“A company this big will need a full-time accountant.” Wyatt raised a satisfied smile. “I’ll never have to leave my office again.”

Adler sent Clay a mischievous look. “All we need is a company physician.”

“Not on your life. I just want to be a small-town family doctor.” Clay stood. “Y’all should wrap this up. If Mama hears y’all talking business while there’s a party outside . . .”

Daddy whistled. “We’d better vamoose.”

Clay headed outside and stood on the big wraparound porch with his brothers. Dozens of family members circulated on the big lawn under the oaks and honey locusts, and the smell of Mama’s cooking and Daddy’s barbecue threaded into his lungs.

It was good to be home.

The previous August, Leah had come with him to Kerrville and stayed with his parents while he was at Fort Sam Houston. Whenever he could get leave, he took it. Those had been sweet, sweet months.

In December he’d shipped overseas to join the Rangers again, and he’d followed them into Germany and Czechoslovakia, celebrating V-E Day with Gene Mayer at his side.

When he shipped overseas, Leah had returned to Tullahoma to help at the orphanage and the library. She’d also worked with the librarian at Camp Forrest to arrange the donation of the library’s collection to the town after the base closed. That meant the little town library would need a larger building.

Leah had passed her part of the project to Rita Sue, because in January, Clay and Leah were moving to Austin, to a little place of their own. He couldn’t wait.

“Daddy!” Helen toddled across the lawn in a red dress with a red bow tied in her black curls. She flopped onto the bottom porch step and crawled up. Hard to believe she’d be two in April.

“Hello, my little jingle bell.” Clay scooped her up and kissed a sticky cheek. “Are you having fun?”

She nodded and bounced in his arms. “Moo! Moo!”

“Yes, music.” Pawpaw, Uncle Emilio, and other Ramirez uncles and cousins played rollicking mariachi music on Daddy’s makeshift stage under a honey locust.

“Tee-tee!” Helen squealed and pointed at Timmy, who was running up with a sprig of blond hair waving above his head. How Helen adored her three-and-a-half-year-old cousin.

“Hi, Uncle Clay. Hi, Uncle Wy. Hi . . . Daddy.” The little boy stopped short of the father he’d only known through letters and photos until recently.

“Howdy, buckaroo.” Adler squatted in front of him. “Want to fly?”

“Yippee!” Timmy jumped up and down, then scrambled onto Adler’s back.

Helen leaned out of Clay’s arms. “Me! Me! Me!”

Timmy frowned. “Not her.”

“Yes, her.” Adler reached for Helen. “But she’ll go in the cargo hold. You’re the pilot this time. Then we’ll switch.”

“Yay!”

Clay relinquished his daughter. “Remember, she’s cargo, not a bomb to drop.”