“They’ll hate me.”

Dan shook his head. “No they won’t. They’ll know they did the wrong thing. Fine, find a way to let off some steam but not at the expense of somebody’s character. If I didn’t do anything about it, then that’s as good as saying I think it’s okay. It’s not.” He paused, watching another tracer dance across the sky. “You’re back late.”

She passed the glass back to him. “I’d heard whispers about soldiers raping women. And I found someone who spoke to me about it. I don’t think I can ignore it, even though I know I’ll never be able to publish it.”

He didn’t reply and Jess clammed her mouth shut. She’d given him one too many confidences. How could he condone her doing something like this, actively slandering the organization that he, as an officer, was sworn to uphold? But then he said, quietly, “You should write it anyway.”

A faint smile drifted onto her face. If only the army was peopled with men like Dan, rather than men like Warren.

She turned the conversation back to the reason she was late, not wanting to tell him anything else; it wasn’t fair to drop the burden of what she was doing onto him. “The drive took forever,” she sighed. “I didn’t realize how much time you save when you have someone navigating and watching one half of the road for you.”

“I thought you went with Martha?” He sat up straight, alert.

“I took her to the hospital yesterday. She’s ill.”

“You drove back alone at night? Yesterday as well?” Still that attentiveness, the attitude of his back like raised hackles.

“I was fine.”

“But you mightn’t have been. Jesus, Jess, you should have stayed at the press camp for the night.”

She tried to interrupt, to protest that she didn’t feel like sharing with a pack of correspondents, not when the day had been so grueling, but Dan didn’t let up.

“Anything could have happened,” he said. “It’s not safe enough yet to go driving at night alone. And it’s as slick as an ice-rink out there.”

“Dan,” she said gently, staring at him until he stopped. “If I’d been blown up it wouldn’t have mattered a damn if I was with someone or not. I’m not your responsibility. You have a whole battalion to worry about. You don’t have to worry about me too.”

“If you’re not my responsibility then whose responsibility are you? SHAEF PR? They take such good care of you. Warren Stone? Damned if I’d leave you in his hands for more than a second.”

“I’m responsible for myself,” she stated. “I knew that when I decided to come out here.”

“But you take that responsibility too lightly.”

He was glaring at her but she knew the anger came from concern. That what she’d said to him that morning—I think of you as a friend first and the guy in charge second—was true for him too.

She put her hand on his arm. “I take that responsibility very seriously. As seriously as you take your responsibility to yourself. I was aware of the risks posed by both the Germans and the roads and I was hyper-alert on the way back. Which is why I’m so filthy and tired now,” she added ruefully. “I know how I’d feel if anything happened to you. So I’m extra careful if I’m ever in a jeep by myself.”