Heaven's Touch. Jillian Hart

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