Blessed Vows (3 page)

“I've got two cartoon cups to pick from.” Rachel held the cupboard door open wide, displaying characters he didn't even recognize.

He hadn't watched cartoons since he was a kid. But Sally lit up and chose one with a big dinosaur on it while Rachel took the other one. She popped one can, filled it, foam and all, to the top of the plastic cup and set it on the round oak table to his right.

It was strange, this big kitchen and eating space, with kids' school pictures framed on the walls—the clothes and hairstyles from decades ago. Through the picture window next to the table he saw half of an old-fashioned metal swing set and slide, in good repair, as if someone had painted it not too long ago. “Ben didn't say. Do you live here alone?”

“Yep. It's way too big for me, but the memories here are good ones. What would you like to drink?”

“Ben said you were a waitress. I can see you're probably an excellent one.”

“It's a hard job, tougher than people realize. But it's the family business, and I like it because I get to make all the chocolate milk shakes I want.” She waited, hand on the refrigerator door, one slim brow lifted in a silent question. “What'll it take to wet your whistle, sir?”

“If you've got root beer in there, I'll be eternally in your debt.”

“I'll hold you to that, soldier.” With a wink, she reached inside the well-organized fridge and withdrew two more soda cans.

Before she could snag him one of those breakable glasses neatly organized in the cupboard on the shelf above the cartoon cups, he stole the can out of her hand. “I'm not used to being waited on. Put me to work.”

“Work?” She looked him up and down, taking in the strong and capable look of him. “Don't tempt me, or I'll take you up on it.”

He perused her big pink slippers and her comfy clothes and the fact that she hadn't had time to do up her hair into anything remotely involving hair spray and gels or whatever it was women put in their hair. That said everything. “Did you have other plans before Ben strong-armed you into doing this tonight?”

“Plans with the couch and an old movie. Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow night. Or the next night.” She poured the contents of her can into the plastic mug, and the sweet-smelling pink liquid fizzed. “Wait!”

He had hold of the cup the instant she stopped pouring.

“Hey, what are you doing taking my strawberry soda?”

“What? Do you think I'm stealing it from you?”

“That's what it looks like. I call things like I see 'em.”

“And what, that look of outrage is because you didn't know you were letting a strawberry soda bandit into your house?”

“That, and you're setting a very bad example for Sally.”

“Is that true, Sal?” He sent a wink to his niece, who'd seated herself at the table and was sipping from the cup with both hands.

Her solemn gaze met his over the wide rim. Strawberry soda stained her mouth as she said the words of betrayal. “Stealing's wrong, Uncle Jake.”

“Hey, I'm one of the good guys. Or at least that's what they tell me.” And because he knew what it was like to put in a long hard workweek, he wasn't about to give up the glass of soda. “How about I wait on you? You said you had a date with the couch?”

“You've got to be joking.”

“I never joke, ma'am. I'm an air force commando. Duty is my name.”

“Yeah, yeah, you forget I have a brother who spouts that macho stuff all the time.” She waved him off as if she knew better, as if she had his number.

Fine. The trouble was, now that he wasn't worrying about a rampaging moose, he could get a real good look at her. He liked what he saw. She was petite, there was no other word for her. Delicate, for lack of a better word. She had the clearest, creamiest skin he'd ever seen, and the gentlest manner.

A real nice woman. He wasn't about to impose on her like a deadbeat. No, he wasn't that kind of man, although he read her look of skepticism loud and clear. That was okay. He wasn't bothered by it.

“Follow me,” he said, trusting that she would.

S
he did follow him. Jake monitored the pad of her slippers against the carpet a good two to three paces behind him. “That's it. Keep coming.”

“I want my strawberry soda back in the kitchen where it belongs.” She didn't have a sharp voice or an angry edge. No, she was all softness and warm humor, as if he were amusing her to the nth degree.

He wasn't used to softness and humor, not in his life of duty and service. So, he thought he'd enjoy the chance to amuse her some more. “Is there a house rule about keeping all food and beverages in the kitchen?”

“There is, as a matter of fact.”

“Funny. I didn't see a sign.”

“It has to be a sign?”

“Sure. If it's not written down, it's not a law I have to follow.”

“Yeah? Then for you I'll make an exception.”

He liked the rumbling music of her chuckle. It was an appealing sound, one a man could get used to. Nice.

And so was the house, he thought as he stepped inside the sizeable living room. Spacious. Comfortable. It was the kind of place a guy could get used to putting his feet up on that scuffed coffee table that sat in the middle of a big sink-into-me sectional. The TV was big and new, and in the winter this would sure be a great spot to sit and watch football with a fire in the gray rock fireplace.

He used an old television guide as a coaster and left the drink on the coffee table within easy reach. “Sit there. Put your feet up.”

“That would be rude considering I'm supposed to be cooking you dinner.”

He held out his hand, palm up and waited for her to take it. “C'mon. I'm the guest, right? So humor me.”

“My mother taught me to be wary of men wanting to be humored.”

“Sounds like your mama raised you right. And so did mine. It may be hard to believe to look at me, but I've got a few manners.” He shifted closer to her with his hand still out, still waiting. “What's it going to be? Are you going to do what I ask? Or am I gonna have to make ya?”

“Men.” Rachel sized up the commando in her living room, with his dazzling grin and his hand held out,
palm up, waiting for her to place her fingers there. “Suddenly I remember why it is that I'm single.”

“Those bunny slippers?”

He clearly thought he was a comedian, but he wasn't nearly as funny as he thought. “No, judging by my slippers you might be misled to think men have avoided me on purpose.”

“I don't think that, believe me.”

“But it's been my choice. Most men are bossy.”

“We're made that way.”

“Sadly.” He didn't seem the least bit sorry about it. He was incorrigible, and she liked that in a man, too. He had nice eyes—kind ones—and she was a sucker for a good-hearted man. How was she going to ever say no to this one?

Willpower, she directed herself. “I'm supposed to be the hostess. You've flown all this way to be Ben's best man. The least I can do is talk you into sitting down and putting up your feet.”

“Good luck. But let me warn you, I'm stubborn.”

“I'm stubborn, too.” There was no way she was going to give in to the temptation to place her fingertips on his big rough palm.

Oh yes, she wanted to. His palm was wide and relaxed, and calluses roughened the skin at the base of his fingers. He worked hard. She liked that in a man too.

His hands had scars—not big ones, just nicks that had long healed over, and those calluses. She imagined
him fast-roping from a helicopter or carrying wounded on a litter. Essentially male, wholly masculine, everything a man ought to be.

And suddenly she felt it in the pit of her stomach. A little tingle of anxiety. Her shyness seemed to rear up and leave her speechless. It was one thing to have her brother's military buddy drop by. It was another to be alone with a smart, brave and warm-hearted soldier.

If only she could untie the knot her tongue had gotten itself into and say something wonderful to make him laugh some more. To show off the dimples in his hard, carved cheeks.

“I'm waiting.” He arched one brow, but he wasn't intimidating in the least. He should be—he was a big man, and the slightest movement made muscles ripple beneath his sun-bronzed skin.

But he was a gentle giant down deep, Rachel was sure of it. “How about you and Sally sit down with me? We'll find something on the tube that all three of us can enjoy and after a while, I'll sneak into the kitchen and start supper.”

“There'll be no sneaking on my watch. I've got a sharp eye.” His hand hovered in a silent question.

And she answered just as quietly by placing her fingers in the center of his palm.
Wow.
It was all she could think the instant they touched. An energy jolted through her like a lightning strike—or heaven's touch.

She felt seared all the way to her soul. It was as if
her entire central nervous system short-circuited—she couldn't seem to talk. She could barely manage to be coordinated enough to sit down.

Wow,
was all her poor fried brain could think.
Wow. Wow. Wow. Lord, he can't be the one. He
can't
be.
Look how he acted as if nothing had happened. It probably hadn't on his end. She searched his clear dark eyes and the calm steady way he moved away from her with sheer athletic grace as he ambled out of sight.

She'd read about moments like this, that instant punch of something extra that said this man was special. Above the ordinary. Meant to last. Okay, she read inspirational romances one after another. She always had her nose in one, but she'd never believed, never thought once that it could happen to her.

Not that it was a life-changing moment. It was just a snap of something extra, making her more aware of this man's goodness than others she'd come across.

Why? He couldn't be the one. He lived on the other side of the country and he worked in faraway places on other continents. Plus, he was leaving after the wedding.

He's not the one. She was imagining all this, right? She was tired, she hadn't eaten since she'd been able to work in an early sandwich before the lunchtime rush. She was feeling the weight of being a bridesmaid for the umpteenth time. Not that she minded, no way. And especially because this was her brother's wedding.

But she wanted to be a bride. She wanted the real
thing, a sweet storybook wedding with the man she would love for all time. That's why she was feeling this…wishful thinking. Pretty powerful, but wishful thinking all the same.

The pleasant rumble of his voice from the kitchen drew her attention. It was like a tingling warmth in her heart, and she'd never felt that before either. She could hear Sally's answer and then the faint scrape of the wood chair on tile.

That's why I feel so wowed by him. It all made sense now. She loved a man who was good with children. And his niece was a cutie, that was for sure. It was sweet he was spending time with her. And now that she knew why she was so taken with him, it would be easier to keep things in perspective.

“Hey, Rachel.” Jake rounded the corner with Sally at his side, her small hand engulfed by his huge one. “Mind if she uses the facilities?”

“First door on the right.” Rachel stood, but Jake waved her back and deftly disappeared beyond the edge of the fireplace. In a few seconds, a door closed down the hall.

What she really ought to do was to take another crack at finding that roast. The soda would keep—it was fizzing and bubbling merrily in the cartoon cup.

As for her aching feet, she could get a few more hours out of them, she thought as she cut through the dining room and dashed down the basement steps. Her
guests would be busy for a few moments, and if she could just find that roast—

“Running away from me?” Jake's baritone was filled with friendly, warm amusement.

Good thing she wasn't affected. “Not running any farther than the freezer. Why don't you help yourself to the remote? I don't mean to be a bad hostess, I'm just digging stuff out for supper.”

“Suppose I help you with that?” His steps sounded behind her on the stairs.

“Oh, I can get things just fine.” Actually, what she needed was someone who was tall enough to reach all the way to the bottom of the freezer. Was she going to admit that to him? No. “I'll be right up, okay?”

No answer was forthcoming, although the approaching rasp of sneakers on the cement floor trailed her to the freezer room. Rachel yanked on the light.

And there he was, he'd caught up to her, and let out a breath of awe. “Wow. Did you do all this canning?”

“My sisters lent a hand.” She supposed the floor-to-ceiling shelving and all the jars sitting on them did look impressive. “We like to can.”

“I'll say.”

“It's something our mom used to do. She'd get all of us to help her, even Amy when she was just a preschooler. We'd all peel and cook and fill jars.” She reached to open the freezer lid, but his hand was already there, lifting the lid and exposing the icy contents to the glare of the light.

That's how she felt, illuminated in the deep reaches of her self. How could talking about the preserving jars on the shelf do that? Simple, she realized. “It was everything good in our childhoods. Maybe that sounds corny, but the memories are good ones. The kind that really matter.”

“That make you who you are?”

His comment surprised her, this tough commando who had lobbed a rock like a grenade in the driveway as if at war. He was understanding, and she decided she liked him even more. “When my sisters and I do our yearly frenzy of making jams and canning, it always brings us back, makes us part again of that time in our childhoods when Mom was alive and her warm laughter seemed to bounce around the kitchen like sunbeams.”

Sometimes it hurt to remember, but it hurt even more to forget. And so she remembered. “When Dad would come home with packed meals from the diner because he knew Mom would have been so caught up she'd have forgotten the time. The whole house would smell like the strawberry jelly simmering on the stove, or the bushels of fresh peaches we'd have spent all day sitting around the table slicing.”

“Ben said you lost your folks when you were young.”

“It was like the sun going out one day.” And that was the part of remembering that hurt most, like a spear through the heart. “But Paige was just sixteen then and she took care of us.”

“You were alone?”

“We didn't want to be split up, and no one could take on the four of us.” Well, the spear remained lodged in her heart and the past was just going to keep hurting if she kept talking about it. She turned her attention—and the conversation—to the freezer. “You wouldn't want to reach down with those long arms of yours and dig around for a roast, would you?”

“A roast. Why, ma'am, I'd do nearly anything for a good roast. We don't get those much in the deserts where I've been spending my time.” He leaned down as if to thrust his arm deep into the frosty mists, but stopped in mid-plunge. “I can't believe this. You have my absolute favorite fish sticks. I mean, these are the best.”

“I love those, too. They're the best with the tartar we make at the diner. I've got a jar—”

“Forget the roast. Let's whip up a cookie sheet of these, bake up some Tater Tots and I'll be happy as a— Oh boy, you've got real apple pie in here.”

“Homemade. If you want—”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He loaded up with the pie and the fish sticks before closing the lid. “You really don't mind?”

“Are you kidding? I've been on my feet all day. Tell you what, how long are you staying in town tomorrow?”

“Uh… Don't know. We're on a standby flight back
to LA. I've got the last of the estate stuff to settle, it's a long process.” The look on his face, one of grief, one of bewilderment kept her from turning off the light.

Estate stuff? Rachel's stomach twisted. Before she could ask, Jake reached up and snapped off the light, leaving them in shadows. “Sally's mom died—my sister. Hit by a bus on the way to work one morning.”

No. That poor little girl. Rachel's heart wrung in sympathy. She knew just what that felt like for a child to lose a mother. “And her father?”

“Nonexistent. Ran off long ago and never wanted to be responsible. No one can even find him now. That's why I have her.” He took off abruptly, speaking over his shoulder, sounding normal but his movements looked jerky and tense in the half-light drifting down the staircase. “That's why she's with me. If I hadn't taken her when I arrived home, then she would have had to stay in foster care while I came here. And she asked me not to leave her. So I didn't.”

“I'm glad you brought her.” Well, that was about the saddest thing she'd heard in a long time. “How long was she alone while you were in the desert?”

“Nearly seven weeks. That's a long time.”

“Too long.” Rachel's quiet agreement said everything.

I wish I could have gotten to her sooner. There was no getting around that fact. Or the logistical problems of hunting him down in the middle of a covert deployment and getting him back to the States again.

Jake felt the weight of impossible guilt, dragging him downward. He'd done all he could, but it didn't change the fact that Sally had been left alone to grieve in a stranger's home, under a stranger's care, and she wasn't the same little girl he remembered. It was as if something essentially her had died too, of sorrow. How was he going to fix it for her? He didn't have a single answer.

Maybe the Lord would give him one, since he was all out of ideas. All out of everything.

“I'll do what I can to make sure she has some fun,” Rachel said.

So much understanding lit her voice, and it struck Jake like a bullet to the heart. He hadn't registered his worries about bringing Sally—about everything. He didn't want to go there. He would handle it, things would work out. He was Special Forces trained to assess, adapt and overcome. He'd succeeded at every training exercise, every task and every mission. But a child was not a mission.