Abiding Hope: A Novel: Healing Ruby Book 4

  Abiding hope

  A Novel

  Jennifer H. Westall

  Book 4 in the Healing Ruby series

  Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer H. Westall.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Jennifer H. Westall

  http://www.jenniferhwestall.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout ©2014 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Abiding Hope/ Jennifer H. Westall. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-9976627-2-6

  Be sure to begin with the first volume in the Healing Ruby series. Just tap the cover to get your copy!

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  More from Jennifer H. Westall

  About the Author

  In memory of Uncle Charles “Charlie” Gandy

  To be in his presence, was to know true joy.

  Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.

  ― Matthew 10: 29-31

  Prologue

  Matthew

  June 1942

  Southern Luzon, Philippines

  I didn’t dare move as I lay with my back pressed into the mud, peering up through the swaying cogon grass at a gray sky that refused to darken enough for my escape. Agony coursed through my body in more forms than I could count—hunger, thirst, infection, fever. And, most pressing, like a demon haunting me through every inch of the jungle, exhaustion nearly overwhelmed me. But at least it had stopped raining for now.

  The voices of Japanese soldiers, only a couple hundred yards away at best, moved closer and spread in multiple directions. I’d made one wrong move after another since barely escaping Mindanao, but this latest slip-up might be the one to do me in. I’d been so hungry, so thirsty. In the broken-down barrio a few kilometers away, I’d risked exposure for a small cup of rice and some dirty water offered by a boy who couldn’t have been more than ten. I’d tried to tell him to keep quiet, but I still didn’t know enough of the language. Absent of any decent shelter in the area, I’d taken refuge in the tall grass near the base of a mountain. I’d closed my eyes for only a moment.

  And then I’d heard the voices that had tracked my every move for weeks, maybe months. I’d lost all concept of time since I’d fought my way off Mindanao. They’d hunted me from one barrio to the next, through jungle and swamp, across one island after another. Led by a brutal commander named Kojima, they interrogated the frightened Filipinos who dared to help me, especially those who’d guided me to safety. I’d learned quickly to stay out of the barrios as much as possible, if only to protect the Filipinos. This time, the Japs were close—so close, I could hear Kojima barking orders. I couldn’t risk crawling through the grass to the path that led west and up the nearest mountain. Not that I had the energy for such a maneuver anyway.

  “Captain Doyle!” called the high-pitched, heavily accented voice of Kojima. “You surrounded all side! We know you lying in grass!”

  I held my breath, afraid the blades above me would move if I exhaled. How much longer until sunset?

  “You come out!” Kojima continued, his voice moving slightly east as he yelled. “You lay down weapon and come out. We give food and bed. You eat and sleep. No more hunger. No more fight. We not hurt you if come out.”

  I knew better. I’d seen how the Japanese treated prisoners on Bataan after the U.S. surrendered, marching them in columns, beating them for no reason, and shooting anyone who stopped to help stragglers. Surrender would lead to unimaginable torture. I was sure of it. But how was I going to escape again?

  I can’t go one more step, Lord, I prayed. I’m through. If they find me, give me enough strength to fight. I’d rather die fighting than surrender to these monsters.

  The voices spread out, moving further east, encircling me. God had seen me through the brink of capture several times already. Would He save me again?

  I heard movement just north of my position. I was almost completely cut off from the mountain. If night would just fall, I could slip away into the darkness. Lord, show me which way to go. Bring the cover of night, and give my body strength. Help me find my way.

  Something moved in the grass within several yards of my position. An animal? The breeze? A Japanese soldier? The hair on my arms and neck prickled. I held my breath and listened. All I could hear were a few tropical birds in the distance. Were they warning me? It still wasn’t completely dark, but maybe I could make it to the other side of the field.

  North. The thought came to me from out of nowhere, but it made no sense. I’d just heard them moving in that direction. Surely I wasn’t supposed to run right into the enemy’s hands.

  North.

  Something whizzed over me and cracked as it hit the ground. A bullet.

  I jumped up and ran north, trying not to run in a straight line and to keep my head down as far as possible. As I lumbered through the grass and mud, more bullets whizzed past me. Glancing around, I glimpsed the edge of the field, where the jungle began to offer precious cover. But dark shapes were running through it, bound to cut me off. I pumped my legs as hard as they’d go, but they were so heavy.

  Pain like hot iron ripped through my right hamstring, and I fell onto my face. Scrambling to my feet, I kept going. Shouts rang out from behind and to the right of me, and then another spray of bullets ricocheted from in front of me. I dropped to the ground. I was surrounded. What could I do?

  Run north.

  If I didn’t keep moving they’d be on me in seconds. North would send me right at them, but there was no time to reason through my options. I crawled north through the needle-like grass as it tore at my face. Bullets whipped in every direction. But something familiar caught my attention. English! Someone was yelling in English!

  I took a quick peek over the top of the grass. In the dark shadows of the jungle ahead of me, I cou
ld make out several bodies in position behind trees, their weapons aimed beyond me. One of them waved his arm, signaling for me to keep coming.

  “This way!” he called. “Come on! We’ll cover you!”

  Indescribable joy leapt through me at those words, and I took off running with every bit of energy I had left in my feeble body. I fell into the line of trees, landing on my back, panting so hard I thought I might have a heart attack. The gunfire raged on for a few more minutes. Then all went quiet. My right leg was on fire. I rubbed it, feeling the blood slipping beneath my fingers. I’d been shot.

  A dark face leaned over me, blocking out the dim light coming through the tops of the trees. “Well, I’ll be damned. If it ain’t Matthew Doyle.”

  I knew that voice.

  The figure dropped to a knee beside me, and I could finally make out his features. He looked on me with the same astonishment that must have spread across my face. “Henry?”

  He grinned before grabbing me by the shirt and hoisting me to my feet. “Let’s get out of here, boys. Them Japs’ll overrun this position within minutes.”

  ***

  Ruby

  June 1942

  Melbourne, Australia

  It was raining when Mike Sawyer and I stepped out of the taxi, so I covered my head with my bag and ran to the front steps of the small chapel on base. We stopped at the front door and shook the water from our clothing and hair. Mike gripped the handle on the front door and met my gaze with the same pity that had been etched into his expression for nearly two months, ever since he’d forced me to leave Matthew behind on Mindanao.

  “Now, let’s not get our hopes up,” he said.

  Despite his support in my efforts to persuade someone with enough authority to mount a return to the island, I still hadn’t forgiven him. I hardened my expression so he’d know I meant business. “All I have left is my hope.”

  His eyes softened. “Grace, I just mean that you shouldn’t go in here expecting—”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “I’ll be all right. Let’s get inside.”

  We made our way through the small lobby and into the darkened chapel. The only light filtered in through dirty stained-glass windows featuring scenes from the Bible. In the back corner, two small flickering flames cast shadows over a statue of Mary.

  Colonel William Dorsey stood from a pew a few rows ahead of me and approached us with his usual stiff manner. He shook hands with Mike before turning to me. “Mrs. Doyle, it’s good to see you again. You’re looking well.”

  My hand instinctively went to my midsection, cradling my only remaining connection to Matthew. “Thank you, sir. Do you have any news about Matthew?”

  He frowned and glanced at Mike. “I’m glad you’re both here this time. I know the waiting has been tough on you, Mrs. Doyle. I can appreciate your determination to locate your husband, and I’ve done everything in my power to be of assistance.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. He’d never stalled when we’d met before. He’d always gotten right to the point, insisting time was of the essence. “I appreciate all you’ve done, Colonel Dorsey. I know you’ve put yourself in a difficult position by sharing information with me. Is there anything new you can tell me?”

  He let out a hard sigh and turned back to the pew where he’d been sitting. “I have something I must give you. It was supposed to be delivered by mail, but I wanted to speak to you in person.” He turned back to me with a small yellow card in his hand. “I’m afraid it isn’t good news. The army has declared Captain Doyle deceased.”

  My stomach nearly hit the floor, and I had to grip the pew next to me to keep my balance. “I don’t…understand. How is that possible? Has new information come in?”

  “No, ma’am.” He held the telegram out to me, but I couldn’t take it. Mike took it instead.

  “Then how do they know that he’s…” I couldn’t form the word. “You told me only a few weeks ago, in this very chapel, that the reports from the men who were last with Matthew stated he was alive when they ran for the plane on Mindanao.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know.”

  “He was still fighting.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then what changed?” My voice shook, despite my effort to control it.

  Colonel Dorsey cleared his throat. “I understand your confusion, and I wish I could give you more information, but I can’t.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mike said. “This says he died on May 5. We escaped from Mindanao on April 30. What happened between those two dates?”

  I took the card from Mike to see for myself what it said as Colonel Dorsey answered him. “Listen, I have already shared enough information with the both of you to get myself fired, possibly worse. I’ve told you everything I can.”

  I was having a hard time making sense of everything, so I read the telegram out loud.

  We deeply regret to inform you that your husband, Captain Matthew Doyle, died in the honorable performance of his duties and in service to his country on May 5, 1942 on the island of Mindanao, Philippines. To avoid aid to our enemies, the exact circumstances of his death have been classified.

  I looked from Colonel Dorsey to Mike. “This doesn’t make any sense. Why would his death be classified?”

  Mike eyed Colonel Dorsey with suspicion. “If this is true, then he survived after we left. He must’ve kept fighting. He must have—”

  “I’ve told you everything I can,” Colonel Dorsey interrupted. “I am sorry to be the one to have to deliver such painful news.”

  “But you haven’t told us anything!” I protested, trying to stay calm. “I’m not giving up. I don’t believe this for a moment. Matthew isn’t dead. Until someone can tell me exactly what’s going on, then I refuse to accept this. And you can tell Douglas MacArthur himself that I will find my husband!”

  Colonel Dorsey shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s going to be even more difficult. MacArthur is moving headquarters to Brisbane.”

  “What? When?” As the church began to spin before me, I sank onto the pew.

  “Couple of weeks. All military personnel will be moving out.” He glanced at Mike, who’d put his hand on my shoulder. “That’ll include you as well, Lieutenant. I don’t have specifics yet, but your squadron is being relocated.”

  “But not me,” I said. “Because I’m not military personnel.”

  “Again,” Colonel Dorsey said, turning back to me, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you both this. I know it must be difficult, but you should start thinking about your future. I can arrange for you to be transported back to the States if you’d like. Just let Lieutenant Sawyer know what your plans are, and I’ll have my staff make the arrangements.”

  I did my best to squeak out a “thank you” in reply. But I couldn’t even look up at him. He’d just yanked the very ground I stood on out from under me. How could I possibly think about the future?

  ***

  “Grace, you need to think about what’s best for you,” Mike said as he handed me a cup of water. He took a seat in the rickety chair beside the sofa where I’d crashed shortly after returning to my apartment.

  My thoughts swam, along with my stomach. Between lingering issues from my dysentery and the poorly named morning sickness that had no regard for the time of day, I felt weak nearly all day long. But Colonel Dorsey’s news had zapped the tiny amount of strength remaining in me.

  “I shouldn’t have left him,” I said, setting the cup on the coffee table without taking a sip. “I never should’ve gotten on that plane.”

  “You think it would’ve been better if both of you had died?” Mike looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

  “He isn’t dead. He’s still out there.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “But I have to believe it.”

  Mike leaned back and studied me for a bit. I had a hard time thinking of him, of both of us, soaring above Cavite in his Stearman biplane, or him and my brother, Henry, cutting up
on the golf course in Manila. But I knew that I had to hold onto those images, or the war would erase everything that had come before, leaving nothing but heartache and loss. I’d had my fill of both of those. And I was determined to hang on to every ounce of hope I could find.

  “I can stay here,” I said. “I’ll wait tables and whatever else I have to do until…”

  “Until what?” he said quietly.

  I couldn’t answer.

  “Even if we can turn this war around and retake the Philippines, that’s going to take months, maybe years. What are you going to do once the baby comes? How will you take care of yourself and a baby on a waitress’s salary and no one to help you?”

  “I can’t go back to the States. I promised Matthew I would wait for him here.”

  Mike shook his head and leaned forward onto his knees. “Listen, Matthew would want you to take care of yourself and your child. You need family and friends who can help you.”

  My eyes burned, but I was determined not to cry. “Matthew and Henry are my family. There’s no one else.”

  “What about your parents?”

  I shook my head.

  “Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?”

  I shook my head some more. “No. I said there’s no one.”

  He stood in a huff and began pacing my tiny living room. It only took him about three or four strides to cross it. “You’ve mentioned nursing school before. What about that?”

  “That would take a couple of years.”

  “You have so much experience already. Do you even need nursing school?”

  His pacing was giving me a headache. I leaned back against the sofa and stared at the paint peeling from the ceiling. “Laura mentioned something about a new nursing training program they’ve started up in the States. The government pays for the program and gives a stipend to live on. I reckon I could look into it.”

  Mike’s face brightened, and he stopped pacing. “That’s the ticket. Why, I bet you could fly right through any old nursing program.” He wagged his finger at me. “In fact, I have just the plan.”