Grasping Cora’s hand, Van hurried down the sidewalk toward the Tube station. Their feet crunched on the grit, and he grimaced. How did Londoners stand all the dirt and grime? His job was to go where the stories were, but that didn’t mean his heart didn’t ache for the clean, fresh outdoors of Iowa. Unfortunately, a man couldn’t build a journalistic career in midwestern fields.
The pavement was crowded with factory workers, men in suits, and British and US soldiers. Too bad he didn’t have time to sit down with the Americans and reminisce. The bomb waited. Unexploded bomb actually. A UXB as the military referred to them. Only military men and journalists ran toward a hazard.
He’d tried to convince Cora that he could cover the situation without her but had been unsuccessful. No surprise, and he didn’t blame her. He’d claimed to support her desire to be an investigative reporter and then tried to keep her out of danger. She’d teased him unmercifully about being her Superman.
Hardly. He hadn’t been able to contact their editor about Miss O’Malley’s report, and now he was leading Cora into possible jeopardy. What kind of guy fails that cataclysmically?
His foot slid in a pile of rubble, and his ankle turned. Pain shot up his calf, and he stopped. Pushed from behind, he hobbled out of the pedestrians’ path toward the building, dragging Cora with him. He stood on one leg and massaged the joint.
Concern darkened her face. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“Tweaked my ankle. Give me a minute.”
“Should we get you to the hospital?”
“No!”
She drew back, her mouth gaping.
“Sorry.” He lowered his voice, and put down his foot, wiggling his ankle. Good. Only a dull throb. “Foolish move. I should have paid better attention. We need to get to that UXB. I have no desire to be scooped.”
“Me, neither, but is a story worth risking your health?”
Van quirked his eyebrow. “This from the woman who wouldn’t stay home and is heading toward a bomb site.”
“Point taken.” She flushed and pointed to his ankle. “Are you able to walk?”
“Yes.” He took a deep breath and shifted his weight to the injured leg. Clamping his lips, he stifled a groan. He’d suffered worse pain during his college football days, but he’d been younger then. Much younger.
Staying close to the wall of shops, they pushed and bumped their way through the crowd. Several minutes later, they arrived at the stairway that led below ground to the Tube. He gripped the railing and wrapped his free arm around Cora’s shoulder. Together, they trudged into the dim recesses to the station.
Moments later, their train rumbled to a stop in front of them. The doors popped open with a hiss, and passengers surged from the cars. The flow slowed, and as travelers on the platform pressed forward to board, Van and Cora swept inside.
He tugged on her hand and jerked his head at a pair of vacant seats. Seeing no women or elderly people who needed to sit, Van dropped onto one of the seats with a sigh. His ankle ached, but the initial sharp pain had dissipated. A reporter with a bum leg was useless. He had to recover. With any luck, the injury was minor, and he’d have full use of his limb after a night’s rest.
“How are you feeling?” Cora's voice was low and melodic.
“Better, now that I’m seated. I don’t think the damage is serious.” He sent her an encouraging smile. “But I’ll need my Lois Lane to take lead on the story. I can be your wingman.”
“Wingman?” She shook her head. “I’m not familiar with that term.”
“That’s right, your husband was navy. The word is used by the air force for the guy in the plane behind and on the outside of the lead plane. A pilot who supports another pilot in a potentially dangerous situation.”
Her face brightened. “Perfect. And I can return the favor sometime.”
“I’ll hold you to your promise.” He looked forward to redeeming the pledge.
The doors slammed, and the train chugged out of the station, shimmying and bumping along the tracks. He swayed, and his body pressed into Cora’s side. They were packed in closer than a family in a Morrison shelter. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Her warmth permeated his sleeve, and her perfume filled his nose. Something floral.
Miles passed, the train stopping at three more stations, gorging and disgorging passengers. Van rubbed his forehead. Would a bus have been faster? How could a reporter scoop another when he was stuck taking public transportation. A mirthless laugh slipped out. Would the public appreciate a story about the woes of a newspaperman?
A grinding noise then a screech. The subway ground to a halt, car lights flickering. Cora grabbed his arm, her eyes wide. “What happened?”
Crackling from overhead, then the lights went out. Someone screamed. Shouts of confusion filled the car.
Cora’s grip on his arm tightened to a stranglehold, nearly cutting off circulation to his fingers. He patted her hand. “Stay put and don’t panic. There are plenty of others who will take care of that for us.”
She giggled, and her fingers loosened.
Good. Now, if he could calm the rest of the passengers.
“Excuse me! Folks!” Van raised his voice above the hubbub. “Could I have your attention, please?”
The din lessened then ceased.
“Thank you. Is anyone hurt?”
Silence.
“No? That’s excellent. This is frightening, but I’m sure the gents running the train will have us on our way in no time. We must be patient.”
“Who are you?” A timid voice broke the darkness.
“No one of consequence. My name is Van Toppel, and I’m a reporter with the United Press. On my way to a story as a matter of fact. Who else is here?”
“Johnny Miller.”
“Sadie Churchill. No relation.”
Laughter swept through the subway, and more passengers announced themselves.
Cora nestled close to him, slipping her hand through his arm. “You’re wonderful. Thank you for setting us at ease.”
His chest swelled. Apparently, he had another chance to protect her. “Let’s take our mind off things, shall we? I, for one, am going to think about after the war to a time when I’m outside on a gorgeous, sunny day, wind blowing through the wheat fields.”
“A beautiful picture that I’d like to experience someday. Until this war, I took my food for granted.” Cora sighed. “No more. I wouldn’t mind seeing acres and acres of corn or soybeans or potatoes…well, maybe not potatoes.”
“I’ve had my fill of them, too.” He chuckled and stroked her silky hair, an action he wouldn’t be brave enough to try in the light. “Perhaps you could visit Iowa, and I could give you a tour of my grandparents’ farm.”
“I’d like that.”
Was that a tremble he detected in her voice? A vision of her wandering the endless fields under a cloudless blue sky crowded his mind. Her blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight as she smiled at him. Sparkling blue eyes dancing in delight.
“Van?”
“Hmm?”
“You were in Iowa, weren’t you?” Amusement colored her words.
“Yeah.” He wouldn’t tell her she was also there. “Did you visit New Hampshire?”
She leaned closer. “Yes. The sun reflecting off the lake with mountains towering in the background. I miss my mountains.”
He frowned. She’d hate the flatness of where he lived. Iowa’s Hawkeye Point and other peaks were far from his home.
The overhead lights glimmered then doused. Moments later, illumination filled the car. Passengers cheered and applauded. Van hugged Cora to himself as the subway began to chug forward. “Finally. We need to prepare ourselves that the story on the UXB is being covered. I would imagine word of one of those beasts gets out quickly.”
“We have our own story to tell.”
“That we do.”
Minutes passed, and the locomotive picked up speed, rattling and bucking on the tracks. Then squealing brakes, and the train pulled into the next station. Van helped Cora to her feet, and they followed their fellow passengers from the car. Feet thundering on the cement steps, the crowd ascended above ground.
Van squinted in the sunlight and glanced around to get his bearings. The lack of street signs made finding locations tricky, but years of growing up with few landmarks had taught him well. “This way.” He turned north, and they hurried along the pavement toward a small park. About thirty people milled around at the entrance while gesturing to a pair of uniformed men peering into a deep hole, presumably at the errant bomb.
“You’re a bit late, Mr. Toppel.”
Van’s head whipped toward the voice.
Smirk on her face, Myrtle O’Malley stood at the edge of the group. “I’m surprised a newspaperman of your caliber wasn’t here sooner. Perhaps your partner is slowing you down.”
Beside him, Cora tensed, but remained mute.
“Congratulations on scooping us, Miss O’Malley. We’ll find something. There are plenty of stories to go around.”
Her sneer wavered, then she set her jaw, eyes glittering. “Congratulations are in order for you as well. I wasn’t sure if you two were still employed.”
Van’s stomach fell. Had their editor indicated to the woman that he planned to fire Cora and him? He needed to fix the situation. Pronto.