He’d never see that smile again or those eyes. In the book of Genesis, Leah was described as “tender eyed.” The phrase conveyed weakness, but the Leah standing before him wasn’t weak. Vulnerable, but not weak. And tender. Very tender.

He was staring. Clay cleared his throat. “Reckon I ought to get back to camp before Sergeant Lombardi turns me into pumpkin pie.”

Her smile deepened. “Good-bye, Clay. I’ll write often, and I’ll pray even more often.”

“Thank you. I will too. Good-bye.”

All he could think about was the wedding kiss, the awkwardness and sweetness. If he kissed her now, it wouldn’t be awkward. It would be an appropriate farewell. It would be sweet.

And it wouldn’t be wise. Neither one of them could afford a stronger attachment.

Instead he held out his arms and gave her a sheepish smile. A husband would embrace a wife, and a brother would embrace a sister.

She took a half step, and he closed the gap and wrapped his arms around her. My, she was tiny, only up to his chin and not much to her.

Her arms inched around his back. “Be careful, Clay. I know you have an important job, but please be careful.”

“You be careful too. Don’t go anywhere alone, night or day, especially on base.”

A shaky laugh fluttered against his raincoat. “I don’t think that’s entirely possible.”

His fingers curled around the belt of her coat. If only he could stay and keep her safe forever.

A sigh escaped. He’d done what he could. He’d leave her in the Lord’s capable hands.

Clay planted a quick kiss on her cheek. Not quick enough. He still noticed the softness, the smoothness, and the scent of hotel soap.

He stepped back. “It was an honor knowing you, Leah Paxton.”

She ducked her chin and turned for the door. “And . . . and you too.”

Clay turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled the bill of his service cap lower, and headed into the rain. He had a dream to fulfill, and he had to do that alone.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1943

Leah let excess batter drip off the chicken drumsticks.

Rita Sue Bellamy nudged her. “Slather it on nice and thick. You’re in the South now.”

Leah dunked the drumsticks. “So many eggs.”

“They aren’t rationed, and we have chickens out back.”

Would she ever become accustomed to plenty? Leah plopped the heavy-laden drumsticks into the sizzling oil in Rita Sue’s cast-iron pan.

The Bellamy children bustled around the kitchen, lit by an electric lamp to counteract the gloom of the rainy day. Nine-year-old Joey cut out biscuits, seven-year-old Luella shucked peas, and six-year-old Sally set silverware on the dining room table.

Rita Sue adjusted the ties on her apron. “You did fine work cutting up that chicken.”

“Everyone helped in the orphanage, and I help Mrs. Perry in the boardinghouse.”