“You might as well get to work. These have been cataloged and are ready to be shelved.” Miss Mayhew stood and passed the stack of books to Leah.

Pain wrenched through her shoulder and chest. She cried out, and the books tumbled. Loud thumps fired through the library. Chairs scraped over wood, and dozens of soldiers stood and stared.

Leah pressed her hands over the fire in her chest where she’d been stabbed. In this building. Only a month ago.

“Oh my stars. Miss Jones!” Miss Mayhew rushed from behind the desk. “I mean, Mrs. Paxton. Are you all right?”

Leah fought to catch her breath. “I guess I can’t carry that much weight yet.”

“Here. Have a seat.” Miss Mayhew guided her to a chair. “I’m so sorry. What was I thinking?”

“I’m fine.” Leah did her best to smile. “You were thinking I meant what I said, that I was ready to work.”

“Thoughtless of me.” She bustled behind the desk and pushed out the cart. “Use this and only when you’re ready. Please sit as long as you need.”

“Thank you.” She kept pressure on the wound as Clay had done that night.

Miss Mayhew knelt and picked up the books, straightening pages and closing covers. “I was rude and thoughtless. I didn’t stop to think what you’d been through.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. Why, I didn’t even congratulate you. How rude. And I’m very happy for you. You married a good man.”

The pain dulled, and Leah lowered her hands. “I did.”

14

CAMP FORREST
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 1943

Clay stood at attention at the foot of his cot, his gaze fixed on the bare wooden barracks wall above Manfred Brady’s head. With all the turnover, Brady and Frank Lyons had been transferred into Clay’s platoon, to the other squad in his section. Even if Clay didn’t like those two, he had to admit they were good Rangers.

The men’s uniforms and gear lay in order on their cots for their final inspection at Camp Forrest. Tomorrow evening, the 2nd Ranger Battalion would board a train for the Scouts and Raiders School in Fort Pierce, Florida, to train in amphibious assault. Clay’s fingers curled in anticipation.

Lieutenant Taylor strode down the aisle. “Listen up, men. Major Rudder has issued twenty-four-hour passes.”

Someone whooped, but Clay didn’t even stir.

“Those can be revoked. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Clay shouted with the rest of his platoon.

“Report back at 0800 tomorrow. Everyone is dismissed except Paxton. Paxton, come here.”

What? He hadn’t whooped. Clay marched down the aisle, past G. M.’s sympathetic gaze, past his buddies packing and making plans involving liquor and women.

He stood at attention before the lieutenant, but his gut squirmed. Lately he’d fought hard. What had gone wrong?

“At ease.”

Clay clasped his hands at the small of his back.