A Soldier's Prayer. Jenna Mindel

looked at Cash for support.

      Thankfully, he backed her up. “You heard her.”

      Ethan glared at Monica, but stayed put, arms folded.

      “Now you’ve done it,” Cash muttered under his breath.

      So much for Cash’s alliance, but Monica wasn’t about to give in. “Does their mom wait on them?”

      Cash nodded. “Hand and foot.”

      “No wonder she needed a break,” Monica muttered as she dished salad onto her plate, then offered a spoonful to Owen.

      Once both their plates were filled, she handed Owen his and followed his slow steps to the table. The tyke didn’t drop a single fry, so praise was definitely in order. “Good job.”

      He beamed at her.

      Monica waited for Cash to sit down. Ethan’s scowl deepened. “Can we say grace?”

      Cash bowed his head. “You do it.”

      Owen folded his hands.

      Ethan looked at the ceiling.

      Monica bowed her head and recited the dinnertime prayer she’d known her whole life. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

      “Amen.” Cash made a show of digging into his food noisily. “This is really good, Ethan. You better get yours.”

      “I’m not hungry.” He slumped a little lower.

      “That’s a shame.” Monica bit into her hamburger.

      After a few minutes, Ethan sighed and finally dragged himself to the island, where his plate holding a hamburger waited to be filled with fries and salad. He grabbed a handful of salad and plopped it on his plate, then squirted ranch dressing all over it before grabbing a handful of fries.

      When he slipped back into his chair, Monica gave him a beaming smile. “Thank you.”

      Ethan didn’t say anything, but she thought a whisper of a smile tugged at his mouth.

      She caught Cash’s gaze from across the table and he tipped his head to her. Another round won.

      This certainly wasn’t the weekend she’d envisioned, but a cold motel room didn’t sound any better and she really didn’t want to head back home. Not yet, anyway.

      After dinner, they all pitched in to clear the table. Even Ethan helped put stuff away without complaint, while she filled the sink with hot soapy water and Cash banged on the TV until it finally turned on again.

      The boys rushed to throw themselves on the couch, pushing each other, giggling.

      Cash brought her an empty glass left on one of the end tables. “You’re really good with the boys. You’ll make a good mom one day.”

      “Thanks.” Monica’s voice nearly betrayed her, so she focused on her newly manicured nails, painted deep orange, while she got control of her emotions.

      She might not ever have kids of her own, if the chemo fried her insides. Then again, she might never marry if she went under the knife to be butchered. What man would find her body acceptable after that?

      “I’m glad you’re here.” Cash patted her back. It was a friendly sort of gesture, but awkward.

      Monica wanted to know if he meant it. “Are you really?”

      His gaze narrowed. “You showing up like you did was an answer to a prayer.”

      “Yeah?” She wanted to tell him to keep praying, because she needed it, but the words stuck in her throat.

      “Yeah.” Cash nodded.

      She didn’t want him to know what she faced, because if she started to unload, she might cry. Monica never cried if she could help it, and Cash would definitely freak out if she did. She smiled at the thought of knocking Cash’s tough-guy exterior askew. It might be worth it just to see what happened, but she didn’t want his worry or his pity.

      Monica had to accept that this cancer was her burden to bear. Alone.

      * * *

      Cash stared at the stack of dishes next to the sink and then glanced at the boys on the couch. “Ethan, Owen, we’re not done yet.”

      “Do we have to?” Ethan dropped his head back and groaned.

      Owen skipped forward, eager to help.

      The little guy rarely disobeyed, and Cash wondered if that was why he seemed to have lost his ability to speak. Was silence his way of showing defiance, or an attempt to regain some kind of control over his young life?

      “If you want to roast marshmallows, we have to clean up our lunch and dinner dishes.” He glanced at Monica and smiled.

      She smiled back as she stepped toward the sink. “If we all pitch in, it will go faster.”

      “Exactly.” Cash took one look at her perfectly painted fingernails and nudged her out of the way. “I’ll wash. You three can dry and put away.”

      Monica saluted him. “Aye, aye, sir.”

      “That’s ‘First Sergeant, sir.’” He squirted more soap into the already hot and soapy dishpan and swished his hand to make more bubbles.

      “Wow, you’re marching right up the ranks, huh?”

      Cash shrugged. He’d been at this rank for a while now, leading his team.

      “When do you go back?” Monica handed out clean dish towels to the boys for drying.

      “I’ve got another full week of leave. I have to report on Labor Day.”

      Her eyes clouded over. “Not long then.”

      “I took a month, considering the circumstances.” Cash dumped the silverware into the tub with a clatter.

      “How many years has it been for you?”

      “Since I enlisted?” He grabbed the cups next, scrubbing each one and placing it in the second sink.

      Monica nodded.

      “Fifteen years.” He had five more to go before he could even think about retiring, not that he would.

      He didn’t know what he’d do if he ever retired. He was a soldier, a Raider of the Marine Corps Forces Special Ops. A lifer. It’s who he was. He rinsed the dishes in the full sink, handing over the cups to each boy and Monica for drying.

      “I’ll put them away, okay?” She redried the cup Owen had given her, then stashed it in the upper cupboard.

      He watched her fluid movements as he waited for Ethan and Owen to catch up on drying the dishes. Monica hadn’t always moved with such grace. When he’d first laid eyes on her, she’d been awkward, with a good-sized nose and a habit of knocking things over. She grew in both height and composure as the years went by. She’d filled out some, her facial features softening. Monica now stood nearly three inches taller than him, still long and lean, but there was nothing awkward about her.

      “What?” she asked.

      He shrugged. “Nothing.”

      “Quit looking at me like that.”

      He laughed. “Like what?”

      “I don’t know, like I’ve got mustard on my chin or something.”

      He grinned. “Maybe I’d like mustard on your face.”

      She rolled her eyes. “Maybe you’re crazy.”

      Maybe he was. He’d always kept a safe distance from Monica. She could never be called simply pretty. She’d grown up to be gorgeous and even more off-limits. Her brother would skin his hide if Cash ever hurt