The Heart's Voice (7 page)

Closing the toolbox, he waited for Becca to speak. She approached with CJ on her hip, moving in that twisted, leaning gait that she somehow made look graceful and natural. She studied the completed porch before switching her gaze to his face.

“Looks great.”

He nodded and let the feeling of a job well done flow over him. “It’ll look better painted.”

“Is that next?”

He nodded. “Then walls and air conditioning.”

“So the cool air doesn’t go right out the cracks,” she surmised correctly.

He grinned. “Cheaper that way.”

She looked down. He wanted to put his arms around her, but he didn’t dare. That kiss was never far from the surface of his thoughts. He still didn’t know how his arms had come to be around her or how he had lost himself so completely in the simple meeting of their mouths, but it was just one more danger in what felt like a whole minefield of possibilities that surrounded this woman.

She looked up again after a moment and suggested, “You could stay for supper.”

He frowned and said, “Crock-Pot’s on.” It was the absolute truth. He’d put in a frozen chicken that morning. Only now did he realize that he’d done it to protect himself from staying to supper.

“All right, then,” she said before looking over her shoulder at Jemmy.

“She okay?” he asked, concerned by the manner in which the child hung back.

“She’s upset because I wouldn’t let her have ice cream before we headed home. She’ll be done pouting soon.”

He tried to look at Jemmy without being too obvious about it. Was she crying over there? He couldn’t tell in the waning light, and he didn’t think it wise to get into the middle of a mother-daughter spat, so he stayed where he was, although it felt wrong somehow.

“Better go,” he said, moving to the driver’s door of the truck.

When he looked back at her, she said, “I wish you’d stay.”

He sent his gaze skittering off, trying to pretend that he hadn’t understood. His heart was pounding so hard that it hurt. He wanted to stay, but he knew that it wasn’t wise. Nothing had changed, after all, just because she’d kissed him. He opened the door, but then he turned back to her.

“Can’t make peace with it, Becca.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “I can’t fault you for honesty, Dan. You obviously just don’t feel the same as I, we, do.”

He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t so, but something had risen into his throat, and he couldn’t have spoken even if it had been right to do so. Instead, he just stared at her, hoping that his emotions didn’t show on his face. God knew that he wanted her, but she and her kids needed a whole man. They deserved that.

Finally he forced himself to get into the truck. Reaching up, he adjusted his mirror, more to break the connection that he felt with Becca than because it needed alteration. An image of Jemmy materialized. She was leaning across the fender of her mother’s car with her arms flung out and her cheek pressed to the metal, as pathetic a picture as he’d ever seen—and quite calculated. He fixed the view and checked the side mirror. Becca was at the win
dow, so he rolled it down, grinning at the child’s dramatics and his own susceptibility to it.

“Give her ice cream,” he pleaded, wrinkling his brow in supplication.

Becca smiled. “I will. After dinner. If she behaves herself.”

He nodded and started the engine. Becca called to Jemmy, who dragged herself listlessly from the car and trudged toward her mother as if going to the guillotine. Becca traded a knowing look with Dan and held out a welcoming arm. He chuckled and rolled up the window. As soon as Jemmy was held safely to her mother’s side, he backed the truck around her car and turned it down the road. When he glanced up into his rearview mirror again, it was to the image of Becca and those two kids standing there in the dusty yard of their little house.

It seemed all wrong somehow, but he couldn’t quite figure out why. Whatever it was, it surely had nothing to do with him.

D
an made himself a tasty supper of chicken and dumplings by following a recipe e-mailed to him by his mother. It was way too much food to eat at one sitting, but that just meant that he wouldn’t have to cook again for a while—and that he couldn’t risk staying late at Becca’s for at least a couple of days. Funny how his life had narrowed to whether or not he could safely spend time with her and the children.

Sitting at the table over his plate, he wondered if Jemmy had gotten her ice cream and knew that she most likely had. Unless she showed up her little self, her mama would have no reason not to keep her word. He hoped the imp was properly grateful. Even tonight with her put-upon face and mistreated-miss act, she’d made him want to smile.

CJ would get ice cream, too, of course, and gob
ble it down with all the finesse of a baby bird. By spoon or hand, it didn’t make any difference to that boy. Yet even as he was cramming it in or opening his mouth in automatic demand for more, he was watching everything and everyone around him. More often that not, Dan had to admit, the boy was watching him. Who was he kidding? The light of hero worship in that child’s eyes made him feel ten feet tall. But what would he see in those green eyes, so like Becca’s, when he failed to respond to his cries?

Dan felt as if he had one foot nailed to the floor and couldn’t go anywhere except around and around in circles. One moment he wondered if he could really belong with Becca and the kids, and the next he had to face the fact that he could not be all that they needed. He thought of Becca: her pretty, peaceful face, those wide, soft eyes, that Cupid’s-bow mouth, the perfume of her—all Becca without any hint of anything artificial, just clean and feminine—her endless patience, forthrightness, her happy faith…. Why did feel as if he’d lost her when he’d never even had her? He felt so confused. For days he’d been praying about it.

Don’t let my desires keep me from doing the right thing, Lord. Show me what’s best and help me do it. I want to do what’s best for Becca and the kids.

Only by talking to God could he find a measure of peace that allowed him to go about his business.

Rising from the table, he cleaned up after his
meal and wandered into the living room to catch the late news. The weatherman predicted a chance of rain tomorrow. Good thing he’d gotten the roof on Becca’s porch. With that thought, he took himself upstairs to bed, as weary as ever he had been in his entire life.

Dan awoke with a jerk. It was dark inside his room and as still as the grave, despite the opened window beside his bed. Still tired, he first rolled onto his side and looked at the clock on the bedside table. Three in the morning. The tingle of his nerves told him that he would sleep no more this night, and he resignedly rose to a sitting position.

His natural circadian rhythm had been disturbed for a time after his concussion. He’d essentially slept for days after the explosion, only to awaken for the first time in the middle of the night to an eerie silence, feeling his own heartbeat and breath in a way he never quite had before. For a time he’d been frightened and disoriented by the tilt and sway of his world. Then he’d realized that he was aboard a hospital ship. Some hours had passed before he’d fully understood that he could not hear a blessed thing, not even the rotor staccato of the helicopter that ferried him to an air base for transport home to the States.

After that he’d slept only fitfully for months, a combination, the doctors had said, of stress, jet lag, disorientation, worry and idleness. He’d soon dis
covered that no easy remedy existed, for the simple reason that he could no longer rely upon an alarm clock to tell him when to get up. An orderly had awakened him on the ship, but gradually he’d had to learn to pace himself, develop a routine, read his own body and organize his life around an uncertain beginning to his mornings.

It was his habit to lay out his clothing for the next day. He got to his feet, and without bothering with the light pulled on the jeans that he’d left folded over the foot of the bed, shrugged into the T-shirt waiting atop the dresser and picked up his boots, into which he’d poked a clean pair of socks. He carried the heavy, familiar footgear out onto the landing and down the stairs, where he went into the kitchen for a glass of milk.

He poured the milk by the light of the refrigerator and drank it all, standing, then poured another glass and fished around in the cookie jar for a couple of stale macaroons, which he carried in his teeth as he walked through the dark house to the study. Might as well catch up on his correspondence while he had a chance. E-mail had been piling up in his box. Sitting down in the comfortable leather desk chair, he laid the cookies on the blotter right next to the tall glass of milk and pulled on his socks and boots before settling down to his little feast. One cookie into it, however, he lost his enthusiasm for the second.

What was wrong with him? Even during his time
in the hospital he hadn’t felt like this. Fear as real as the chair beneath him gripped his heart, and he began to pray with a fervency that bordered on panic. In the midst of it he found himself remembering the last verse of the forty-second Psalm.

“Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God for I will yet praise Him, my Savior and my God.”

He lifted his head. Something was wrong. The hair rose on his forearms and the back of his neck. His skin prickled and tightened. He felt the crack of thunder in time to turn his head to see the flash outside the window. In that blink of light he saw the branches of the trees swaying wildly. A moment ago it had been as still as death without a breeze of any sort, but in the time it had taken him to dress and come downstairs for a glass of milk and some cookies, a storm had arisen. Storm. The word whirled through his mind, followed instantly by another, much more ominous.

Tornado.

Jumping to his feet, he hurried out onto the front porch, right to the edge of the steps, where he paused, steadying himself with one hand on a sturdy square column. The smell of rain filled his head and lungs, but even as the wind died away to a chilling breeze, lights began to come on around town. He watched them, one by one, then caught sight of a police vehicle at least two blocks down, speeding toward him with flashing colored lights.

The warning siren must have sounded, which meant that a twister had actually been sighted! And as deaf as he was to the alarm, Becca and the kids would be, too. The horn was mounted atop a pole on the edge of the school grounds and could not possibly wake them from a sound sleep so far from the center of town. Rain began to pour down in sheets, as suddenly as if someone had turned on a tap. It was foolhardy to drive in such a tempest, but he couldn’t take the risk that the storm would miss Becca’s place.

Galvanized, he ran back into the house, taking the stairs two and three at a time as he made for his bedroom. Grabbing keys, wallet and a flashlight from the nightstand, he pelted back down the stairs and out of the house to the truck parked in the carport. He gunned the engine in Reverse all the way out into the street, then forward as fast as he could go, the rear end slewing from side to side on the rain-slicked street.

The trip out to Becca’s house had never seemed longer, even as the rain began to let up. When he turned off the county road onto her sandy drive, he wondered why in the world anyone would build a house so far off the road. As he bumped over the last little rise, the truck rocked crazily, and it was then that he saw the gray funnel cloud begin to dip down out of the churning black mass overhead, and he laid on the horn. The flashing red light on his warning panel let him know that it was indeed
blowing. He could only pray that they had time to get to safety.

Bailing out of the truck before the engine had even died, he crammed the flashlight into his back pocket and ran for the house. Becca met him on the porch in her nightgown and robe. The air had grown ominously still again.

“Get to the cellar!”

Eyes wide, she turned back into the house without a word, and he followed, right on her heels, straight to the kids’ room. Becca went to the crib, and as Jemmy roused, Dan swept her up into his arms.

“Hang on to my neck.”

He realized that Becca was grabbing clothing, and he took it from her, bundling it into his arms with Jemmy even as he pushed Becca back into her own bedroom. He gave her two seconds to snatch up what she could for herself, then seized her by the arm and propelled her into the living room and across it to the kitchen. Shoving aside the table with one hand, he threw open the cellar door, beyond thankful that he’d installed a new one along with a sturdy set of stairs. All but tossing Becca and CJ down those steps, he dropped down behind them and let the counterweight on the door slam it shut.

For a moment he stood there at the bottom of the steps in the pitch-black darkness, pumping damp air in and out of his lungs, heart racing as he waited for the light. Then he realized that if he wanted
light, he was going to have to provide it for himself. Still clutching Jemmy, who had a stranglehold on his neck, he let the clothing fall and reached into his back pocket for the flashlight, then flicked it on.

Becca stood a few feet away, jostling a screaming CJ. A trickle of sand drifted down from overhead, and Dan’s skull felt as if it was being compressed slightly.

“We’re okay,” he said, as if to reassure himself. “We’re okay.”

But he sensed the maelstrom whirling overhead, and the skin prickled on his arms and legs. Jemmy was trembling, and Becca’s face was ashen with fear. She looked up at the ceiling, jiggling the baby, and Dan wondered what she was hearing.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, and she lowered her gaze to his face, then gave him a nod. “Too loud?” She shook her head. Willing his heart to slow, he sucked in a deep breath through his mouth. It tasted of dirt, dampness and panic. Perhaps it was his inability to hear the storm that allowed him to calm himself. Now he had to calm the others. “Settle in. Get comfortable.”

He carried Jemmy over to a wooden box about as old as he was and carefully set her atop it. Shivering, she pushed hair out of her face and looked up at him with wide, solemn eyes, trusting him to keep her safe. He took stock. Becca had stored a jumble of things down here, including some of Abby’s canned peaches and pickled okra. He spied
an old kerosene lantern and went to check it for fuel, slipping past Becca and the baby in the narrow confines. Calmer now but still sniffling, the boy reached for him. Dan smiled, but took care of the lantern first. Luckily, it felt heavy with sloshing liquid.

“Matches?” he asked Becca, and she reached into a corner of a dusty shelf, coming up with a small box. While he lit the lantern, she pulled out two cheap, folding lawn chairs, the type with woven plastic seats, and placed them within the circle of light. To save the batteries, Dan switched off the flashlight and placed it, lens down, on one of the shelves that lined the narrow, dusty, underground room. When he turned to Becca, she handed him CJ, then followed the boy right into Dan’s arms, all soft and warm and woman. A moment later he felt Jemmy wrap herself around their legs.

“It’s okay,” he said against the top of Becca’s head. “Safe.” Had any woman ever smelled better than this one? he wondered, closing his eyes for a moment.

Thank You, God. Thank You. I know You woke me just in time.

CJ grabbed hold of his ear, but Dan wasn’t ready to give up that sweet, soapy perfume just yet. Presently Becca pulled away a little, and when she wiped the tears from her cheeks he realized that she’d been crying. She turned her face up and asked, “How did you get to us in time?”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “Went fast.”

She punched him lightly in the midsection. “You took a big chance driving out here in this kind of storm.”

“You can’t hear tornado siren.”

“Neither can you.”

He chuckled, feeling the tension in his chest begin to loosen. Oddly, it made him feel a little weak in the knees. “Better sit.”

He pulled around one of the chairs and gingerly lowered himself into it, shifting the baby onto his knees. Jemmy had glued herself to her mother. Becca pulled the second chair close and sat down facing Dan, Jemmy on her lap. As she kept casting worried glances upward, Dan figured the storm must sound pretty fierce.

“What time is it?” she asked.

He shrugged, not having thought to grab his watch. “Half past three? Not sure.”

She tilted her head. “How did you know?”

He understood perfectly well what she was asking. Leaning forward slightly, one hand steadying the boy, he told her. “Just woke up. Felt wrong. Knew it was coming here.”

“Thank God,” she said fervently.

“Yes. Thank God.”

Jemmy suddenly jerked and cried out, clutching her mother.

“What?” he asked. Becca answered, but she was looking up, so he didn’t understand. “Becca!” he
said sharply, and she abruptly dropped her gaze, blinked and answered him.

“Something hit the door.”

No telling what that was, but it meant something had been flying around inside the house. “Raining?”

“I think so. It’s quieter now.”

“Good.” At least, he hoped it was good. Frankly, he wasn’t too sure just how watertight this old root cellar was, but he saw no point in dwelling on that at the moment.

“I was in a typhoon once,” he said—anything to distract them.

“What’s a typhoon?” Jemmy wanted to know, turning her face up to him. It looked as if she’d pronounced it
tied-foon.

“Big storm at sea,” he told her.

“Were you on a ship?” Becca asked, and he nodded, answering Jem’s question before she could ask it.

“Big, big boat, lots bigger than a house.” Jemmy’s eyes went wide. For the first time he realized that her eyes were almost the same color as his, as blue as a cloudless sky. “Wind blew hard. Ship went up and down.” He rolled his arm and hand in the air, demonstrating what the troughs were like during a typhoon in the open sea. “Like a roller coaster.”