Look Behind You (The Order of the Silver Star) by Elisabeth Wolfe Page A

sight was a sorely-needed piece of home, not least because Hamer was from San Saba, one county north of Castell, and his family had been friends with the Schneiders for decades.
    Once they had exchanged introductions and greetings and were in the car headed back to London, Hamer sighed. “I gotta confess, gentlemen, I’m surprised at y’all invitin’ me over here like this. Nobody’s even told me what it’s about; Governor O’Daniel was rantin’ and ravin’ about how he cain’t even use the Rangers the way he wants to, and here I am on loan to the King of England.”
    “You’ll receive a full briefing in London,” Nimrod replied. “But for now, I can tell you that we need the aid of the Order of the Silver Star.”
    Hamer gave Nimrod an appraising look. “You know Himmler’s trying to claim that the SS is the next Round Table.”
    “I do. The trouble is, Himmler’s code is ‘Might is right.’ That doesn’t even have the dubious dignity of ‘Might makes right’—the notion that your ideas are right because you can enforce them. These physically weak twits like Himmler and Hitler worship power for its own sake. But King Arthur’s code was ‘Might for right.’ You get a lot further fighting for the right thing than you do trying to force others to think a wrong is right.”
    Hamer shrugged. “I guess the fact that we understand that explains why we never tried to claim that mantle for ourselves. The ones who have those kinds of fantasies usually wash out. The rest of us just do our jobs.”
    “And that’s precisely why I recommended you. We’ve no shortage of glory hounds. We’ve no shortage of good, steady men, either, police and military, but they’re not at your level. You’re the best, but you’re generally not arrogant. That’s what we need.”
    Hamer nodded slowly. “Well, then, we’ll see what we can do.”
    Nimrod smiled, and Chris was relieved.
     
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    6 Thanks be to God.
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    *****
     
    Matt sighed as he walked outside after breakfast on St. Patrick’s Day and looked out across his parents’ ranch. The fence needed mending down by the creek, thanks to a flash flood a few days earlier, but the fog that had rolled into the Castell area during the night was so thick that he could barely see the garage from the back door, never mind the barn. Driving down to the creek was going to be out of the question. Not that he minded riding all that much—he did like his horse and had ridden a lot of hot, dusty miles out in West Texas with the Rangers—but he hadn’t been looking forward to spending the morning out in the damp and the mud to begin with. Had he been able to take the truck, at least the job would have gone a little faster.
    There was nothing for it, though. The fence had to get mended today, both for the sake of the cattle and because the phone was connected through the top wire. Sighing again, Matt ran a hand through his dark hair, slapped his hat on, and stomped toward the barn to get his horse saddled.
    Truth be told, he had been in a bad mood for over a week now, ever since Congress had decided the right response to Churchill’s “Give us the tools” speech was this stupid Lend-Lease Act. Matt still didn’t understand why the State Department had nixed Hamer’s plan in ’39, but it would have been his only shot at doing something in this war; he was too old to enlist if and when the US did get involved. Knowing that Chris was probably over there somewhere doing who knew what for the OSS didn’t help, either. Matt didn’t exactly regret that his father had had a stroke back in ’36, causing Matt to retire for good and move home before he could decide whether to rejoin the Rangers and brave the hiccups and headaches that went with the early days of the Department of Public Safety. For all the grief he’d felt at the time, he loved the old Heimplatz and the community in these parts, and ranching during bluebonnet season sure had glories of its own. But