Книга - Heaven’s Touch

Heaven's Touch
Jillian Hart


Special forces soldier Ben McKaslin returned home with a bum leg, a bad attitude and his career in tatters. Then, in one defining moment, an emergency had him leaping instinctively to the rescue–and locking eyes with the captivating woman he'd left behind. Could this have been God's plan all along?After her own crushing setback, Cadence Chapman had learned to embrace life to the fullest. But she'd also learned how to safeguard her heart. Yet as sparks reignited between her and Ben while he rehabilitated, she realized she still loved him to the depths of her soul. Dare she pin all her dreams on this embittered military man who had no idea how blessed he truly was?









Cadence looked great.


More relaxed, her smile easy and wide. Her cornflower-blue eyes sparkled as she talked with her morning regulars at the swimming pool.

Whatever happened, he’d be seeing her again regularly. But they were strangers now. There was no going back to their high school days, when they’d been practically inseparable. When he’d loved her with his whole heart. When he’d believed they were soul mates.

No such thing as soul mates, Ben told himself as he turned away from her. Failure became a tight vise in his chest until it hurt to breathe. He’d failed at every major relationship he’d ever started, and he knew he’d failed Cadence the most.

A soft lilt of laughter had him turning once again, his soul recognizing Cadence before his mind could. The instant his gaze found hers, she looked up. Their eyes met….




JILLIAN HART


makes her home in Washington State, where she has lived most of her life. When Jillian is not hard at work on her next story, she loves to read, go to lunch with her friends and spend quiet evenings with her family.




Heaven’s Touch

Jillian Hart







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


What is important is faith expressing itself in love.

—Galatians 5:6


Dear Reader,

The McKaslin family story continues when brother Ben returns from active duty in the Middle East. He’d been injured in combat and he’s not sure if his injuries will heal enough for him to return to the career he loves and feels called to do. As courageous as he’s been as a pararescueman defending our country, he finds real peril returning to his hometown in Montana—the danger of opening his heart to his high school sweetheart, Cadence. God is always gracious and gives him a little help along the way.

Thank you for choosing Heaven’s Touch. I hope you enjoy Ben’s story as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.

I wish you joy and the sweetest of blessings.









Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue




Chapter One


Ben McKaslin climbed out of his pickup, fished his debit card out of his wallet and hit the gas tank lever. His back complained. His leg complained.

He ignored both, because he was no longer in Florida. Gone were the stifling heat and the cloying humidity and the scents of moss and dampness and heat of the Gulf coast he’d never gotten used to. How could any place on earth be as good as Montana?

The sight of rugged amethyst peaks and green rolling meadows touched him deeply. It was good to be going home. There were lots of things he’d missed. The natural beauty of the state was one of them. He swiped at his scratchy eyes.

Well, he wasn’t home yet, but ever since he’d crossed the Montana state line, he hadn’t been able to drive fast enough. He hadn’t wanted to stop for any reason and had kept on driving.

Except for the fact that the truck was on Empty. This stop would be a quick break to gas up and he’d be back on the road. As he glanced around the outskirts of Bozeman, he realized he was exactly fourteen minutes from the sleepy rural town where he’d grown up. Fourteen minutes from the house he’d grown up in.

He grabbed his crutches from behind the seat. The annoying sticks had gotten wedged beneath his stuffed rucksack, so he had to wrestle them out. If his leg could have supported his weight without pain, he’d have left them there, but the streaks shooting up his femur were a little too strong to ignore. Not that he was supposed to put his full weight on his leg much at all, but he fudged it a lot.

He wasn’t the only one at the truck stop, and that surprised him, it being as late as it was—nearly midnight. Of course, this place was visible from the interstate, and the last pit stop for gas and food had been a good thirty miles back. He apparently wasn’t the only one low on blood sugar and running out of gas.

His stomach might be growling like a bear, but he figured on waiting to raid his sister’s fridge, since he knew Rachel would have stocked up for his benefit. He wouldn’t want to let her down, right?

He leaned on the crutches, looking through the dark for danger. It was habit, ingrained from boot camp on through his PJ training, honed in jungles, deserts and mountains around the world. Even here in the good old U.S.A. he couldn’t break the habit as he listened, senses alert, while crossing the short distance from the cab to the gas tank.

On the other side of the pump was a family vehicle, and the pleasant-looking middle-class woman in a loose pink T-shirt, cutoffs and flip-flops measured him suspiciously. She latched the lock on the handle pump, leaving the nozzle in the gas tank, and slid away from him.

It was late, it was dark, she was alone with kids—the dome light revealed two little ones fast asleep in their car seats. It showed good sense on the mother’s part. Ben couldn’t deny that he did look disreputable. Then again, he was paid by the government to be disreputable.

He slipped his card into the slot and waited for the screen to request his pin number, which he punched in lickety-split. His gaze swept the pump piles, which were flooded with bright light. A couple of big rigs were fueling up at the diesel pumps, designed for truckers. A late-night RV ambled in and parked on the other side of the semi’s triple trailers.

The machine beeped, demanding he lift the nozzle and start pumping. He put in plain old unleaded. He was no longer a poor kid growing up in tough circumstances, but old habits died hard. He screwed off the gas cap, and as he was latching the handle lock, a small gray domestic sedan pulled up to the pump behind him.

It was a woman. When she opened her door and the dome light splashed on, he noticed her sleek dark locks of hair, thick and straight, and a heart-shaped face that could only be described as sweet. Or maybe that was his own interpretation.

Wait a minute—he knew that face. Her delicate features had matured, but it looked like…

No, it couldn’t be her.

Yes, it was. He blinked his eyes, staring. It really was her. Someone he hadn’t seen in person since he was a wild and woolly eighteen-year-old with an attitude and a talent for trouble.

Incredibly, Cadence Chapman emerged into the night. She was still tall and straight and slender—as graceful as a ballerina as she walked without watching where she was going. She dug through a well-worn leather wallet and withdrew a ten-dollar bill. She still had that saunter that made her look as if she were walking a few inches above the ground.

I used to love her. His heart wrenched and left him in pain, watching as she headed straight for the cashier inside the attached quick mart.

Her long dark hair fluttered behind her, midway down her back. A small brown leather purse swung from her shoulder. He wasn’t in love with her anymore, but seeing her sure felt surreal, as if it was a dream or something.

He’d pinch himself, but he already knew he was awake and not dreaming. Who would have thought—Cadence Chapman? Hadn’t she moved away right out of high school, with a big college scholarship and even bigger goals?

What was a world-class athlete doing in central Montana? He’d have to ask her when she came back to her car, if she recognized him.

A cell phone somewhere nearby jangled a snappy electronic tune. The woman with the kids. The tune died, and he could hear the faint murmur of her voice from the direction of the driver’s seat. She must have the driver’s door open, so she could listen for the pump. It gave a distinct snap, shutting off. As she spoke to someone—her husband by the sounds of it, Ben tuned her out.

The rush of gas through the pumps served as background noise as he leaned against the side of the truck bed. He had a perfect view of Cadence through the quick mart’s open door. She still had that cool way about her, the one that had often annoyed him so much.

But there was something fundamentally different about her. He couldn’t put his thumb on it as he watched her slip the money on the counter and exchange pleasantries with the clerk, who was a middle-aged man watching her a little too closely, as if he were getting up the nerve to flirt.

But like the old Cadence he used to know in high school, this woman didn’t return the obvious interest and snapped out of the store. She had an athletic stride, and her long lean legs were tanned from the hem of her shorts all the way down to her feet. She wore practical flat sandals.

Not at all like the Cadence he remembered. That girl loved glitter, fancy shoes and designer names. She wouldn’t have been caught in public wearing bargain department-store shoes.

Before he had much of a chance to wonder about that, the air changed from calm to charged, the way it did before lightning struck. He could smell danger even before the woman on the other side of the fuel pump gasped. He leaped to render aid even before the bright flash of fire hissed like a striking snake.

Time slowed as he felt the radiant blast of heat against the right side of his face. In a blink he’d crossed the meridian and was beside the woman before she could scream. This was what he was trained for, and the more the danger, the calmer he became. He was used to the kick of adrenaline that supercharged him. He didn’t feel the shatter of pain in his leg or the sizzle of heat against his skin.

“Release it. Let go. Do it now.”

She didn’t respond. Panic was curling through her, and it was her enemy, blocking all rational thought. He caught her by the arm to keep her from flinging the hose away in panic. He couldn’t let her spread the fire, over her, him or innocent bystanders.

“Drop it!” he commanded.

Only when her fingers released the handle did he shove her to the ground, rolling her on the concrete. This didn’t help douse the flames greedily devouring her loose walking shorts.

Suddenly another set of hands came out of nowhere offering a dripping-wet blanket. Perfect. Just what he needed. He ignored the woman’s cries of protest and smothered the flames. She was out of danger, and the identity of the person who’d come with the blanket didn’t register in his thoughts as he barked commands to keep the woman back—he was already on task for the next priority.

The kids. The vehicle wasn’t yet engulfed. Leaving the nozzle in the tank had bought enough time. Although he saw the first problem: the van had only one side door—on the pump side, where flames were visible through the closed window.

One toddler had started to cry. Ben dived into the driver’s seat, spotted a trucker running with a fire extinguisher and barked orders. “Hit the tank, and stay back.”

You’ve only got a few more minutes, so move, he told himself.

The air in the van was getting smoky. He twisted through the space between the seats, ignoring the awkward angle of his flexible cast. He unbuckled the crying kid, a little girl with red ringlet curls who seemed to have changed her mind about letting a stranger haul her out of her seat.

“I’ll take you to your mom, okay?” he said, hauling her little wiggly form against him. Someone was there—the RV driver, he realized—so Ben shoved the girl at him.

“Go!” he shouted, choked on a mouthful of smoke. The passenger window was open and the flames were roaring.

The sleeping baby was harder to grab. He heard the squeal of a siren, the shouts from bystanders telling him to hurry and the lethal roar of the fire gaining strength. The buckle gave, the limp baby tumbled into his hands and he pulled him against his chest. The baby stirred, waking with a cry, but he was moving fast, feeling the heat and counting the seconds.

Fresh air beat across his face, and he was free. He kept on going, feeling no pain, aware only of the eerie seconds stretching out like minutes. He shielded the little one with his body, keeping on his feet as the fire surged. He felt the heat burn into his back.

The kids were safe, but he was on fire.

He hated fire.

“I’ll take him.” It was a middle-aged woman—probably from the RV, and he handed over the little tyke.

“Go out toward the street. Go,” he told the woman and the man, who must be her husband. “No telling how dangerous this’ll be if it explodes. And get everyone back.”

He beat at his shirt the best he could, but he wasn’t sure about where he couldn’t see or reach. It couldn’t be too bad, though, or he’d be in serious trouble by now. He kept smacking at the worst of it—emberlike spots mostly—and didn’t give it any more thought. He had a medical situation to assess.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been on fire before. It happened to soldiers, and he was well trained.

The mom was sitting up on the ground, held back by the clerk from behind the counter. Her fear rose eerily into the smoky air. He saw Cadence kneeling beside the woman, wrapping her burns with dripping-wet rags. Cold water. The best way to cool down the fire-hot flesh. He dropped to his knees and peeled back an icy terry cloth.

Good. The water wasn’t merely cold, it was freezing. Melting chunks from bagged ice bobbed in a bucket. Nothing more than second-degree burns, from the looks of it. She was one lucky woman. But she was frantic, beyond panic, trying to get to her babies.

“They’re safe, I promise. I got them out.” He said it over and over again until the woman focused on what he was saying. “They’re safe, and let me take a look at your hand.”

“My babies. You’re sure? You’re sure they’re out?” She couldn’t believe him. She was in shock, and rightfully so. Worse, she probably didn’t feel pain from the burns, with all the adrenaline in her system. He knew about adrenaline. It was why he was moving his leg.

“I’m sure,” he told her. “See? There they are, safe with those people. Here are the fire trucks. It’s going to be all right. You just lie back and we’ll keep cold water on these burns.”

“Oh, thank God.” Reason returned. Her relief became grateful tears as she refused to take her gaze from the completely unharmed children being looked after by a grandparent-type couple.

“You did good work.” He removed the cloth and redunked it into the ice bucket, intending to thank the Good Samaritan who’d brought the wet towels. Not everyone helped in a crisis. But the instant his gaze met her face, the words lodged in his throat.

Cadence. He should have known it was her. She worked with her head down, intent on icing the mother’s burned knee, and he noticed Cadence’s slender hands. It had been more than a decade, but he would know her long sleek fingers anywhere, slender and soft. Her nails were short but painted a conservative pearled pink.

He took in the details. She wore more inexpensive items. Her cutoffs had been worn nearly white, and the T-shirt was faded from too many washings. It was hard to read the crinkled white letters proclaiming Swim For The Kids.

She was still the same old Cadence with her everything-in-its-place methodology, and she was still a bleeding heart. Swim-a-thon fund-raisers and offering aid.

Well, there was no ring on her left hand. That was something to think about as he turned to the young mother, talking to her above the screaming sirens and the air brakes of the fire trucks. The pain was probably starting to set in now. He thanked the clerk from the quick mart for a blanket and started wrapping her up.

“And you, ma’am.” He offered her one of his best grins and rubbed the tears from her cheeks, gently as if she were a child. “I’m going to turn you over to the paramedics. Look, they’re just pulling up now. They aren’t as good-looking as I am, I’m sure.” He winked. “But they’ll probably be able to take good care of you.”

“You’re trying to make me laugh.” She was sobbing harder. “You saved my babies. How can I ever thank you for that?”

“Ma’am, you don’t need to thank me. I’m your tax money at work. Just doing my job.” He saluted her, because it made the lines of concern wrinkling her brow ease. “You do what these men tell you, and take good care, okay? I’ll be praying for you.”

“Oh, thank you.” More tears streaked down her face.

Ben stood, aware of Cadence’s curious gaze, which he ignored. Duty first.

“What do we have here?” A young paramedic, probably around twenty by the looks of him, came up next to Ben and, with calm and knowledgeable eyes, surveyed the burned woman.

Ben filled him in quickly, so the medic could get to work. As he began to relax, he realized the fire trucks had parked and firemen were busy. The crowd had moved back to the curb, and more interested folks had gathered along the street to watch.

He was surprised to see such a peaceful scene, for he was used to patching up people with bullets flying around him. This was a piece of cake. And a happy ending all around, once the mother’s burns were healed. He was thankful she hadn’t been hurt worse.

But he wasn’t sure what to do about Cadence. She was still talking to the mom as the paramedics began their work. He backed away, turning to make way for the medical equipment and the gurney as more paramedics arrived.

Cadence was busy. And he didn’t want to talk to her. Maybe she hadn’t realized who he was, but if she did, she would not be glad to see him.

Frankly, he couldn’t blame her.

Failure was something he hated, and there was so much of it in his past. Add that pain to the way his leg was killing him and the heat blast from the fire that made his back sting like crazy. It was time to go.

That’s just what he did.

“Hey, wonder man, what about your burns?”

The question that came from behind him was spoken in a serene voice, as peaceful as a lazy summer’s day.

Cadence’s voice. The back of his neck prickled, as it did whenever he felt God at work in his life. The tingle shivered through his spine and into his soul.

She moved after him. “You’re on fire. Hold still, cowboy.”

She still hadn’t recognized him? He waited while she covered him with the charred remains of her stadium blanket. A few pats and the embers were out, and once again he was in Cadence’s debt. Maybe this time he was man enough to know what that meant.

“Are you hurt?” she asked without looking at his face. “Your shirt has a hole in it. You’ve got to be burned.”

“I’m okay.” He turned around and braced himself for the worst.

He watched her go from polite to wide-eyed surprise. So now she recognized him. He hadn’t been sure if she would. Not a lot of folks would these days.

Gone was the long hair of his rebellious youth, replaced by a military cut and discipline that had helped to give him an entirely new purpose to his life. When he’d known Cadence, he’d needed a purpose more than any teenaged boy wanted to admit.

Looking back wasn’t easy.

Nor was it easy to watch the surprise on Cadence’s lovely face turn to disdain. “Ben?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“I should have known where there was trouble, you would be nearby.”

“Hey, I didn’t start the fire. Blame it on static electricity.”

“So it’s still that way, is it? Always the other guy’s fault?”

He fidgeted, definitely uncomfortable. She hadn’t forgotten, that was for plumb sure, and there was no friendliness in her shimmering eyes or welcoming smile on her soft lips as she folded up the blanket.

“Your shirt’s no longer smoking, so I guess you’ll make it. You’ll still be here to torment decent folks for some time to come.”

“The good Lord willing.” He cracked her his best grin, the one that seemed to have an effect on women, but she seemed impervious to it.

She didn’t blink. Her stiff demeanor didn’t relax. Her mouth didn’t so much as twitch into an answering smile.

“What are you, a doctor?” she asked, watching him with a jaded eye.

So she wasn’t glad to see him. Well, he’d known that’s how she would feel, and he wasn’t so glad to see her either. A doctor? No. He didn’t answer, because the last thing he wanted to talk about was his life.

What about her life? What fancy city boy had she married? What was she doing here, of all places? Guilt and regret weighed on him as he kept walking.

Some good soul had pulled his truck away from the reach of the fire—he’d left the keys in the ignition—but the driver’s side was looking a little singed. Great.

Well, he didn’t have the energy to get upset about it. Long ago he’d learned that disasters happened, and so he’d taken out full coverage on his insurance. Good thing, because it was a brand-new truck and had four thousand, nine hundred and, oh, about thirty miles on it the last time he’d looked.

“Are you going to have someone look at that back?” Cadence asked.

“It’s nothing to worry about.” He took another step and gritted his teeth. Wow, his leg was hurting worse. As if the heavyweight champion of the world had decided to take a whole lot of warm-up punches on his calf.

“Did you forget something, wonder man?”

Then it hit him. “My crutches.”

“I thought you might need them. That would explain the cast on your leg.” Cadence had known Ben McKaslin most of her growing-up years. This didn’t surprise her. “Don’t tell me it’s broken and you’re walking on it?”

“Walk on it? I hiked ten miles to an LZ, a landing zone, and didn’t bat an eye.”

Good try, but you’re not impressing me, cowboy. Cadence folded her arms across her chest and did her best to glare at him. He was using that charming grin of his, the one he figured could make even the angels forget his every transgression.

She, however, was immune. Immunity gained long ago.

He reached one big hand for the crutches she held. “Contrary to popular opinion, if a fracture isn’t too severe, you know, like a compound with the bone sticking through your skin, you can walk on it. Some of us are tough enough to fight bad guys, secure a perimeter and treat wounded with all sorts of ailments in spite of an injury or two.”

Some things never changed, and that was Ben McKaslin. The grown man in his thirties standing before her was essentially no different from the eighteen-year-old she remembered. The one with an attitude and an overly high opinion of himself. Was she surprised? Well, she shouldn’t be.

She thrust his crutches at him to keep him as far away from her as possible. “You need to have the paramedics look at your back.”

“I’m good to go.” He took the crutches from her, and his nearness snapped between them like static electricity.

Like the tiny spark that had ignited the gasoline fumes from the van’s gas tank, the result shocked her. And had her stepping away from what had to be danger. “Your shirt’s started to smolder again.”

“I’ve had worse.” He said it as if he walked through flames every day.

Ben McKaslin was everything dangerous in a man. He was too handsome, too charming, too everything. She’d made sure their fingers didn’t touch as she handed off the crutches. The sticks of aluminum clanked as he took them in one hand, leaning now on his good leg as if the injured one was only starting to pain him just a bit.

Just like old times. Only Ben could turn a stop for gas into a three-alarm blaze, and it was never his fault. Where there was smoke, there was Ben.

Although something had changed about him, but she couldn’t place what. Everyone knew he’d joined the military—and not a moment too soon, lots of folks had said. Maybe it had done him good. One could only hope. “They’ve got the flames out.”

“So I see.” He reached into his shorts pocket, leaning awkwardly on one crutch as he did it. Then he shook his head, scattering short shocks of thick dark hair. “The keys are in the truck, not my pocket. Habit.”

She took one look at his dimples as he smiled more broadly, deepening them on purpose.

Right, as if he could actually charm her. She wasn’t even affected. Not in the slightest. She’d learned to be strong long ago. Ben McKaslin was no man to trust. Besides, he wasn’t here to stay. It was as plain as day he was injured on duty and so he’d probably be home for a visit for, what, a couple of weeks? Eight at the most, to heal that injured leg of his, and then he’d be racing back to wherever it was he was stationed.

Sure, Ben had always possessed great and admirable qualities, despite his flaws, but he wasn’t a stick-around kind of man.

She was beginning to think they’d stopped making men like that sometime before she was born, because she had yet to meet one man she thought would stick. One who would be responsible and honorable enough to depend on for the long haul.

Not that she had trust issues, of course, although on many occasions, her coworkers had pointed out that she did.

Okay, so maybe she did, but her trust issues had never been the only reason he’d left the day after graduation for boot camp. And never looked back.

Forgiveness, Cadence. It was sometimes the hardest part of her faith. She’d had to do so much of it throughout her life. Maybe the angels were giving her as many opportunities as she needed to get it right.

So she tried to let her resentment go. She wasn’t the head-in-the-clouds teenager she used to be. No matter how it seemed, Ben had to have matured, too. So it was with as clear a heart as she could manage that she tried one more time. “Let me take a look at your back. You can’t go home like that.”

“Sure I can. My family wouldn’t recognize me if I didn’t have something wrong.”

Where he could have said those words flippantly, he was steadier. Lines had dug their way into the corners of his eyes, and gave his face character. It was his eyes that had changed. They didn’t light up. They didn’t sparkle.

She couldn’t stop the cloying sadness that overtook her. A sense of loss overwhelmed her, and suddenly wrestling to forgive him didn’t seem like such a big problem.

By the looks of it, he’d had a tough road over the years, too.

He didn’t look at her as he made his explanations and his attempt at an escape and emotional distance. “I’ve gotta get home. Looks like they’re taking the mother to the hospital. She’s lucky. Goes to show a lot of folks don’t realize the danger when they’re filling up their tanks.”

“I guess no one really thinks about it. I don’t.” She got the clue. He didn’t want to remember old times. Neither did she. It was sad, the years that stretched empty and lost between them. As much trouble as the teenage Ben had brought into her life, he had brought laughter, too. Where once they had been close, now they couldn’t be more distant. Just two people who stopped to get gas during one summer’s night. They’d keep it polite, the type of conversation two strangers might have.

She didn’t know what more to say to him. She didn’t know how to broach the past. To ask if he’d gotten married, if he had kids, or if he’d stayed as carefree and independent as he’d always intended to be. What did he do in the military? How had he become injured?

She was so far removed from the local news. She didn’t live in the same small town any longer. She lived here in Bozeman and went home a few Sunday evenings a month to have supper at her mom’s, but her old life—including an innocent teenage romance with Ben—was so past history, it wasn’t even a shadowed blip on her radar.

“Goodbye,” she said to Ben casually, as if he’d never been special to her.

As if he’d never been the man she’d once intended to marry.

As if her heart were whole and her life as it should be, she walked to her car, climbed in and drove off without looking back.




Chapter Two


Cadence Chapman. Wow, that was someone he hadn’t thought about in too long—and on purpose. She could still tie him up in knots, that was for sure. Ben rubbed the back of his neck with one hand as he eased the truck to a crawl.

The turnout from the paved county road to the driveway was hard to find in the dark. It always had been. Scrub brush, salmonberry bushes and super-tall thistles that had yet to be tamed by a Weedwacker obscured the stake marking the edge of the driveway.

The tiny red reflector still hung crooked from the stake. It had been that way since he was in second grade. One misty morning while waiting for the school bus, he’d been bored, so he’d tossed rocks at the reflector, knocking it askew until one of the bigger Thornton boys had told him to stop.

There was a reason he didn’t like remembering. It wasn’t so good coming home. His neck was a tangle of melted-together fibers, his chest a tight ball of confused hurt, which seeing Cadence had caused even after all this time.

And on top of all that, driving up the road made his guts coil up, negating the fact that he was hungry as all get-out. He had been looking forward to raiding Rachel’s refrigerator. Right now, though, until his stomach relaxed, he couldn’t eat a thing. Maybe he could stay focused in the present moment—that he was just a guy coming home from the front, like so many soldiers. He’d think about the here and now, about Rachel, and wonder if she’d stayed up to meet him.

But the past reached out to grab him like a ghost in the dark as he bumped up the gravel driveway through the cottonwoods and over the rush of the creek. Images from long ago, grown fuzzy and dim with time—of a happy boy, in the days before he’d been an orphan, wading in the water watching tadpoles and little trout and searching for deer tracks.

He slid down the windows just to hear the wind and the water gurgling and the whisper of the small green leaves in the night air. He couldn’t stay in the present. Too many memories came with the sounds of the breeze. Darker memories came, of how he’d hidden in the culvert after his parents had been killed in a car accident, and no one could find him.

No, that wasn’t such a good memory.

Ben hit the control and the windows zipped up, cutting off the night, shutting off the memories and banishing the past.

But not entirely. The past was hard to erase. It was tenacious, and it lurked behind him like the shadows. As the truck rolled and bounced up the driveway, he realized the private lane was in terrible shape. It could use a grading and a new layer of gravel. Maybe he’d help Rachel with that. He desperately latched on to any normal thought as the truck careened the last few yards to the lone house on the hill.

The house was a neat rancher built when his parents had been alive, on a five-acre tract on the good side of town and along the river on the back of the property, within sight of the elementary school and the park. But right now it was nearly pitch-black. The only light to guide him was a small spill of porch light over the front door.

Rachel had left it on for him. He warmed up at his sister’s thoughtfulness. That hadn’t changed, nor had the tall leafy maples, older than he was, which stood at attention like gigantic sentries around the yard.

Rachel knew he was coming. They were the closest in age. She was less than two years his junior and seemed to understand him, if anyone ever could. She always made him feel comfortable without judging his shortcomings. And instead of scolding him on the phone for his sudden visit, she’d sounded truly happy, and not put out that he was springing a visit on her.

“I can’t wait to see you, and, hey, you’re getting better! Last time you called from the airport.”

“See? I can be taught.”

“The door is always open. It’s your home, too.” Her voice had dipped with emotion, and he closed off his heart and memory.

How did he tell his sweet and wonderful sister that he didn’t want a home? That’s why he was more nomad than anything, and she was the one who lived in the family’s house. She clung to the past as if it were something to be treasured, not forgotten.

Well, he was more than happy to forget, but not his sisters.

Rachel was probably asleep, or possibly reading in bed, since her bedroom was on the other side of the house. Affection stretched like a rubber band in his chest. His sisters sure worked hard, and he knew that Rachel often covered the morning shifts at the family restaurant in town, so she got to bed pretty early to be on the job by six.

The clock in the truck’s dashboard told him it was well after midnight. Yeah, he thought as he pulled up to the closed double garage doors and killed the engine. She definitely had given up waiting for him.

That was okay. He was beat. He’d be lousy company anyway. It had been a long drive from Pensacola and his back hurt, but not as badly as his leg.

He gritted his teeth as he tried to move. Oh, yeah, the adrenaline was wearing off, all right. He was too tough to admit it, so he tried to ignore the streak and throb of pain that felt as if he’d been shot in the calf with a bullet. Wait—that’s exactly what had happened to him.

Talk about luck. He still had his leg, so he didn’t care how much it hurt. He’d treated lots of guys who hadn’t been as fortunate. As he climbed out of the cab and transferred weight onto his good leg, he pushed aside the pain and stiffness and breathed in the silence.

Whoa, he’d forgotten how peaceful it could be here. There was no tracer fire, no beat of chopper blades and no rat-tat-tat of machine guns. Trouble was half a world away.

God, don’t let me be here for long.

“Go home. Rest up. Go fishing or something,” his colonel had told him. “When your med leave is up, we’ll see if we need to cross train you into another job.”

No way. His guts clenched. He’d get this leg back into shape, he vowed with all his might as his feet stepped on the dependable Montana earth. Right, God?

But no answer came on the temperate warmth of the sweet summer air. Well, he wasn’t going to let that trouble him. He was determined. And he was home, for better or worse. He let the wind pummel him as he took a look around. So much wide-open space.

He’d been back for holidays when he was in the country. But that usually meant he was huddled in the house on the bitter Thanksgiving and Christmas nights while it snowed, busy catching up on the family news, eating cookies and telling tall tales. He’d always had a hundred different things on his mind when he’d been here visiting.

Besides, he avoided peace on purpose.

His M.O. always was to stay a few days, and then he was gone. Whether he was visiting here or on a quick break in his duplex at Eglin Air Force Base, he was always rushing off to strife in some part of the world, where strong men with guns kept this country safe. He was proud to be one of those men.

I’m anxious to get back, God, he prayed, studying the velvet tapestry of the night sky. Please heal me up quick.

He hauled out his crutches—he hated the dumb things—and tried to keep their clattering to a minimum. If he couldn’t go back to his work, he didn’t know what he’d do. He’d spent the last and best part of his life as a pararescue jumper, a PJ, stationed on bases around the world—Japan, Korea, Italy and, of course, the Middle East.

And since special ops was his thing, he did a lot of work beneath the night skies. Somewhere under a sky like this, his team was at work without him, pumped full of adrenaline, fast roping from a Blackhawk or checking gear in preparation for a high-altitude jump. Then they’d set up and secure a perimeter, and proceed with their mission. Often rescuing a downed pilot behind enemy lines or liberating captured American soldiers.

I miss it, he thought as he opened the club cab door. He’d been out of the field for six weeks—one in the hospital and five hanging around his duplex looking out at the Gulf of Mexico. Watching other soldiers gear up and head out, leaving him behind.

I’d give anything to be dodging bullets. His being ached with the wish, but he’d learned a long time ago wishes got you exactly nothing. Only hard work did.

And that’s why he was here. He leaned heavily on his crutches. The silent glide of an owl winging across the span of sky was awesome. He waited while the bird disappeared behind the tall maples.

He felt the change before he heard the faintest sound. Instinct had him whipping toward the front porch, where the doorknob began to rasp as it moved.

Then came a light step—a woman’s—and the scrape of the solid wood door over the threshold. The hinges gave a tiny squeal, and he knew it was Rachel before she stepped into sight. The single sconce fixture showered light over her like liquid brilliance.

It’s good to see you, little sister. She had a sweetheart’s face, big blue eyes and cheekbones that supermodels would envy. The breeze brought her faint scent of vanilla fragrance and the intake of her surprised gasp when she spotted him behind the pickup.

“Is that a no-good burglar lurking out on the driveway?” As pure as spun sugar, Rachel hurried toward him wearing her big baggy pj’s and slippers—in summer. She was always cold, it seemed.

Her long brown hair hid part of her face as she swept toward him, the shuffling of the fabric beneath her feet distinctive on the aggregate concrete walk. “Oh, wait, it’s just you. My hero of a brother!”

“That’s not me. A hero? No, you must be talking about someone else.”

“You’ll always be a hero to me.” She held out her arms, rushing toward him for a hug.

It was impossible not to adore her and, truth be told, she was his favorite sister—not that a guy was supposed to have favorites, but Rachel could steal even his heart made of stone.

He pulled her close, feeling how much he liked being her big brother. And when she bounded back to get a good look at him, shadows settled into her face and deep in her gaze.

He shivered, because Rachel had a knack for seeing too much. “You’re a lovely sight for these sore eyes, darlin’. You cut your hair since Christmas.”

“Just trimmed it a little. Look at you, all banged up.” Her words were light, but the steady appraisal she gave him was anything but. Sheer sisterly adoration lit her up.

And humbled him. “I’m not all that, little sister. I dodged left when I should have dodged right, and look at me.”

“Sporting a fashionable cast and two aluminum sticks. Are you in any pain? Let me get that bag for you—”

“Take the smaller one. Lift the rucksack and you’ll pop a disk. It’s heavy.” He could have predicted she wasn’t about to listen until she grabbed hold of the sack’s heavy-duty handles and heaved with an unladylike groan. The bag didn’t budge.

“See? I told you.”

“All right. I’ll take the smaller bag, but don’t think I’m going to let you out of this so easily. You told us that you had minor injuries. Minor injuries, my foot! Look at you!”

“These are minor injuries. Compared to the other guys.” The truth was his job was about as dangerous as it got in the military and he’d been eerily lucky to haven gotten out of that particular situation with his leg intact.

As he hefted the heavy sack from behind the seat, he took a second to silently give thanks again for what could only have been divine intervention on that mission. It had been as if an angel had nudged him the few extra inches out of harm’s way, saving his leg but also his life, his career and his sanity. What were a few weeks in Montana compared to that?

“Well, there are no bullets here, tough guy. I’m just glad you’re home.”

She led the way along the walk, glancing over her shoulder constantly to check on his progress, her sharp eyes watching for any signs of his pain. She held the door wide for him, after leaning inside to flip on the light. “I knew you were coming, so it’s no excuse, but the house is a mess. I apologize.”

“You’ve gone from not picking up your room to not picking up your house?”

“Something like that.” Eyes twinkling, she waited until he was in the entry hall before closing the door tight and throwing the bolt.

The big house seemed to echo around them, all darkness and empty-sounding rooms. She carried his bag down the hall, but he couldn’t seem to follow her. Memories threatened his well-defended perimeter, but he managed to battle them back. Rachel had made a lot of changes to their childhood home over the years, but still, he remembered.

All he had to do was to look at the fireplace of smooth gray river rock that reached for two stories toward the vaulted ceiling, and he saw the past. Once Dad’s animal trophies had been proudly displayed there. The five-point buck and the three-point elk were long gone, replaced by clear twinkle lights Rachel left up all year round. But memory was a fluid thing, and he blinked back the past.

I’m tired, that’s all, he told himself as he let the awkward rucksack slide from his shoulder and smack to the carpet. He propped his crutches against the wall of stone and dropped into the sectional. Dozens of little frilly throw pillows nearly suffocated him.

“Do you have enough of these frilly things?” He tossed a half dozen of them across the cluttered coffee table into the deep cushions of a big overstuffed chair.

“Sorry, you’re in a girl zone, remember? It might be a hardship for a big tough guy like you. It’s not camouflage or military motif, but trust me, eyelet, lace and ribbons won’t hurt you.”

“I can’t relax around this stuff.” He sent a pale pink pillow with a satin heart sailing across the room. “You’re up late. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Ah, find me the secret to time travel so I can go back to this morning and start over,” came her response from down the hall.

Yeah, she worked too hard, and he didn’t like it. She was gone a suspiciously long time for just dropping off his bag. “You’re not doing stuff for me like making up a bed, are you?”

“Oh, no, I already did that. I can’t imagine how tired you have to be. I’ve got a plate keeping warm in the oven. I thought you might be hungry.” Rachel waltzed into sight.

You are the one who looks exhausted, little sister. He hated the dark rings beneath her eyes, but she managed a real smile.

“You’re tired, Rache. Go to bed. Stop worrying over me. Stop doing things for me. You have enough to do as it is, and I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, I know, you’re a big tough Special Forces soldier. But you don’t know how worried we’ve all been. Ever since we were told you were missing in action—” The lovely soft pink in her face disappeared, and in the faint light she looked snow-white. Pain twisted across her face. “I was scared for you.”

Just like that, she got behind his steel defenses. He hated the fact that she’d been worried. “I wasn’t missing. Not in the true sense of the word. I knew exactly where I was.”

“Yes, but we didn’t, hence the ‘missing’ part. And I did miss you. I was worried to death.”

“No, I was misplaced for a while, nothing more.”

Rachel wasn’t fooled. Her eyes filled with tears and she was suddenly in his arms—his sweet little sister who’d always seemed so fragile, and here she was crying over him when he was perfectly fine. Over him, when there had been so many others who hadn’t come out of the ambush alive.

“You’re wasting your tears, you know.” He tried to be gruff.

She swiped the dampness from her cheeks and pushed away from him, leaving him with a hole the size of the state of Montana in his chest. Wishing he knew what to do or what to say. Wishing he knew how to stick. He was a horrible big brother, and he was at a loss as to how to fix it.

He’d do anything to protect and provide for his sisters, but the truth was simple: he wasn’t good at relationships. He was better at bailing out—staying away—than at being here. He liked to keep an arm’s distance from intimacy, and he never shared the real Ben McKaslin. Not with Rachel.

Not with anyone.

He kept relationships simple and on the surface. It was easy to do when he lived so far away. All he had to do was send quick letters with funny anecdotes, e-mail with jokes, that kind of thing. But here in person, when he had to relate face-to-face, that’s where he felt how closed off he’d become. He didn’t know what to do about it or how to fix it.

Maybe he didn’t want to. He liked being alone. It suited him.

Rachel, who had no such problems showing her emotions, tugged a tissue from the box on the coffee table and swiped the dampness from her eyes. “You don’t understand how scared I was for you. I thought you’d never come back.”

“Don’t you waste your tears on me.” So he wasn’t a tough guy all the time. “I do what I do in the military so you can sleep safe in your bed at night.”

“I’d like you to be safe, too.”

“I am. I’ve got my M-203.”

“I take it that’s a gun?”

“One of the best. Stop worrying, got it?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, as if in resignation, and opened her mouth as if she were going to argue, then decided against it. She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes as she trailed off in the direction of the dark kitchen.

One thing he wasn’t going to let her do was wait on him. He wasn’t that hurt—or so he kept telling himself. He leaned forward to reach for the crutches, and the springs beneath him protested.

“I hear you trying to get up and don’t you dare!” Rachel scolded from the kitchen. “Stay right where you are, okay? I’ll bring supper to you. We had a slow night at the diner, so I had time to really cook up a big plate of your favorites.”

“I told you not to go to any trouble.”

“What trouble? Now, what do you want to drink? I bought chocolate milk at the store today, since I knew you were coming. A big gallon all for you.”

“All for me? That must mean you have your own stash of chocolate milk in the fridge you’re hiding from me.”

“If I don’t, then you’ll drink every last drop, just like you do every time you stay with me. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Hey, I buy more for you.”

“You do. I couldn’t ask for a better brother.” She was back, bringing her gentle cheer and a foil-covered plate with her.

Her words touched him, and he was again at a loss to return the sentiment. Not that he didn’t feel it, just that…he couldn’t say something so vulnerable.

Pretending it was the food that mattered, he took the plate from her, hot pad and all, and tore off the foil. The mouth-watering scents of country fried chicken, gravy and buttermilk biscuits made his stomach growl. That was much easier to deal with than his feelings. “This is great. I owe you supper tomorrow.”

“It’s a deal. And if you noticed, I gave you three helpings of mashed potatoes.” She set a wrapped napkin of flatware on the coffee table along with the carton of milk.

When he leaned forward to grab the napkin, her eyes rounded. His shirt—he’d forgotten all about his back, since his leg hurt worse than a first-degree burn.

Rachel went to her knees. “Oh, what did you do? Your shirt is singed and there’s this big hole. Were you on fire?”

“Yep, but it was nothing you need to worry about.” He forked in a mound of buttery potato, so creamy and rich, and kept talking with his mouth full. Man, he was hungry. “Disaster finds me.”

“As long as it doesn’t find you anymore. Do you need a salve or something? A bandage?”

She looked dismayed, and over something so minor. It was nice to know how much she cared. The dark circles beneath her eyes seemed even darker, if that were possible, and she radiated exhaustion.

The last thing she needed to do was waste any more effort on him, when she was what really mattered. Rachel and Amy and Paige were all the family he had in this world. “You look ready to drop, little sister. Go to bed, get some sleep and have good dreams. Will you do that for me?”

“I am bushed, but you’re on crutches.”

“I’m capable. I’ll be fine. Trust me.” He waited while her internal debate played across her face. Rachel was so easy to read. Always good-hearted and caring. It was a knack he wished he had, but he did his best to return what she’d already given to him. “Do I have to haul you over my shoulder and carry you down the hall?”

“Nope. I’ll go, if you’re sure you don’t need me.”

“You’re driving me crazy.” He said the words kindly, because he’d come to appreciate true goodness in the world, for it was rare. Her thoughtfulness said everything. She’d gone to all this trouble for him.

Yeah, he was pretty fond of her, too. “You didn’t happen to have any pie in the kitchen?”

“I’ll never tell. You’ll have to raid the fridge to find out.” Her eyes twinkled, eyes so like Mom’s. She looked more like Mom as time went by, and seeing that hurt.

Rachel waved as she breezed down the hallway.

“Good night, Rache.”

“Good night, big brother. Oh! Should I take your bag to your room, since I’m headed in that direction?”

“Nah, don’t bother. I can stow it.”

“Of course you can—what was I thinking?” She rolled her eyes, and she looked as if she were biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at him. “I forget that you’re tough.”

Not tough enough. If he were made of titanium, then maybe he would be. But the sense of failure and regret surrounded him. His parents’ deaths. The lost and angry boy he’d become. The teenager on a self-destructive course. The people he’d hurt—his sisters, his aunt and uncle.

And Cadence. She’d looked beautiful tonight, strong and confident. Probably wildly successful in her life—but he could see in her the Montana country girl she used to be.

He was proud of her. She’d made something great of her life. See? She had been loads better off without him. He’d made the right decision long ago—for his own reasons, sure, but still. It had been right for her, too. He’d been able to get out of this quicksand town, and she’d realized her dreams of Olympic gold. Yeah, he’d watched her win on TV. He’d been stationed in Japan at the time, and he’d violated direct orders to watch her perfect dive.

Why was running into Cadence tonight part of God’s plan for him? His heart wrenched. What use was it in seeing what he could have had? In seeing the man he should have been?

Failure wrapped around him and he pushed the plate away. He sat in the dark and silence for a long while.




Chapter Three


It was gonna be a hot one. Sweat was already gathering between her shoulder blades as the morning sun, barely over the rim of the Bridger Mountains, beat down on her back.

Cadence balanced her cup of chai tea in her left hand and rummaged around in the bottom of her bag. She moved aside her rolled towels, her change of clothes, a paperback book, a lifeguard’s whistle and her wallet.

Loose change chimed and chinked together on the bottom of the bag as she felt her way to the fuzzy ball attached to her key ring—there it was. She tugged and yanked, and the key ring came free. One day she was going to have to get better organized—or clean out the bottom of her bag. But not today. The little soft stuffed sunshine with a black smiley face dangling from the key ring grinned up at her as she sorted through the keys.

One day I’ll have enough time to be organized and together. But for now, she was just doing her best.

She unlocked the door and let it click shut behind her. Late, late, late. Swimmers were going to start showing up any minute. She hurried through the echoing building, flicking on lights. Her flip-flops snapped against the concrete floor and her steps reverberated in the high ceiling overhead.

For now, she loved her life. She loved starting her days here, opening up the public pool. The sharp scent of chlorinated water was oddly comforting to her, and the smell relaxed her more than a big cup of steaming chamomile tea at night ever could. The aroma always brought up the best memories of when she’d been training and competing.

And now teaching and coaching. There were a lot of bad memories, too, but they were easy to set aside when she was here, the only one in this huge building. The water seemed to be waiting for her, and the morning sun streamed through the upper windows in the cathedral ceiling to sparkle and dance on the pool’s surface.

Stop dallying, Cadence! You’re late, late, late!

She dumped her stuff on the office counter, slipped out of her comfy T-shirt and stowed her things in a private locker in the back.

The quiet slosh of the water against the tile sides and the echo of it in the rafters drew her, as it always did. No matter where life had taken her or the hardships she’d been privileged to face, this place was her home, and she didn’t know what she’d do without her swimming.

Thank You, Father, she prayed as she touched the humble gold cross at her throat, for this passion in my life. Without her swimming and the sanctuary of places like this, where would she be? Living a desperate life like her sister? Abusing drugs and alcohol like her brother?

Her future might not have turned out as rosy as she’d planned, but she was grateful for this morning and for this path she was walking.

The somber black hands on the big clock above the office stretched toward five-thirty. Yikes. She had a few minutes to get the lights on and the ropes up. The regulars would forgive her for being a few minutes late, but she wouldn’t.

Moving fast, she stepped out of her nylon shorts and, without needing to think about it, raised her arms and cut into the cool water. Ah, a piece of heaven on earth, she thought as the wonderful glide of the water slicked her swimsuit to her skin and she sliced to the surface.

Scissor kicking, she let the water sluice down her face as she reached out and grabbed the rope by feel. As she did every morning, she uncoiled it, let the bobbins laze on the water. Swimming all out, she worked fast to uncoil the next rope, took each hook firmly in her hands and leaned back, letting the water carry her.

A few powerful kicks and she was floating in the middle of the Olympic-sized pool. A few more and she was nearly across, working to keep the ropes tangle free and straightening out. At the far end of the pool she latched them up, working quickly as the clock stroked to 5:27.

At the front door there was a rattle that ricocheted like a bullet through the high rafters—and it kept coming.

Who was that impatient? Her regulars knew one knock would bring her running if she were a little behind, like this morning. But someone was very persistent. Okay, so she was now a minute later. She set up the last two lane ropes, climbed out of the pool and, dripping wet, yanked open the front door.

There, illuminated by the bold strokes of the rising sun, stood a solid six feet of man. Right away, she noticed the military short black hair and linebacker’s shoulders. This impatient morning swimmer leaned on a pair of crutches and his handsome, rugged features twisted from impatience to what could only be described as dismay as he recognized her.

Ben? Her heart gave a sudden jump and took off racing. What was he doing here? For some inexplicable reason her tongue had stopped working and she could only stare at him, the way he was staring at her. She couldn’t focus on anything or anyone else, even though she was vaguely aware the benches along the walkway were occupied.

The early-morning regulars began to move closer. She distantly recognized the two gray-haired men who were faithful lap swimmers—per orders from their doctors. Fit and quick, they were the next to reach the double doors.

“Morning, Cadence. We started to worry, since it’s not like you to be more than a few minutes late, on the rare occasions that you are.” Arnold Mays was the first to the door. “Is everything all right?”

“Y-yes, thank you.” She had more problems with her sister, but that was nothing to trouble these fine people with. As for Ben…

Chester Harrison halted beside Arnold, his best friend for over sixty years, and nodded once in the direction of Ben McKaslin. “He’s an eager one. Son, you’re doing pretty good with those crutches.”

“I try not to let anything get in my way.” Ben stood straight and strong despite his injuries.

The men moved inside, talking about sports as they went.

In the clear light of day he seemed very different from the boy she remembered. He looked like an entirely different man, someone made of unbowed steel. He shrugged away his injuries as if they were nothing.

Her gaze slid to his cast; it was a lightweight removable one. His leg was injured, but it must be healing, she figured, remembering how he’d managed to walk on it. Of course, he’d come to swim—one of the best rehabilitation methods for injured limbs.

He was a customer, no more. This wasn’t personal. She held the door wide and tried to avoid his gaze. “C’mon in.”

Ben remained where he stood, off to the side of the doorway, the wind ruffling his short dark hair like freshly mown grass. This morning he wore cutoffs and an old wash-worn tank top that bore some fading military insignia.

A small duffel hung from his shoulder, barely visible, since he’d shoved it behind him so he could use his crutches. His big feet were hidden in a pair of ratty sneakers. Ben was never one for putting much stock in appearance, and after all this time she finally understood.

It was the man and not the clothes she wondered about while she greeted Harriet Oleson, who sprinted along the walkway from the parking lot. Spry at ninety-three, the ever-young Mrs. Oleson praised the beautiful morning as she dashed by, eager to start her laps.

Alone with Ben. The breeze carried with it the faint scent of smoke—either from the fields burning off or the wildfire in the nearby national forest that had started during the night somewhere south of town.

Cadence waited while a muscle ticked along Ben’s iron jaw. “Are you coming in or not? I’ve got to be on deck.”

“This is the lap swim, right? Open to anyone?”

“Well, theoretically. I suppose that includes you. Or maybe it’s the lifeguard you have a problem with.”

“No.” He hooked his crutches more firmly beneath his arms and strode through the door, moving with the determination of a marathon runner sighting the finish line. He left her holding the door, watching his back.

He was so…calm. That was a change from the boy she remembered. He walked straight and strong, as if nothing could diminish him.

“‘Mornin’, Cadence.” Jessie, another regular and a young mom in a hurry, had news of the approaching wildfire. They spoke for a few seconds as Ben disappeared. Jessie soon raced off to get changed, and Cadence was needed poolside.

The office wasn’t empty as she passed through, stopping to grab her cup of tea. She greeted the assistant guard, a college girl named Melody, who must have come in the back door. She looked exhausted from what had to be another late night of studying. Melody resumed counting out change in the cash register’s till.

As she did every morning, Cadence unlocked the locker-room doors, the gentlemen first because she knew Chester and Arnold would be showered down and waiting. And they were, pushing out the door and hurrying to pick their lane. Their bare feet slapped along the deck to the shallow end.

Ben was still on her mind as she paced the length of the pool to unlock the women’s rooms. She exchanged words with Harriet, who was good to go as she slipped on her swimming cap and made her way to her favorite lane.

This was the rhythm to Cadence’s morning routine, a comforting sameness that seemed to start a day out right. Above the splashes and quiet talk of the swimmers, she slipped her shorts over her wet suit, climbed up on her chair and let the warm spicy tea soothe her.

There had been times in her past when she’d never believed she could be this content. The little girl with big dreams and ambition hadn’t grown up to live an important life in sports broadcasting. That little girl she’d been had nearly lost every dream.

But Ben McKaslin? What about the rebellious renegade boy with long hair and a mile-wide self-destructive bent? What had become of his dreams?

There he was, coming from the locker rooms on his crutches, his skin bronzed as if he’d spent most of the year in the sun. He appeared so well muscled she thought that he must put in serious workout time every day.

Wearing long navy blue trunks that looked like military issue, he leaned his crutches against the wall, out of the way. He limped to one of the nearby benches and sat, then ripped off the Velcro tabs of the cast as if there was nothing wrong with his leg whatsoever. Intent on his task, he didn’t look her way.

He’s the past, she reminded herself, and continued to scan the diligent swimmers. They were already hard at work, with their heads down and skimming through the water. Ben slipped into the pool, choosing an empty lane, reached out with his strong arms and took off, favoring his injured leg as he swam a perfect, fast, efficient crawl stroke.

She couldn’t watch him and not remember the too-fierce, too-energetic and larger-than-life McKaslin boy who had made chaos out of nothing.

Trouble still followed him like a shadow, if last night was a clue. He seemed so remote. He seemed so bitter. She hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind through the night, making sleep nearly impossible. And now here he was in her pool, more distant and silent than he’d been at the gas station.

Why does seeing him make me hurt, Lord? It was as if she saw her past when she looked at him. Not just the sweet way she’d loved him, in the most idealistic sense, but more. Seeing him made her assess her life and the years gone by.

She was no longer the girl who believed in gold medals and honorable people and that if she worked hard, lived faithfully and did the right thing, then only good things would come her way.

For a long while she’d been disillusioned. She’d felt as if God had betrayed her by letting her chase dreams that would only bring her sorrow. But then she saw it was simply part of growing up. Of putting away childish things, and a child’s dreamy view of the world. Of a world that was not fair, not kind and not safe, and learning to do right in that world.

I’m no longer in love with you, Ben McKaslin. When she should have felt relieved, she felt only more jumbled inside. More confused—and how could that be possible? Because the old Ben, the young boy, was gone, too.

He’d always had a noble spirit, and as a young idealistic girl she’d seen the best in him—when he had been trying to find the worst in himself. Had he succeeded in that sad endeavor? Or, instead, had he found the best?

She took another sip of tea and put away the questions. Ben McKaslin’s life wasn’t her business, and maybe that was for the best.

She closed the door to the past and concentrated on the moment. On the contented splish and rush of the swimmers in the water, of the gurgle of the pump sucking water through the filter, and of the bobbins on the rope slapping against the tile on the far end of the pool.

This moment. This is what mattered. She purposely kept herself from noticing how he soared through the water like a dolphin.

He’s not special to me anymore…he’s a stranger.

She took another sip of tea, climbed down from her chair and paced the long way around the pool, taking her time, so that when she came around to him, he was exactly in the middle of his lane.

Think of him as just another swimmer.

She took refuge in the corner, where she kept a sharp eye on everything, even on this quiet morning where it seemed nothing could go wrong.

She’d learned the hard way that’s when devastation happened—when you least expected it.



His leg was killing him, but would he show weakness? No way. Not in front of anyone, especially Cadence. Clutching the wall, he paused long enough to catch his breath and watched her out of his peripheral vision.

Every fiber of his being seemed aware of the way she moved like sunlight around the huge Olympic-sized pool. Her uniform, a lifeguard’s nylon windbreaker and matching shorts over her swimsuit, made the moment loop oddly back in time. They had both spent a lot of time in this pool as teenaged kids.

We’ve both traveled long, divergent roads since.

As he kicked away from the wall, feeling the water slide over his skin, he stretched out into a steady breaststroke so he could keep his eyes barely above water level and watch Cadence as she circled the pool.

How weird was it that she was working here? Working. As a lifeguard. What had happened to her big plans to get out of this backwater place? What about the fame and riches of her diving career? Why wasn’t she in broadcast sports?

Good questions. He remembered what the doc had told him—the one he’d nearly blown a gasket at because he hadn’t liked the diagnosis. You can’t always get what you want, hotshot. The M.D.’s words haunted him as he touched the wall and began another lap. Had the same thing happened to Cadence?

It troubled him all through his laps. When white-hot pain was shooting through his calf and he was clenching his jaw so tight he couldn’t breathe correctly between strokes, he had to call it a day. Done.

And after only a quarter of a mile, too. He swallowed the disappointment as he climbed out of the pool, ignoring the stabbing pain and the throbbing burn of injured muscles and tendons. He hadn’t pushed as hard as he’d wanted to, and he was beat. Recovery might not be as quick as he’d hoped.

You have to be tougher, that’s all.

Ben ignored the way his leg was shaking so hard, it wouldn’t support any weight. He was glad Cadence was at the far end of the pool—he’d timed it that way. She stood by the diving pool, separated by a concrete bridge from the regular pool. The diving boards towered behind her, the springboard and platforms empty and still.

For an instant the image of Cadence on TV accepting her medal was superimposed on her standing poolside in her jacket and suit, with her silver whistle hanging around her neck.

He still couldn’t reconcile the two images as she moved on ordinary, discount-store flip-flops along the deck, squatting down with the grace of a gymnast to speak with the elderly lady who’d passed him about six times in the next lane.

Whatever happened to Cadence is none of your business, man.

Ben snatched his crutches and settled them into place. The deck was aggregate concrete, which provided decent traction for his crutches, but it was slightly wet in places from folks dripping on their way from the showers to the pool. He went slowly.

More devoted swimmers were arriving—it looked as if he’d stopped at just the right time. He’d been all right swimming slowly and steadily, but he’d been in a lane by himself. If he’d stayed in the pool longer, he wouldn’t have been able to keep pace.

His pride burned as he headed to the locker-room door on his crutches. He’d remember to be here the same time—when they opened—tomorrow. And Cadence, would she be on duty?

Keeping his face down, he risked glancing upward through his lashes to watch her. What had happened to Cadence to bring her here, when she’d had everything she’d ever wanted? While he turned the corner and moved into the showers, he remembered her teenaged voice, soft and sweet. I can’t wait to get out of this boringville. I’m getting out and I’m never coming back.

Never was one of those ominous words, Ben had learned. Because we weren’t as in control of our lives as we liked to think. God was, and Ben had no clue why the Lord had brought him back here to the central Montana country where he’d been born and raised.

He was lucky—he had nothing to complain about. His primary duty in the military was rescuing and patching up pilots and soldiers wounded in action, wherever they were, on the front lines or in hostile enemy territory. He’d seen enough wounded men and women to know that for whatever reason, the angels had been keeping him safe on his last mission, but he couldn’t help feeling defeated.

I can’t do any good to anyone here, Father. He was impatient and he knew it, and he believed that this, too, was part of God’s plan for him, but he was impatient anyway. Duty called. He’d had to turn off the radio again this morning on the drive here because there had been an update about soldiers being shot and injured in Iraq.

Pararescue had been Ben’s purpose for all of his adult life. He was just irritable, being stuck here. Irritable waiting to get his leg back into shape.

Whatever had happened to bring Cadence back couldn’t have been too traumatic, he decided as he showered and limped to the lockers. She’d looked great—more relaxed, her smile easy and wide, and her cornflower-blue eyes sparkling as she’d talked with her morning regulars.

Whatever happened, he’d be seeing her again. But they were strangers now. There was no going back to their high school days when they’d been practically inseparable. When he’d loved her with the whole of his heart. When he’d believed they were soul mates.

No such things as soul mates, he told himself as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. Failure became a tight vise in his chest until it hurt to breathe. He’d failed at every major relationship he’d ever started, and he knew he’d failed Cadence the most.

Just go chase your gold, he’d said to her selfishly, hoping to hurt her, in the way that only an eighteen-year-old boy could.

Seeing her brought back too much pain. There were other times, aside from early mornings, set aside at the pool for lap swims. Maybe he’d start coming in the evening.




Chapter Four


“Ben!” His sister Amy saw him first, since she was ringing up a ticket behind the front counter. She handed Mr. Brisbane his change and came around the corner with both arms outstretched. “I heard a rumor you were in town. Oh, give me a hug, mister!”

“Do I have to?” He groaned, but he was only faking it, and they both knew it. His baby sister was all grown up—and happy, judging by the glow on her cheeks and her wide smile.

Wow. Since when did Amy smile like that? He snuggled her to him and gave her a raspberry on the side of her head, something he’d done since she was a baby toddling around. And his chest warmed when she laughed, the sound making him feel as if he were finally home.

“Look how healthy you look!” Amy swatted him in the chest with the flat of her hand, a playful swipe.

So many emotions swarmed within him, seeing her so happy and grown up and centered, as if she’d come into her place in the world.

She stepped back to get a good look at him. “You scared us all to death. Missing in action. Then a casualty.”

He could see she was prepared to go on, but he held up his hand. “I’ve already gotten the lecture from Rachel. I promise, no more getting shot on duty.”





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