A Purpose True Read online

  A Purpose True

  by

  Gail Kittleson

  Published by WordCrafts Press for Smashwords

  Copyright © 2017 Gail Kittleson

  Cover Design by David Warren

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prelude

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To Mom, who always encouraged me in my writing, and to Dad, who served four years in the Army Air Force during World War II.

  Prelude

  April 1976, a small Idaho town

  Launching like a World War II V-2 rocket over the balcony of Faithful Shepherd Church was not in Kathryn’s cleaning plan. She wasn’t sure how she had slipped. She recalled the pews and organ appearing like dollhouse furniture from her high perch, and thinking she ought to haul in a ladder to dust all those niches and curves in the gorgeous hand-carved altar.

  Had her hand slipped when she tackled some quarter-inch-thick dust in the neglected balcony, or was it her foot? Strange she couldn’t remember, since her sense of equilibrium had distinguished her during parachute training thirty years ago outside of London.

  But now, she sailed through the serene sanctuary air as she had way back then, jumping into the Nazi-occupied Auvergne. For a moment, floating over the staid pews as though time had halted, Kathryn could almost feel the cool French air whoosh around her. Seemed like any second, her silk chute would release and fill.

  The towering ornate organ pipes along the north wall struck her as more beautiful than ever. Some gentle slant-eyed woman must have painted those oriental designs with great care.

  But then a solid thunk on the hard, oak floor of the sanctuary ushered Kathryn back to Idaho. All she could see was the wooden lip of a hymnal holder a few inches above her face. Pain ricocheted through her mouth.

  Her silk slip hiked up, so she tried to reach down and straighten things, but her arm refused to budge. She tried her left leg, then her right—no movement. Panic, like the volatile floor polish fumes, inundated her. A frantic “Help!” rent the quiet space. Ah, that would be Darlene.

  Soon, a gravelly voice exuding meat-and-potatoes breath broke into Kathryn’s awareness. “Nothing appears broken. Amazing, but then, I’ve never known a stronger woman.”

  She focused on the face, backed by embossed ceiling tiles swirling far away. The church board always chose the same color, as if the day-old biscuit hue were sacred.

  Old Doc Randall’s affectionate hazel eyes scrutinized her through lenses the thickness of her leaded bay window. “You all right?”

  Kathryn’s arched tongue failed to reach her teeth. “Yeh ... dus bappa.”

  “Just dapper, eh?” Doc’s one-sided smirk reminded Kathryn he’d served in France, too, but in the Great War. She attempted to speak, but to no avail. What was with her tongue, anyhow?

  “Follow my finger with your eyes.” Right. Left. Down, up, and back to center. Doc pursed his lips. “Darlene’s gone for a cold cloth. You’ll need x-rays, so I’m calling an ambulance. Now, don’t fight me.” His brusque manner failed to hide a note of concern.

  The somber lines of his face incited a giggle that revealed the sorry state of Kathryn’s rib cage. A brief glance down revealed a mass burgeoning below her nose, a swelling blimp of a thing, and she eased a tentative fingertip toward her mouth. Her arm still worked.

  Her fingertip seemed gigantic, otherworldly. Fiddling around with her tongue revealed the massive protrusion as her lip, already swelled to kingdom come. Mingling with the cleaning polish, the copper tang of blood nauseated her.

  “Lie still, Kathryn. Your life could depend on it.” Doc craned his neck back to observe the balcony. “That’s a mighty long way for a person to fall. You took a pretty hard hit on this pew.”

  He pointed out a good-sized gouge in the golden oak, and an odd varnish taste registered in Kathryn’s mouth. She wanted to smack him when he pried her lips apart, but a bloodied wood chip the diameter of her wedding ring emerged between his thumb and forefinger.

  “A mercy you didn’t swallow this ragged piece. Can you move your feet?”

  Nothing but her arm cooperated. Darlene appeared, her eyes wild, and Doc exchanged places with her. His joints popped as he rose, and Darlene waddled closer on her knees. Unexpected coolness eased the pounding in Kathryn’s head.

  “Oh, how could this have happened? And the men just left for the mountains with the sheep—how on earth will we ever get ahold of them?”

  The first question was intriguing, the second irrelevant. Everyone knew that once the herders left for the summer in their tidy portable wooden houses, reaching them was impossible.

  So, how did she manage to fall? The last she remembered, the splendid stained-glass depiction of Jesus and the children had attracted her attention. She rarely noticed this highest window set behind the balcony pews, but with Darlene helping out today, the obscure niche came front and center.

  Tackling the thick dust made her feel better, especially with her recent hard news about her dearest friend Addie. Somehow, tackling this long-delinquent dust lightened her heart. And then, Jesus caught Kathryn's eye. Blazing July sun radiated through his tawny hair and he welcomed several children with open arms.

  A wave of something besides worry swept Kathryn. “Is that me there in your arms?” Her question hung like dust mites in sunlight, and a brief parade of all the times she’d experienced deliverance passed before her. Moments passed before the sensation coalesced... no matter what, a vast love held her close.

  She closed her eyes for a second to contemplate, but her practical nature resisted sinking down on a pew. Instead, she thrust her dust rag at a filmy gray layer on the clock’s far edge, highlighted by a narrow beam of sunshine—oh the richness of those rays finding an entrance to this shadowy corner!

  “Kate.” A voice from the top of the balcony stairs stopped her short. She breathed in her childhood name—years had passed since anyone called her that, and twisted toward the sound. But silence reigned.

  Down below, Darlene swished her rag steadily over the pews—no, it wouldn’t do to dawdle. Mara, Kathryn’s first grandchild, would be coming over after school, since Gabby had a late meeting today.

  On Kathryn’s second swipe at the clock, an even brighter shaft of sunlight hit—wonderful rays that bespoke the high-country beauty just beyond this building. She shook off that voice calling her Kate—surely her imagination.

  But was that a slight shuffle over near the stairs? She turned to look, and the next second, propelled headlong over the railing.
Then that excruciating thunk, and now, a draft of air as the main sanctuary doors swished open. Timeworn floorboards vibrated toward her in a regular rhythm.

  Darlene had slipped off somewhere, but something warned Kathryn to pretend sleep. The rhythm halted inches away. A painful slit in her eyelids revealed nubby brown wool tweed slouched over scuffed oxfords, and the headline of a folded Chronicle under a slender man’s arm: First Flight of Concorde Supersonic Jet—a month behind the times.

  The intruder leaned close. “I never meant to ...” His whisper left an unforgettable odor—Gauloise cigarettes. Short, wide, and unfiltered, their intense aroma instantly transported her to Turkey or Syria—or back to the South of France, where Resistance partisans smoked Gauloise as a matter of patriotism.

  Scruffy and starving, they cried, “Liberté toujours! They’ve killed nearly a thousand at the Fort in Paris, and that butcher in Lyon executes even more, but we fight for freedom forever!” Prior to D-Day, that objective had infused Kathryn’s every move.

  The tweed man departed in silence. Moments later, Darlene squeezed Kathryn’s fingers. “Stay with me now.”

  Watch out for Mara, she wanted to say. Stop at Gabby’s office and let her know about this. Hopefully her eyes communicated what her tongue could not.

  Darlene scrunched up her nose. “Oohf—where did that awful smell come from?”

  Kathryn faded again, but a familiar tender tone replayed inwardly, the same almost unbearable divine love that had burned the backs of her eyes up in the balcony when she’d stared at Jesus and the children.

  “Yes, it’s you here in my arms, always. And remember, you can never really lose a friend like Addie.”

  Kathryn’s unintentional groan deepened Darlene’s puzzled look. “Oh, I wish there were something I could do. But you’ll be all right, hon. I’m sure you will.”

  People surrounded them then, and someone took Darlene’s place. “Careful now—her neck may be broken. One ... two ... three.”

  Canvas supported her, then a harder substance, like wood. A warm spring breeze touched Kathryn’s cheeks, followed by an antiseptic smell. Narrow walls closed in, but just before the doors clicked shut, a small gust of air grazed Kathryn’s ear, along with that same strong tobacco scent.

  “Never forget Barbie—do you hear me?”

  Her gut clenched, but something jostled her left shoulder, and searing pain engulfed her. Her cry emerged only as a whimper. Klaus Barbie, the Butcher of Lyon. How could she forget?

  Chapter One

  Intermittent snorts issued from the pigpen. The heady odor already permeated Kate’s borrowed chore clothes. At her best imitation of

  Domingo’s whistle, Le Chien bounded over to her, and Mrs. Ibarra glanced up from pouring potato peelings into the swill.

  “You have learned quickly. See how the dog obeys.” At least that’s how Kate interpreted the petite woman's Euskara-tainted French.

  A cold nose grazed Kate’s palm, so she bent to pet the scruffy sheepdog’s grizzled muzzle. The V-shaped patch on his left ear flopped awkwardly, evidence of a fight.

  “Your looks deceive. You know more about sheep than I ever will.” The mongrel cocked his head. “You only have to tolerate me for a couple more days before Domingo returns. At least, I hope so.”

  The canine’s brown tail brushed the breeze like a feathery flag as he roused a wooly mass from the shade of a stone enclosure and herded the recalcitrant animals baaing and maaing toward an inviting meadow.

  Kate took her cue and nodded a quick good-bye. “Madame Ibarra—à bientôt.”

  “No, wait.” The wizened peasant woman hurried to the house, so Kate followed. She smoothed the hand-hewn arch with her fingers. In bygone days, someone took great care fitting pieces of carefully curved wood to aged stones.

  Madame Ibarra thrust a burlap bag into her hands. “You must have food for the day, and drink.” Then she reached up to make the sign of the cross over Kate. “Domingo declares even our corner of Lot unsafe now. May Gabirel guard you.”

  “Gabirel?”

  “Our Champion, the heavenly angel who watches over us.”

  “Ah, so you named your youngest for him. And Domingo means ruler?”

  “Oui, for he entered this world on a Sabbath.”

  Simple, undeniable logic stoked her obsidian eyes. Aunt Alvina used to regard Kate the same way, with motherly concern and pride. Near the ridge above the family dwelling, Kate looked back and the Ibarra family matriarch gave a nod.

  The flock’s dense scent led into an elongated valley bursting with early summer growth. Poplar saplings and chestnuts poked fresh buds skyward. In the still-dewy grass, some pink Lady Orchids Domingo had shown Kate a few days ago still held some color.

  The war threatened even this isolated area. Rather than herding their sheep, countless young Basques like Domingo risked everything leading downed pilots over the Pyrenees or fulfilled other dangerous assignments for La Résistance française.

  At word that the Gestapo had compromised her Clermont-Ferrand circuit, he might have left Kate to fend for herself, yet kept his word to guide her to the Department of Dordogne. Whether she ever reached that destination remained to be seen, but after meeting his mother, she’d gained an inkling of how much he sacrificed to help Monsieur le Blanc, the mysterious Résistance worker they stumbled over on the trail.

  Just before Monsieur left this world, he’d revealed his identity as her father’s brother. The experience still held Kate in wonder. Finally, she had what she’d always hungered for ... family. After his humble burial, their temporary host revealed the depth of his devotion to la Résistance.

  But Monsieur le Blanc bequeathed her far more than a locket with her father’s baby picture—he left his recollections of her father, Le Renard Intrepid. And while Monsieur died, Domingo waited in the shadows, keeping watch.

  Halfway up the slope, prickles traced Kate’s spine. A wary turn, and she burst into a relieved laugh. Some knobby-kneed baby goats with upturned ears the length of their heads trailed her.

  “Hello little ones. Does this mean you’ve bonded with me so quickly? I have only visited your pen a few times.” She smoothed their long cream-colored hair and pink ears. “Come along, then.”

  “Maa, maaaa.”

  One kid struck an appealing pose with a weed stem hanging from its mouth. Another baby rubbed its muzzle into the ground, adding a gritty layer of soil to its charcoal nose.

  Remembering Domingo’s quiet vigilance after Monsieur’s death brought Kate inner warmth, not unlike this sunny spring weather. While remaining close at hand, Domingo allowed her time and space, and because he asked nothing of her, she told him everything.

  Still shocked at her rashness, Kate’s inner chidings had ceased, for the most part. If her outpouring had been in error, so be it. But in her heart of hearts, a calming voice told her Domingo’s loyalty ran deeper than the Ségala’s farthest reaches.

  Wildflowers brushed her every step. Addie could identify most of them, no doubt, but Kate’s lack of names did nothing to decrease her appreciation of the colors dancing in the grass.

  Shiny charcoal hooves barely touching the earth, the kids danced along with her at a distance from the sheep. After the long winter’s stark dun and white landscape, seeing so many emerald shades almost hurt Kate’s eyes. At the top of the incline, she paused.

  “Minus these rolling hills, I might be back in Iowa on Addie’s farm.” The locations she had called home since she came to France came to mind—such good memories of Le Chambon sur Lignon, much higher in the Haute Loire, and the countryside around Clermont-Ferrand. But now, this high country between the Viaur and Aveyron Rivers grounded her afresh.

  She reached down to scratch a kidlet’s head. “Right up there, see? That’s where Domingo went.” Rugged crags rose like sentries and Kate shivered in spite of her confidence in Domingo. In those Ségala wilds, thousands of Résistance partisans awaited instructions and British ammunition drops, but en ro
ute, the Gestapo lurked at every turn.

  Simmering ferocity against the Third Reich burgeoned all over France, but so far, London limited the actions the Resistance could take against the enemy. Only covert sabotage was allowed—no direct contact with the Nazis.

  Kate sensed limits, too, even though Domingo had found her a transmitter. Today, the Ibarra’s neighbor Edorta called his brother Gabirel to work, so the sheep tending fell to her. Besides, Domingo warned her never to transmit with only his mother at home.

  In this land of wildly divergent contours, the Ségala carried a particular mystique. When they first arrived in this department called Lot, Domingo had pointed out a peculiar crag.

  “To the left of my baby finger, like a steeple—see there? From our property, you can see that peak. Northwest lies the Résistance encampment, so highly guarded that no one can approach undetected.”

  “Except you?”

  He shrugged. “Whoever knows the passwords.”

  Now, Kate wished she’d asked more about his missions. Most partisans kept to their own territory, but Domingo seemed to range far afield.

  The goats meandered up the hillside, their hooves leaving small pointed indentations in sod still moist from the spring melt. Westward, a smoke curl rose from another farmstead. Pungent lavender bundles from last year’s harvest wafted their intoxication from a nearby drying shed.

  Terraced up the valley’s side, scraggly grapevine rows promised fruit in late summer, even with no one to tend them. But by then, who knew where she would be? Like Domingo, Kate had traveled farther than she ever dreamed. What might come next?

  Southward, two sturdy sycamore rows guarded the dirt road. Their whitish outer bark layered over a deeper taupe foundation matched a stone outbuilding in a nearby pasture.

  The flock spattered the hillside like light mortar smudges on a verdant tablecloth. Iowa had its beauty, but this serene landscape defied Kate to search out appropriate words. She dropped to the earth and pulled out her notebook. Lately, she’d journaled as if writing to Addie—oh, that she could!