“What?” Clay pushed up to his knees and pulled in a ragged breath. Why on earth had Lyons been near the lines? They all knew better than that.

“Yeah, Lyons.” Ernie McKillop glared at him. “What were you thinking?”

“It was an accident.” Lyons shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Glad to hear it.” Clay couldn’t keep sarcasm out of his tone. If any other man in the battalion had caused such an accident, he’d have fallen all over himself apologizing and thanking heaven no one had been hurt.

Not cool and calculating Frank Lyons.

Not that dark-haired man of medium build, and Clay’s blood chilled.

Was it on accident? Or on purpose?

Or was Clay imagining things after looking too hard for the attacker? As G. M. had said, it was probably a coincidence, two unrelated crimes, neither by a Ranger.

“You all right?” Gene held out a hand.

Clay took it and got to his feet, shakier than he cared to admit. “Yeah.”

Lieutenant Taylor strode over, concern all over his face. “Paxton, I heard what happened.”

“I’m fine, sir.” Clay brushed chalk from his Parsons field jacket.

“Quick thinking saved your life.”

“And good training.” He managed a smile.

“I’ll talk to Lyons.” Taylor set a hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Skip the next climb and take a rest. Glad we didn’t lose you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Clay wandered away alone, praying thanks for his survival. He wanted to die doing something good, not in an accident.

The prayer and the scenery calmed him down. The Isle of Wight tucked neatly into the triangle of a bay at Southampton and Portsmouth, and gray ships passed below, warships and freighters and troop transports. Blue skies and wispy white clouds arced over bright green downs, white cliffs, and frothy blue sea.

Even prettier than the Texas Hill Country. If Leah were here, she’d write a poem.

Far from the Rangers’ exercise, Clay sat down, stretched his legs before him, and leaned back on his elbows. Since Christmas, the tone of Leah’s letters had shifted. Darlene’s betrayal was causing her to question in a way the assault hadn’t. Maybe it was the proverbial final straw.

She’d raised a flurry of questions. Why did people feel it was all right to mistreat her because her parents had died? Why did people exclude other people from stores and restrooms and train cars because their skin was black? Why did people persecute and murder other people because they had different religious beliefs?

Clay puffed out a hard breath. He had no answers. That’s what had started the whole war—people declaring other people had no worth and no right to land or life.