Or me to her.”

She turned his direction, and the fire in Rachel’s eyes didn’t do much to give him any hope she approved. Well, he didn’t much like it either, but orders were orders.

Her gaze narrowed. “Did you follow me here, Lieutenant?”

“No, ma’am. Should have asked your name out there and saved us both time.”

She studied him, enough to make him wonder what she saw and whether he passed her inspection. “That was a kind thing you did.”

“Thank you.” He turned back to the desk as the sergeant harrumphed. Captain Justice spoke before he could.

“Look, Sergeant. I worked long and hard to get my employer on board. Then it took United Press an interminable amount of time to get the application completed and even longer for the intelligence section to investigate me. I believe they know everything about me right down to my shoe size.” A tinge of color climbed her neck. “Then I had to travel on the
Queen Mary
to England. From there hitch a ride to the boot of Italy. All of this took months.
Months
.”

“Welcome to the army, miss.” The beefy sergeant crossed his arms and stared her down.

She stood even taller. Maybe she’d reach the bottom of his jaw now. How could he stop her before she alienated the man who would give her the access she craved? “Now, Miss Justice . . .”

His words didn’t slow her down. “Now I’m here and you won’t even look at my credentials.” Her jaws seemed screwed together under her tension. “That’s not acceptable.”

Bowers snorted. “Take a number. There’s a lot about war people find unacceptable.”

Scott pulled the orders from his pocket. “Here’s the general’s signature. See?” He pointed but the lout didn’t budge. “I’ve got her for a few days. Maybe you can find her assignments after that.”

“You sure you want her?”

What could he say? That he thought it was a fool idea? That the general was getting both of them out of his way? Or grin and act like it was brilliant? Seemed that was the remaining option. “Give me access to a jeep, and we’ll clear out.”

“How do I do that? Snap my fingers? Whistle up the requisitions genie? Your wish is my command?”

“Something like that.”

The man rolled his eyes, then reached in his desk and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. He scribbled something on it, stamped it, and thrust it at Scott. “Good luck.” Then he grabbed another sheet, this one pretyped, and filled in a few blanks, stamped it, and slid it across to Rachel. “Ma’am, you are here at the pleasure of the United States Army. It can revoke your credentials faster than it granted them. You might keep that in mind.”

Rachel narrowed her eyes as she scooped up her credentials and the piece of paper. Before she could say anything else, Scott tugged her toward the door. Sometimes you had to know when to leave so you could fight another day. Guess Rachel hadn’t learned that.

She would soon enough.

He hustled her outside. “What should I do with you?”

“Nothing. Stick me in a corner. That’s what the rest of them do.” She huffed, sending up a spurt of air that puffed a dark curl from her forehead.

He laughed but still didn’t know what to do with her. It was fine and dandy to say he was responsible for her. He didn’t even have a real office. He traveled with the Monuments’ list in his rucksack and commandeered open desks whenever he could. Ernest DeWald was working on acquiring a designated office for the Monuments Men, but the primary effort remained repairing Naples and pushing the front north.

In the meantime should he walk her around Naples? Reinforce the devastation that haunted the area—a direct result of the bombing both sides had inflicted on the city? Illustrate the devastation in people terms? She’d already captured his interaction with that boy. Should he have done more for the child? Did someone notice when he was late coming home? Or had this war left him alone?

“Where’d you go, soldier?” In another setting her words could tease. Here they had a hard edge.

“Wondering how this works.”

“What’s there to make work? You’re the unlucky soldier who’s been tasked with babysitting me.” A shadow of something . . . defeat maybe . . . darkened her features. “And I’m the unlucky journalist who won’t see the war and will never get close to Tuscany.”

“Hey now. This isn’t a holiday. And that’s not a very flattering depiction.”

“Didn’t know your ego needed inflating.”

Ouch. What had he done or said to earn that? She might be cute, but she knew how to jab. Fine, he’d do his job and then send her to the next unlucky soldier tasked with one Rachel Justice.

Chapter 3

RACHEL FELL ONTO THE
bed, ignoring the sounds of laughter and conversation that drifted into her hotel room. When she’d returned earlier that evening, the lobby had overflowed with soldiers intent on forgetting the front they’d left behind and would return to. The walls seemed thin, like the bombing had left a network of spider cracks that sound penetrated, but at least this hotel remained in one piece. Thanks to the benevolence of the war office, she had a room she shared with only one roommate, and it had a sink and cold water. Down the hall she shared a bathroom with others.

She should count her blessings. She should, but she couldn’t.

The military hadn’t extended a warm welcome, but then neither had her editor, Dick Forsythe, in the United Press Naples office. He didn’t appreciate having a woman in his office . . . thought she was too distracting, so she stayed away. As long as she brought in a roll of film a day, Dick was happy.

With each new day she was no closer to finding her father. That meant she was no closer to saving her momma. Mail hadn’t caught up with her yet. The postcards Rachel mailed the family watching her mother couldn’t say much. But at least the Troxels could tell her momma she was alive. How she longed for someone to tell her the same about Momma.

She wanted to believe, had to believe, or all of this was in vain.

Why did she long to meet the man who had never cared about her? Not even enough to send her a simple postcard, let alone a few dollars to help? Maybe if Momma hadn’t worked two jobs most of Rachel’s life, Momma wouldn’t be so sick now.

Couldas, wouldas, shouldas didn’t change reality.

The clock ticked on. Time slipped through her fingers while she waited for the army to give her permission to head north where her heart whispered she’d find answers if any existed.

If only she knew where to start.

Traveling to Italy had seemed like a good plan. After all this was where Momma met her father and fell in love. Yet after scouring her momma’s small apartment, she’d found little to point her to the man. A cryptic diary and a sketchbook that might not be connected at all. She’d brought them with her, scouring their contents on the trans-Atlantic passage.

She pulled her momma’s diary from her musette bag, stroking the emerald leather cover. Tonight she didn’t want to look at the sketches. She wanted to see her momma’s spidery writing and doodles that filled the pages. After opening the cover, a tear slipped out at the sight of her momma’s words. She brushed it off her cheek, lest it fall and smear the fading ink.

Touching the book, she could almost imagine Momma sitting next to her on the bed. What would she tell Rachel about her father?

Other than leave him alone? Nothing.

Rachel sighed and set the diary with the sketchbook. She’d examine them later. Much had changed in twenty-four years, not the least of which was the war. Maybe someone with United Press or another news agency could help her, but for the next few days, she’d travel with the mysterious soldier.

He’d acted with such care toward the little boy, then defended her to the sergeant. Warmth flooded her at the memory of his care, something she’d never experienced in a home without a father or grandfather. Even the memory of the lieutenant’s efforts to redirect her when she’d wanted to let the grunt behind the desk know what she thought of his tone made her smile. Lieutenant Lindstrom didn’t know her, but he’d cared enough to keep her from foolish actions.

In the morning she woke, the diary clutched to her chest. Her roommate’s bed looked like no one had slept in it, a distinct possibility with the odd hours Dottie kept as a nurse.

Lord, help me. Give me wisdom. Keep me safe.

Her thoughts wandered to Psalm 4.
“Hear me when I call, O God.”
Strange how she’d heard that psalm in Sunday school, and even when she wasn’t sure she believed God cared about her, the urge to pray sprang to her lips.

How she needed that assurance in a land she didn’t know with a people she struggled to understand. She needed somebody to hear her. To see her. Could that be God?

She stood and dressed in her uniform, opting for khaki trousers instead of a skirt. Adding a shirt and tie, then the dark-olive dress jacket and garrison cap, and she looked like she belonged.

If she could believe it.

After grabbing her camera, she pulled her musette bag over her shoulder and headed downstairs. She’d arrive downstairs to meet Scott before the assigned time.

When she reached the lobby, Lieutenant Lindstrom sat in an oversized chair, an Italian newspaper across his lap.

“Planning to read that?”