“We’re awaiting word from VBC headquarters. Our poor little library is already packed to the rafters, so we don’t have room. Most likely we’ll donate them to the scrap paper drive.”

“Scrap!” Leah clutched the sweet story. “Can’t we find them a home?”

Mrs. Sheridan and Rita Sue exchanged a knowing smile, which they turned to Leah. “How would you like a project?” Mrs. Sheridan said.

“Oh yes.” Ideas raced through her head. “Miss Mayhew is always complaining about her acquisitions budget.”

“While we’re waiting for word from New York, why don’t you sort the books and ask Miss Mayhew? If the VBC grants permission, we’ll enrich the camp’s library.”

“I’ll ask her today, and I can start sorting right now. I don’t have to go home for lunch for another hour.” Leah bent to pick up a box.

“Let me,” Rita Sue said in a dark tone.

“Yes, ma’am.” Lifting only four books at a time made her feel like an invalid again, but she wouldn’t do anything to endanger her baby.

Rita Sue set the box on the table, then wiggled her fingers at Leah. “See you later, sugar.”

“I’ll leave you to your work,” Mrs. Sheridan said. “Holler if you need me.”

“I will, ma’am.” Leah unloaded the first box and sorted it. Questions arose to ask Miss Mayhew, and Leah pulled her composition book and pen out of her purse.

So many titles she’d never seen before. Could any of them hold clues to her past?

A book about Mexico, and Leah flipped through. Clay’s heritage—so colorful and festive. For a wedding gift, Mr. and Mrs. Paxton had sent Leah a generous check and a length of intricate lace that had belonged to Mrs. Paxton’s grandmother.

The most beautiful thing Leah had ever owned.

Except Clay’s heritage didn’t belong to her. If he died, Leah would return the lace. Or if he divorced her.

She shuddered and picked up four books from a box on the floor. On top lay Heidi.

“My dear friend.” The dust jacket was tattered around the edges, but inside—oh, Johanna Spyri’s enchanting story and Jessie Willcox Smith’s wondrous colored illustrations of Heidi’s Alpine home.

No children frequented the camp library, so the novel belonged in the discard pile.

Leah hugged the book. How could she abandon a friend so dear? A friend who’d offered solace and inspiration when she was sick and alone and abandoned?

She peeked into the reading room. The clock read 11:44—how time had flown. She caught the librarian’s eye. “Mrs. Sheridan? I’m going home now. I’ll come by next Monday morning, maybe before.”

“Thank you for your help.”

Leah grabbed her purse and the book and darted out of the library. Since the book was slated for destruction, no one could call it stealing.