Gene and McKillop hopped in from opposite sides, then Clay and Lyons, then Ruby and Holman, with Lombardi climbing in at the rear.

Clay straddled the tubular rim, grabbed the paddle, and dug into the warm water. The raft climbed another swell, tipped with white, and down they slid on the other side.

Gene whooped. “We made it. Head for the buoy.”

“That’s it, fellows,” Lombardi said. “You’ve got to be as close as brothers.”

Clay gritted his teeth and sliced the water with his paddle. Nothing close about the Paxton brothers. Wyatt and Adler still found ways to hurt him, even in their absence.

A letter from Daddy and Mama had arrived the day he left Camp Forrest. They’d received Clay and Leah’s wedding portrait and were enthralled with their daughter-in-law. And they longed for the older sons’ return so the family could be whole again.

They would welcome Wyatt and Adler just like that? They’d ignore theft and fornication and betrayal and how the men had ruined Clay’s life?

Wyatt and Adler had never even apologized. Not one word in over two years, and they were forgiven, no questions asked. That felt like yet another betrayal.

Rubenstein yelped and rubbed at his leg.

McKillop cussed. “Stupid jellyfish.”

Sure enough, stinging rose on Clay’s left leg, and his muscles jerked in response. The tiny pink jellyfish worked their way up trouser legs and stung like crazy. “When we get back to shore, rub your legs with sand to get the nettles out.”

“Yes, doc,” the men said in unison.

Clay winced. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? He didn’t want the boys to know he’d almost gone to college. He just wanted to fit in. And he didn’t want the questions.

The Rangers navigated around the buoy and aimed for shore. The stinging increased, dozens of tiny pinging, burning pains all over his lower leg.

Stung as much as his parents’ words. They forgave so lightly, so easily.

Clay squinted into the sun and frowned at the flat green Florida shore. He thought he’d forgiven his brothers, but what did it really mean to forgive?

Was he supposed to forget everything they’d done? Was he supposed to say it didn’t matter that they’d stolen his future? To say he didn’t mind?

But it did matter and he did mind.

Clay dug the paddle into the water, over and over. How? How am I supposed to forgive, Lord? What do you want me to do?

Couldn’t talk to the fellows about it. Last thing he wanted was pity.

Leah.

His paddling paused, and he reminded himself to keep pace.

He had to write her anyway so everyone would think they were madly in love. He’d planned to write short letters about his activities and the scenery. Nothing personal.