Miss King fiddled with that strand of hair. “A woman of your standing? You wouldn’t want your child here. I love these children dearly, but some are a bit rough and uncouth.”

Leah’s chest ached. That was how everyone had seen her. “All the more reason to help.”

The director’s shoulders relaxed. “Well then, I’ll see you in January.”

She managed a smile. “You’ll see me in a few days with a load of books.”

22

BUDE, CORNWALL
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1943

“Those artillery boys will be hopping mad.” Clay chuckled and ran with his squad back to the rendezvous point.

“Happy Christmas to you, old chaps,” G. M. called in an affected English accent.

Thank goodness the foliage kept them concealed from their opponents in the field exercise. And thank goodness Lieutenant Colonel Rudder had assigned the exercise to help the men forget they were spending Christmas far from home.

Not such a happy Christmas for the boys of the US field artillery battalion stationed in Bude. The Rangers had tracked the artillerymen’s position, infiltrated past their security, removed the breechblocks from the 155-mm howitzers, and let air out of the tires. Mission accomplished.

Clay’s squad ran along a narrow path lined with tall hedges and arching tree branches. A cool wind blustered up from the Celtic Sea onto the Cornish downs.

For the past three weeks, the Rangers had traipsed the downs in speed marches and runs. They’d trained with combat-seasoned British Commandos. And almost every day they’d scaled the hundred-foot-tall Upton Cliffs, first with a safety line and then without.

Clay hopped over a low rail fence into the clearing where his platoon gathered. He found Lieutenant Taylor and reported his squad’s success. With Bob Holman injured, Clay had led the squad on this exercise.

Holman sat propped against a tree, surrounded by Gene, Ruby, and McKillop.

Clay joined them. “We’ve scaled how many cliffs, and you sprain your ankle on level ground.”

“If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have heard the scuttlebutt.” Holman’s blink was slow and uncoordinated. Just how much whiskey had he nipped before the exercise? “Overheard Big Jim talking to Tay-Tay. D’you ’member in Florida when that girl went missing?”

“Yeah.” Clay could still hear her father’s anguished voice.

McKillop tapped a cigarette out of a pack. “Betcha they found her holed up in a beach shack with some sailor boy.”

“Nope. Found her dead.”

Clay sucked in a breath. “Dead?”

“Yep. The school commander wrote to Rudder and the COs of the other units at Fort Pierce at the time. They found the girl raped, stabbed, and dumped in a swamp.”

Raped? Stabbed? Like Leah. Clammy air clogged his lungs, and he got to his feet. Where was Rudder? He needed to talk to him.

“Pax?” Gene frowned.

Clay motioned for his buddy to come with him, and he marched back to the rail fence.