23

Allied Naval Expeditionary Force Headquarters
Norfolk House
Monday, April 24, 1944

Wyatt dodged sailors toting boxes down the passageways of Norfolk House. Adm. Sir Bertram Ramsay, the Allied Naval Commander, had issued the naval orders for Operation Neptune that morning, and his headquarters was packing to move to Portsmouth on the southern coast.

He had to find Dorothy and say good-bye, say what he hadn’t been ready to say the day before. The last two visits to Fairfax & Sons hadn’t yielded leads, only suspicions he’d never be able to investigate.

He entered her office. There she was, directing Wrens as they removed photographs from the huge wall map.

The aching sensation hadn’t left him in the week since she’d shot him down. At least she’d interrupted him before he’d actually asked her out and made a bigger fool of himself. That courtesy allowed them to maintain their friendship with minimal strain.

The more he thought about it, the more he knew it was for the best. After today, he didn’t know when—or if—he’d see her again. And how could he ask her to start a relationship that might pull her away from her father permanently?

Why did he always fall in love with women who weren’t available?

Dorothy smiled and waved. “Good day, Lieutenant Paxton. Come to help us pack?”

“If you’d like.” He ambled over. “My train doesn’t leave until 1500.”

“Good.” She examined the wall. “That’s all, ladies. Let’s take the boxes down to the lorry.” She plunked a box in Wyatt’s arms and picked up another. “Follow me.”

“Aye aye, ma’am. When’s your train?” He followed her into the crowded passageway.

“Tomorrow afternoon. Headquarters opens at Southwick House on Wednesday. Tonight I pack and—and say good-bye to Papa.” Her voice quivered.

“He’ll be fine. He’s doing much better. And the Little Blitz seems to be over.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and worry zigzagged across her forehead. “But will he continue to do well after you leave, after I leave? We’ll be gone over a month.”

He steeled himself. “Actually, I doubt I’ll be back. That’s why I came today, to say good-bye.”

She faced him by the railing overlooking the staircase, her blue eyes enormous. “To me? But I’ll see you in Portsmouth.”

Wyatt took in every one of her facial features, committing them to memory. “The Western Naval Task Force is based in Plymouth. That’s where I’m going, then straight out to sea for a training exercise. After that the American destroyers should be here, and I’ll get assigned to one. Then . . . well, you know what’s coming.”

“But—but afterward—afterward you’ll return to London, won’t you?” Her eyes. How could he take it?

“We’ll be on the far shore a while, gunfire support, antisubmarine patrols, all that. When we’re done, I’ll get new orders. Don’t know where they’ll send me.”

The emotions on her face took him back to her conservatory when he was playing guitar, the connection that fooled him into thinking she might have feelings for him beyond friendship. It was only friendship, but it had been a good one.

“Oh.” Her voice squeaked. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” Everything in him wanted to ask her to write, but the sooner he got over her, the better. He kept women too long in his heart as it was.

Two Wrens passed them.

Wyatt adjusted his grip on the box and tilted his head to the stairs. “We should get—”

“Yes, we should.” She headed downstairs.

Rats, he still had to tell her. But how could he without breaking her heart?

Outside, a truck sat parked by the curb. Wyatt hoisted his box inside, then Dorothy’s box, and a sailor stacked them.

Wyatt backed out of the way and turned to Dorothy. “Listen, I feel bad I won’t be able to do any more investigating.”

She blinked. “Oh yes. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I’m sorry. I let you down and Mr. Montague too.”

“Nonsense. You did your best. You simply didn’t have enough time.”

“I don’t know if more time would have helped.” He lifted empty palms. “Everything’s clean. All I have is a couple of hunches.”

“Hunches? You didn’t say anything yesterday.”

“Thought I might have another Sunday. Then today I got my orders.”

Dorothy clasped her hands in front of her stomach. “What are your hunches?”

Wyatt tilted his head toward the north. “There’s something about the Edinburgh office. The budget is out of proportion to its size. Don’t know how I could have gotten up to Scotland to look at those books though.”

“I’ll mention it to Mr. Montague. What’s the other hunch?”

“You won’t like it.” He took her arm and guided her to the wall, far from the other sailors and Wrens.

“I won’t like it? What do you mean?”

Wyatt’s stomach balled up. “Because everything’s clean, it looks like the embezzlement is coming from pretty high up. The head of accounting, Mr. Montague . . . your father.”

Her face went white. “My father?”

“I know. I don’t like it either. But I doubt it’s Mr. Montague, since he’s the one who’s investigating. And remember, your dad denies there’s a problem and he didn’t want Mr. Montague to look into it.”

“How could you say such things?” Dorothy tugged her arm from his grasp, but she kept her voice low. “He extended hospitality to you.”

“I know.” He clamped his lips together, but he had to keep going. “As I said, I don’t like it. It’s out of character for him.”

“He practically thinks of you as another son.” Each word tight and crisp.

The pain made him wince. “I know. And I really like him, respect him. I don’t think he’s capable of it. But that’s how it looks from the outside. I wanted to warn you in case something happens. If someone looks into it and suspects your dad, I want you to be prepared.”

He ventured a glance.

Her face was as pale as marble, cool and indifferent. She looked down her nose at him. “If you should ever return to London, there will be no more investigating. And no more hospitality.”

“Dorothy—”

“Good day.” She marched away and into the building.

Wyatt sagged back against the wall and bonked his head on stone. Not only had he failed in the investigation, but he’d failed in his friendship with Dorothy. And he’d never see her again.

Wyatt sat squashed by the train window next to Ted Kelvin and Jerry Hobson, who were working a crossword puzzle. Jack Vale and Irwin Slobodsky sat across from him, lulled to sleep by the train’s motions. The officers’ sea bags were crammed into the overhead racks.

The English countryside rolled by under an overcast sky. Wyatt gripped his copy of Hard Times with the letter burning inside.

Why did it have to arrive today after the fiasco with Dorothy? He was already torn up inside. He’d wanted to warn her, prepare her, protect her, but all he’d done was hurt her. And he’d severed their friendship.

And now the letter.

He didn’t get much mail. A few letters from buddies in the Pacific Fleet, but this was his first from Kerrville. Over two months had passed since he’d mailed his letter. He’d assumed they didn’t want anything to do with him.

Now this. He cracked open the book. Daddy’s handwriting hurt his eyes with its hard, slanting script.

He ought to wait for some privacy to read it, but curiosity and a masochistic urge drove him to open the envelope. A single sheet of Paxton Trucking stationery, covered both sides in his dad’s hand. He closed his eyes and braced himself to hear from his father for the first time in almost three years. Lord . . .

He didn’t even know how to pray, so he read.

Dear Wyatt,

Your mama and I were overjoyed to receive your letter. We haven’t stopped worrying about you—or praying for you—since that horrible night. We’re relieved to hear you’re alive and well, and even more that you’ve repented.

Mind you, no one but Adler blamed you for Oralee’s death. Clay vouched for you, and that’s good enough for Mama and me. The sheriff officially ruled it an accident, and Oralee’s family accepts it as such.

As for the theft, we can’t begin to tell you how shocked and angry we were, and how Clay felt betrayed. We’re glad you’re sorry for what you did and are working to make amends. Mama and I have forgiven you, and we’ll always welcome you home.

Wyatt squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed by the image of Daddy and Mama running down the road to their Prodigal. He didn’t deserve it. But he’d take it.

We wish we could tell you Adler saw the light, but we have no way of knowing. He ran away that night also, and we haven’t heard from him since. We pray he’s all right and pray he’ll be led to write to us as you did.

Wyatt stared at the paragraph. Adler ran away? Why? To hunt down Wyatt and kill him? Nonsense. He might have done so the first night—but three years later? He might hold a grudge, but not murderous intent.

So why? He stared out the window, at a village in the distance. Had Adler been so overcome with grief that he couldn’t bear to see the places that reminded him of Oralee? He could understand not going home for three years—that made sense. But not even writing? That made no sense at all.

Wyatt held a puzzle piece his parents lacked—Adler had joined the Army Air Forces. But was that good news or bad?

As for Clay, we wish we’d had the means to pay for his college, but our biggest client went bankrupt in the spring of ’41. Paxton Trucking took a big hit. Besides, with you and Adler gone and so many of our men enlisting, we couldn’t spare him from the business.

We held onto him as long as possible, but last February the government got rid of occupational draft deferments for men twenty-two and younger. The Army snatched Clay right up. He volunteered for the Rangers, and he’s now in your neck of the woods.

Wyatt pressed his fist to his mouth to stifle a moan. Clay never went to college? He was supposed to be a physician, a good one. The best. But Wyatt had stolen that from him. Clay hated the trucking business, but Wyatt had dumped it on him when he ran away.

Oh Lord, no. Now Clay was in the Army, in the Rangers, in England?

The map of Normandy flashed in his mind, of the German gun battery at Pointe du Hoc, where the Rangers would storm the cliffs in a daring commando raid. Dangerous. Deadly.

Oh Lord. No, no, no. Had Wyatt sentenced his little brother to death? Clay with his sweet smile and warm brown eyes and caring disposition? He didn’t deserve it, any of it.

Wyatt could barely read the last few lines.

There’s more with Adler and Clay, but those aren’t our tales to tell.

Mama sends her love and lots of it. She’s too emotional to write to you right now. You understand. But she’ll write soon.

We’re praying hard for all our boys. Please join us in praying for your brothers. Mama believes you’ll all be reconciled someday and come home to us, but as far as I’m concerned it’ll take a miracle.

Before he could make a fool of himself, Wyatt excused himself and stepped over all the blue-clad legs to leave the compartment.

He strode down the swaying passageway, vision blurred. Lord, forgive me! Forgive me!

He’d destroyed what he loved most—his family. He’d violated his most cherished principle—loyalty.

At the end of the railway car, he leaned his forehead against a window. His eyes, his fists, his stomach, all clenched shut.

No money could repay those debts. How could Clay forgive him for wrecking his life?

And Adler? What had driven him to cut every tie to home?

All Wyatt knew was that he’d started it. With his jealousy for Adler’s success. With arrogant interference. With greedy self-preservation. With cowardly flight.

And his brothers paid the price. Wyatt had shattered their dreams, and now they were both in harm’s way.

All he’d ever wanted was to protect his loved ones—and he’d ruined them.

The letter turned damp in his fist. Like a flash flood, the news had washed away his road to redemption.