Heaven's Touch. Jillian Hart

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