Sweet Blessings (Love Inspired) (9 page)

Westin skidded to a halt in midstride. “Hey! You're not supposed to be in here. Mom, he's a stranger.”

Amy removed her sunglasses. Heath had his back to the grill, staring at Westin as if he'd never seen a
child before. He probably hadn't realized she had a son. Maybe he hadn't noticed the pictures of Westin tacked in the little office, along with Paige's teenage boy's photos. “Heath, this is my son, Westin. Westin, what do you say?”

“I'm pleased to meet you, sir.” Westin snapped to attention like a little soldier. He held out his dog. “And so is George. Did you know the star that's closest to the earth is called Alpha Centauri and it's four light years away?”

Instead of answering, Heath stared.

He was probably unaware of the exciting facts about space, so Amy ruffled Westin's head. “Go and find Kelly. She's waiting for you.”

“Okay, Mom.” He paused to cough quickly in his fist and kept on talking. “But light years aren't like real years. They're, like, way bigger. Light travels so fast it's like this. Zoom.” He held his hand level and, imitating a rocket, his hand shot upward. “That's fast.”

“Uh, yeah.” Heath looked bewildered.

She couldn't blame him. He'd probably spent little or no time around children. “Go. Quick. I've got to get to work.”

“Okay, but I got this book in here,” he tapped on his backpack, “and it's about our space and stuff. Did you know—”

“Go,” Amy interrupted. “You'd better hurry. I bet George is hungry.”

“Oh, yeah! George always wants sausages.”
Westin took off for the double doors, giving them a mighty shove so they smacked against the wall and swung back and forth hard.

She caught glimpses of him dashing over to Kelly at a booth, where her college books lay open before her. Her face lit up with greeting and she gave George and Westin kisses on their cheeks. With her son being cared for, now she could turn her thoughts to work.

But Heath had returned to the grill, stirring scrambled eggs with the spatula as if it took every bit of his concentration. His back was an insurmountable barrier between them.

Maybe he didn't like children. Or maybe the issue was with her. Lord help her, she could not forget what he'd said to her so cruelly.
Whatever it is you're thinking you can get from me, forget it.
He was a good-looking man. Perhaps he was used to women thinking they'd be the ones to land him. To put a ring on his finger and chain him down in one place.

She didn't know. Before her old bitterness could surge up, she tasted it sour in the back of her throat. She didn't want to be bitter, but it wasn't easy. She'd tried so long and hard to forgive herself for her shameful mistakes, and Lord knew she did her best to forgive the man who'd hurt her so thoroughly. But remnants remained, flaring up like those geyser firestorms in the sun.

The Lord looks at the heart.
Pastor Bill's understanding voice filled her head as she washed her
hands in the sink. She couldn't see into anyone's heart, not really, but there were probably clues. She watched out of the corner of her eye as she tore off a length of paper towel to dry with. Heath worked sure and efficiently, making omelets now, squinting to read Jodi's scrawl on a ticket before fetching a new package of sausage links from the fridge.

“Looks like you have everything under control.” She had to approach him because her apron was hanging on a hook next to the refrigerator. “Let me know when you need a hand. It always takes two at the grill on brunches.”

“Okay.” He lifted one wide shoulder in a shrug, not exactly careless, but the message was clear: stay back.

She could respect that. In fact, she preferred it. A polite and efficient working relationship worked for her. She reached around to tie a bow at the small of her back as he passed by her. The faint aroma of soap and spicy aftershave made something stir inside her. A yearning for the life with a husband she'd always dreamt of. The comforting hugs, the sizzling kisses, the shared closeness.

It was odd she'd feel any longing for that old, spent dream. She had too many years under her belt to believe romantic love existed. Maybe that's what women wanted to believe. Maybe it's what they needed to believe.

Every once in awhile, it probably did happen. She'd see it now and then, the genuine tie of deep af
fection that bound husbands and wives together. It was like the glow of dust in the night sky Westin had shown her, the spiral arm of their Milky Way. A soft luminous miracle. True love ought to shine like that.

But miracles were rare. She'd learned for sure that the fall was not worth the risk. She'd already had one miracle in her life, she thought, as she pushed through the doors and checked on the number of empty tables. As Rachel rushed in the front door to help seat families, Amy spotted Westin, hunched over a book on the table, showing Kelly something very important on the page.

She had her one miracle in life. It was enough.

On her way to check on the status of the buffet, she stopped to say hello to her cousins—Kendra was nice enough to have already copied off the video of Westin's game. Her uncle Pete and aunt Alice always had a kind word to say to her. There were friends from school with families of their own now, with their greetings. She received many compliments on the food.

She fetched fresh fruit trays from the fridge, warmed cinnamon rolls to set out, helped with the coffee refills while Rachel, late and breathless, took over hostess duties. She checked on Westin and George—their order of strawberry waffles and sausages had been a big hit.

The diner hummed with the scrape of flatware and the ring of stoneware and the cheerful rise and
fall of conversations. Kids clamored around the dessert table, excited by the choices while their parents talked and leisurely went for seconds from the buffet. Neighbors and friends would stop to talk in the aisles, and through the order-up window Amy could see Heath, cap on, his attention focused on his work. She never saw him look up at the crowd, only to read order tickets or Rachel's scrawl on what was running low at the buffet.

“Oh, the crepes were divine.” Kelly pulled her aside. “I see you have a new cook. He's great.”

“That's what everybody's been saying.” She felt arms wrap around her waist and hold on.

It was her son with his big grin and sparkling eyes who gave her a tight squeeze and then hopped away. “George and I have to go, Mom!”

“You two be good for Kelly.” The sight of her little boy walking out of her sight tugged at her, as it always did. Already she missed him.

Pastor Bill and his wife were the last of the after-church crowd to arrive, as usual, looking composed and happy and friendly. It was impossible not to want to give them a hug, which Amy did, and offered them their choice of available tables. They wanted outside beneath the umbrellas, for the afternoon was a beautiful one.

This is why she was so grateful to live in this small rural town in the middle of farming country. It was far from the bustle of larger, urban centers that
as a teenage girl she'd thought were exciting. But she'd been wrong.

Roots. Family. Community. There was no place like home. No place.

And what about Heath? The talented cook fate—or, more correctly, God—had sent their way. He worked so well, he needed no help on the busiest of times and he kept to himself, alone, lost in shadows.

Jodi was wrong. There was more than a great sorrow about him, wrapping him up like a blanket. It was so sharp and agonizing, Amy could feel it radiating off him like heat from an August sidewalk.

Through the order-up window and across the length of the diner, their gazes met. Locked. A jolt of blackness shocked her so deep in her heart it forced the air from her lungs.

Unable to blink and unable to look away, she gasped for breath. Shocked, she realized it was his heart she saw before he turned his back, breaking the connection.

He did not look her way again.

H
eath couldn't get the image out of his mind. The image of Amy McKaslin with her son. He hadn't guessed that she was a mom. Nope, he couldn't reconcile it. Maybe because he didn't want to.

All through the afternoon and into the evening he worked. The diner closed at eight, early on Sunday nights. There had been no place open on the six-block length of the main street, except the dark-tinted neon lights in the far alley at the edge of town—the tavern.

He knew how it would be inside that dim, small building. The air would be soured with smoke where men sucked down alcohol to hide from their troubles. There'd be darts and a pool table—nothing worth going in for. He'd seen it all before and he wasn't interested.

He'd learned the hard way. There wasn't anything strong enough to obliterate his problems or anesthe
tize his pain, so he climbed the stairs to his apartment and sat in the tepid current of the window air conditioner and watched a movie of the week on the TV. He played with the rabbit ears until he had a pretty good picture and not much static.

That night he tossed and turned as dark images haunted him. He woke as wet as if he'd been drowning in the Atlantic waters, sweat sluicing down his face and stinging in his eyes.

The television mumbled in the background—he must have fallen asleep on the couch. The place was hot and the walls seemed to be closing in on him. He did the only thing he could and launched straight to the door, yanked it open and dropped to the steps. Gulped in the cool night air.

A train gave a long low note of warning as it rumbled through town. The rhythmic hum of engines and the grinding on the steel tracks hid the calm night. It was like the noise of a city, traffic and a background hum that never silenced.

For an instant Heath's mind hooked him back into the past: the whine of trucks downshifting on the interstate had accompanied him as he'd bounded out of the emergency-room doors, rain pouring down his face, slick beneath his shoes, glossing the blacktop of the Portland hospital's emergency zone. Images assaulted him: ambulances' strobes, the hustle of the team, the bright crimson splash of blood on the sheet-covered gurney—

Thunder exploded like a gunshot, startling him out of the past. He let the cold and wind wash over him. Breathed in the metallic scent of thunder and waited for the lightning to flare.

There it was, a jagged finger thrust from the sky to the distant fields. One, two, three, four…

I gotta get out of here.
Thunder crashed like metal through the iridescent clouds. Heath swiped the wetness from his face, not sure if it was only rain. How had he made such a big mistake? He never would have taken the job if he'd known about the boy. That's what he got for acting on impulse. For thinking he could stay awhile. What was it about those big blue eyes of Amy's that made him feel as if he'd be all right?

He was alone. He was always going to be alone. There would never be anyone to understand, anyone to turn to and no chance to change the past and make things right. He'd give his life, his soul, everything and anything if only he could go back in time to that crucial moment on another night of rain and thunder. Change one little second. One tiny decision. If only…

There were no “if only”s. The past was done with. He'd been over it a hundred billion times. Looking back wouldn't bring him closer to what he deserved.

Leave. That's what he'd do. He hated to run out on Amy, when she'd been worried he was the type of man who would do just that. He let the wind and rain blow him through the front door and it took less
than two minutes to jam the few possessions he'd removed from the worn duffel bag back into it. With a final zip, he was done. He settled the strap on his shoulder and turned off the window unit and the TV, feeling lower than low. It was a cheap shot, taking off without so much as a note.

What would he say to the McKaslins? Leave them a note that he'd made a mistake and to keep his paycheck. Brunch and the Sunday supper crowd had brought in enough tips to give him adequate traveling cash.

As the cold rain and violent night enveloped him, he dug his truck keys from his pocket. Rain streaked down his face and got into his eyes. With his free hand he wiped at his face and almost missed the sound of glass breaking.

At first he thought it came from the alley, maybe from the direction of the old woman's house, but he heard it again. He swore the crashing sound of shattering glass came right behind him. But that didn't make any sense. Who'd be out in this storm? Lightning shot like a flare from west to east and reflected in a bright flash on a vehicle's windshield.

Then darkness reclaimed the night. Rain pelted with wild abandon from a hateful sky beating Heath back as he tossed his duffel to the ground at the bottom of the stairs and ran around the front. Wet branches hung low with the weight of the rain and sodden leaves slapped his face and head. He didn't
stop. Thunder drowned out the sound of a loud cowboylike holler somewhere near the front door.

Heath knew who those men were before he skidded around the corner in a patch of loose gravel, so he wasn't a bit surprised when he saw the two lowlifes he'd chased off before. They stood side by side without a coat or heavy shirt against the mean storm, laughing with their hands full of big rocks.

“This here is for the deputy comin' by my place.” The taller one pitched a heavy rock through the window.

Heath cringed at the tinkling sound of shattering glass. Rain spilled through the jagged, gaping hole in the window. Fury hurling him forward, he tore into the open like a wild man. Heath's vision turned red as he tackled both men and rolled them out on the road.

“Hey, man!” one of the troublemakers held up his hands, surrendering. Blood stained his hair where he'd hit the curb.

“This ain't your business!” The other twisted onto his feet, shook off the rain and raised both fists. “You want to fight, we'll fight—”

The strong scent of cheap whisky and cheaper vodka tainted the wind. All Heath could think was that it was guys like this. They were responsible. Drinking and careless, their judgement impaired. Savage wrath choked him. How did these people do it? How could it be entertaining to hurt someone? How could there be any satisfaction in destroying
someone's life? He wanted vengeance. He wanted justice. He wanted his life back.

And men like these. They were responsible—

Headlights sheened on the black river of road and the splashing sound of tires hydroplaning on a skid snapped him back to himself. He felt tall and terrible and broken. Endlessly broken.

Vaguely he was aware of the cruiser door opening, black rain falling like bullets, the thugs shouting and taking off. Their footsteps pounded across the road where water ran like a river and another cruiser squealed to a stop nearby, headlights blaring as another officer joined the hunt. Heath was only a half step behind, his military training kicking in, but in the few seconds it took to cross the road, he saw the two drunks on the ground, facedown in the mud on the other side of the railroad tracks.

“Not the brightest guys,” Frank explained later, after the two had been cuffed and hauled away in the sheriff's car. “Down at the tavern they talked about what they were gonna do here. One of the waitresses heard the whole thing and called me the minute those two were out the door. Good thing, too. Look at this.”

Frank shook his head in disgust at the damage. “It's not too late yet. I'll give John a call and see if he'll open up the hardware store.”

Heath's guts twisted looking at the damage. Two sections had been broken out of the large front windows, glass reflecting darkly with the rain and the
night. There was only one thing to do. “I'm fairly good with a hammer. I figure I can get this boarded up before—”

Headlights pierced the black storm, coming as if out of nowhere. Heath knew it was Amy even before the dome light flashed on to reveal her face pinched and pale. She'd drawn her hair back in a quick ponytail and a shank of hair lay twisted and at an angle over her cowlick. The storm deluged her in the ten seconds it took for her to race through the light beams to the sidewalk.

“Careful.” He held out his arm to stop her. “Glass.”

“Oh, yeah.” She hadn't looked down. Dazed, she froze, staring at the wreckage with rainwater sluicing down her face, wetting her hair so that even the shank trying to stand up became slicked to her head. Her coat clung to her willowy frame and she looked younger, much too young to be a mother of a grade-school boy. She looked so vulnerable it made Heath's rage flare again.

“They'll pay for this,” he ground out, his hands finding the curves of her shoulders. “Every penny. I'll make sure of it.”

“It's not just the glass. Oh, look, it's just so much damage.”

Her reaction came so quietly, without hysteria or upset or anger. Beneath his hands, the rounded curve of her shoulders quivered—with fear or repressed anger or just from the cold he couldn't tell. She was
fragile, feminine and small—and as he towered behind her to block her from the brunt of the icy rain, his chest jolted from the inside out. It was as if the locked door had been wrenched open a scant inch and feeling poured through him.

“Paige is going to split a seam when she sees this. She just got back tonight—” She sounded lost, as if she didn't have the first clue where to start. “What about breakfast? We won't be able to open.”

“We'll get it boarded up. Frank—” Heath glanced around, but the deputy was nowhere to be seen. His car idled along the curb where he'd left it. Maybe he was making the phone call to the hardware-store owner. “I'm here anyway. I might as well take care of it.”

“No, this isn't your problem. That's good of you, but, oh, I don't think we're insured for something like this. We only have basic liability.”

Solid. He hadn't felt like this since the old days. Steady and calm and ready to handle what came. He saw the ghost of the man he used to know inside him as lightning flashed. In the brief illumination, he saw his reflection in the shattered window. Cracked and distorted, black in places, that was him. There was no way to repair damage like that. It wasn't like a window a worker could remove from its frame and fit in a new one as good as new.

No, the human spirit wasn't like that.

As swift as the lightning came, it vanished, the
brilliant white light receding into the darkness. But the hole—the void inside him—remained. Which did he choose? The void or the light? The road rolled out behind him, gleaming darkly with streaming water, gurgling like a current toward the edge of town and beyond.

I want that path.
He craved oblivion like an addiction. Desperately he'd take anything to stop the feelings flowing through him like the floodwater, fast and ruthless. His duffel bag was within reach, sitting in a puddle, and it would be nothing at all to grab it up and go. No, he'd fix her windows first, then go. He'd be safe, he'd never have to remember—

She sniffed, wiped at her eyes with the tip of her finger and let out a shaky breath. He didn't know why, but he could feel the wave of her shock rolling through him like an ocean tide. Rolling higher until he was full of it. He did not want to be the one to comfort her. He didn't want to be the man she turned to, because her need and her touch would make him real again, would make him alive again. All he wanted was the night and the darkness.

He deserved nothing more.

“There's no sense in you standing in the rain.” He took one long look at his drenched duffel bag, knowing this would take him where he didn't want to go. But he couldn't walk away. “C'mon, let's get you inside.”

She fumbled in her pocket. “Oh, they're in my car. The keys.”

Crestfallen. That's how she looked, staring in disbelief. “Nobody's hurt. That's the important thing. It's just glass. It can be fixed. I don't know why I'm so shook up.”

“You and your sisters don't deserve this, that's why.” He hated leaving her, but it gave him time to let the cold settle across his face. Breathing deep, he let the night batter him and knock its way inside until he felt icy calm.

He killed the engine and took the keys, flicked off the headlights and shut the door. The street was flooded, and his splashing steps gave him something to think about other than the woman standing alone and the road whispering to take him away.

“What are you?” She studied him with fathomless eyes, shadowed and unreadable as he unlocked the front door, the bottom half shattered.

“What am I? Most people ask who.” He gave the rock on the carpet a shove with his foot and swept the big shards of glass out of a path with the side of his boot. With care, so he wouldn't get cut. The big chunks scraped out of the way,

“Careful,” he told her as she inched by him, her shoulder warm and wet against his chest.

“Oh, look at this. What is wrong with people?” The first flush of a healthy fury spread across her cheeks. “I can't thank you enough for being here. You probably stopped this from being a whole lot worse.”

“I don't know about that.” Guilt kept him from
saying the truth. The rain hammering the roof echoed and amplified the sound in the empty restaurant. “Right place at the right time, I guess.”

“You have a knack f-for it,” she said as her teeth chattered.

He cradled her small hands between his. “You're ice. Sit. I'll get you something hot.”

“Oh, n-no, you don't have to wait on me. I can—”

“You didn't even wear a warm jacket.” He released her hands and peeled off the thin coat, more like a windbreaker than anything. No wonder she was borderline hypothermic. “Sit.”

“But I—”

“Don't argue.” The words came out harsher than he'd intended. Her eyes rounded and she dropped into the nearest booth.

He shouldn't be taking his feelings out on her. This wasn't her fault. He still wanted to leave. Maybe it was better if he did. He could talk to her some, tell her enough so she'd understand. Yeah, it sounded like a plan, but it didn't set right in his stomach as he flipped on the light and went in search of the right ingredients.