“You do?” A bright smile bloomed. Miss Lindstrom seemed to be taking this case awful personally for an objective Red Cross worker. “Right now?”

“Right now? They’re here?” His gaze flew to the door, but he didn’t see them.

“They’re waiting outside, but . . . maybe another day.”

All the air and all the resistance drained out of him. “They’ve come a long way, haven’t they?”

“In more ways than you know,” she said in a soft voice.

Clay nodded to her. “I’ll see them now.”

“Thank you.” She darted forward as if to hug him but stopped. “They’ll be so happy.”

Clay groaned as apprehension and anticipation battled in his heart. Three years had passed. Three years of pain and misery and division. Today it could change—or it could continue. He alone carried the key that could turn the course of his family.

Was this how Joseph had felt in Egypt, waiting for his brothers to be ushered in to his presence?

Miss Lindstrom opened the door and beckoned. Two tall blond officers appeared, one in a navy-blue uniform and one in an olive drab Ike jacket and khaki trousers—Wyatt and Adler.

Clay’s chest constricted, and the apprehension crowded out the anticipation.

Miss Lindstrom pressed her hand to Adler’s cheek, and he kissed her forehead.

Well, that explained why she’d taken the case personally.

His brothers stepped inside the ward and removed their caps. Slowly, cautiously, they approached, sizing him up.

Clay didn’t stand as he should for officers, didn’t smile as he should for family. But hadn’t Joseph tested his brothers three times to see if their repentance was genuine? Nothing wrong with making his brothers squirm.

They stood at the foot of his bed, hats in hand, their faces as familiar as his own, yet changed, older . . . and etched with remorse.

That was enough squirming. “Howdy.”

“Howdy,” they said.

The sound of their voices unraveled his last knot of resentment.

Wyatt gestured to the letters. “I wish you had read our letters first.”

“Wouldn’t change anything.”

His brothers winced and exchanged a glance.

Clay sighed. Why wasn’t he communicating clearly? “You both have letters coming. I wrote them before D-day, before I could see for myself whether or not you were sorry—”

“We are sorry.” Adler’s gaze stretched out to him. “You have no idea how—”

Clay held up one hand, feeling very much like Joseph on his throne. “I wrote those letters to tell you I’ve forgiven you fully and completely. Both of you.”

Wyatt’s shoulders drooped. “We—we don’t deserve it.”

Adler hung his head. “Not one whit.”

Neither did Clay deserve their forgiveness.

Words weren’t enough. Clay swung his feet to the floor and pushed to standing.

Both brothers took half a step backward, as if expecting blows, then stood their ground.