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Back The Land Beneath Us Save as PDF
Chapters (62)
  1. Cover
  2. Endorsements
  3. Books by Sarah Sundin
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright Page
  6. Presidential Radio Broadcast
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. Epilogue
  58. Acknowledgments
  59. Discussion Questions
  60. About the Author
  61. Back Ads
  62. Back Cover

I have a whole lot of pondering and praying to do. I need to figure out what it means to forgive, to go past saying the words to meaning them. How do I stop resenting them? I don’t know, but I’m fixing to find out.

I tell you what, little wife of mine—because that’s what you are and that’s what you’ll remain till death do us part. Pray that I’ll be able to forgive my brothers before it’s too late, and I’ll pray that you can see yourself as the fine young woman you are and not as a thieving orphan. Sound fair?

Take care of yourself and our baby.

Yours,
Clay

Leah pressed the letter to her chest. “I will. I’ll pray for you.”

She hurt for him—for the pain his brothers had caused and any additional pain she’d inflicted. Yet she basked in his security. He wouldn’t annul the marriage. He called her his little wife. He signed it “Yours” again.

He wasn’t perfect, but he was a man of his word, honest, open, and determined to forgive those who had set his life on a course he hadn’t wanted.

Why had the Lord brought such a man to befriend her, to save her life, and to give her a family?

She held the letter before her face, longing to inhale his essence. “Lord, help me, but I love him.”

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24

ISLE OF WIGHT, ENGLAND
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 1944

“That’s the way. Y’all can do it.” Clay shielded his eyes from the sunshine glancing off the white chalk cliffs. In the chilly afternoon, dozens of Rangers climbed ropes up the two-hundred-foot slopes on the Isle of Wight.

Whatever mission Gen. Dwight Eisenhower had in mind for Rudder’s Rangers, it had to involve cliffs.

Clay’s boots slipped on the large pebbles on the beach, and he dug in his toes. The tall lace-up Corcoran jump boots worn by the 2nd Rangers had led to multiple scuffles with paratroopers, who claimed only they had the right to the footwear. But scaling cliffs without a safety line was no less dangerous than jumping from a plane with a parachute.

A loud cuss, and a man tumbled fifteen feet to the beach—Manfred Brady.

Clay scrambled over to give aid, but Brady stood, shaking his meaty fist and blaming his squad members for his fall.

“Hothead.” Clay returned to the foot of the rope he’d soon ascend.

Since Christmas, he’d scrutinized the men who’d been in the battalion since Camp Forrest. Could any of them be Leah’s assailant or the murderer?

He had little to go by. Medium height and build. Leah had noticed dark hair under the cap, but in low light even medium shades looked dark.