Heaven's Touch (3 page)

“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.

I
t 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 en
tirely 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 ide
alistic 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.