Clay trotted downstairs, then headed down the narrow passageway to the ballroom where he’d been quartered. The West Point could carry eight thousand troops, but on this westbound trip, only thirteen hundred men had sailed. A lot roomier.

Clay checked his duffel to make sure he’d packed everything. Leah’s most recent letter lay on top, and he opened it again.

She described a work party she’d helped organize at the orphanage, a rousing success from what he could tell from her modest wording. She’d accomplished more than any fund-raiser could have—she’d helped make those orphans part of the community.

“You’re an incredible woman, Leah Paxton,” he murmured.

He lingered over his favorite section.

Recently I’ve learned that not everything in my hands is meant to stay there. Some I am meant to release, like my sisters. Although I pray we will be reunited and I will always hold them close in my heart and prayers, I have let them go.

But God has placed some things in my hands that I am meant to cling to hard, like my daughter and the orphans. I will fight for them with everything in me.

Clay folded the letter and closed his duffel. Her letter reminded him of the third chapter of Ecclesiastes, where he’d spent a lot of time recently. “A time to keep, and a time to cast away.” Leah had learned the difference.

What about Clay? Did she mean to keep him or to cast him away?

He hefted his duffel over his shoulder, pausing to let a twinge of pain in his wound follow its course. He pressed a lungful of air against the pain, mastering it.

In their letters since D-day, he and Leah had skirted the topic of their marriage, but the time to speak had also come. He’d do everything he could to persuade her to remain his wife.

Clay straightened his garrison cap and made his way down the passageway, the rumbles of the giant engines working through his legs.

Leah intended to fight for Helen and the orphans, and Clay rubbed his thumb along the warmth of his wedding ring. “Well, darlin’, I’m fixin’ to fight for you with everything in me. Don’t make me resort to dirty fighting, you hear?”

When he reached the stairs, soldiers were streaming down, grinning and chatting. Clay worked his way upstream to the deck of the former ocean liner. Even though he’d still have to wait for his group to be called to disembark, he wanted to be at the front of the line.

Outside, he filled his lungs with fresh American air. Alive.

Ever since D-day he’d been puzzling over the recurring dream. God knew everything. God knew Clay would dodge that bullet and live. So why did he send the dream?