Heaven's Touch. Jillian Hart

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      Wait a minute—he knew that face. Her delicate features had matured, but it looked like…

      No, it couldn’t be her.

      Yes, it was. He blinked his eyes, staring. It really was her. Someone he hadn’t seen in person since he was a wild and woolly eighteen-year-old with an attitude and a talent for trouble.

      Incredibly, Cadence Chapman emerged into the night. She was still tall and straight and slender—as graceful as a ballerina as she walked without watching where she was going. She dug through a well-worn leather wallet and withdrew a ten-dollar bill. She still had that saunter that made her look as if she were walking a few inches above the ground.

      I used to love her. His heart wrenched and left him in pain, watching as she headed straight for the cashier inside the attached quick mart.

      Her long dark hair fluttered behind her, midway down her back. A small brown leather purse swung from her shoulder. He wasn’t in love with her anymore, but seeing her sure felt surreal, as if it was a dream or something.

      He’d pinch himself, but he already knew he was awake and not dreaming. Who would have thought—Cadence Chapman? Hadn’t she moved away right out of high school, with a big college scholarship and even bigger goals?

      What was a world-class athlete doing in central Montana? He’d have to ask her when she came back to her car, if she recognized him.

      A cell phone somewhere nearby jangled a snappy electronic tune. The woman with the kids. The tune died, and he could hear the faint murmur of her voice from the direction of the driver’s seat. She must have the driver’s door open, so she could listen for the pump. It gave a distinct snap, shutting off. As she spoke to someone—her husband by the sounds of it, Ben tuned her out.

      The rush of gas through the pumps served as background noise as he leaned against the side of the truck bed. He had a perfect view of Cadence through the quick mart’s open door. She still had that cool way about her, the one that had often annoyed him so much.

      But there was something fundamentally different about her. He couldn’t put his thumb on it as he watched her slip the money on the counter and exchange pleasantries with the clerk, who was a middle-aged man watching her a little too closely, as if he were getting up the nerve to flirt.

      But like the old Cadence he used to know in high school, this woman didn’t return the obvious interest and snapped out of the store. She had an athletic stride, and her long lean legs were tanned from the hem of her shorts all the way down to her feet. She wore practical flat sandals.

      Not at all like the Cadence he remembered. That girl loved glitter, fancy shoes and designer names. She wouldn’t have been caught in public wearing bargain department-store shoes.

      Before he had much of a chance to wonder about that, the air changed from calm to charged, the way it did before lightning struck. He could smell danger even before the woman on the other side of the fuel pump gasped. He leaped to render aid even before the bright flash of fire hissed like a striking snake.

      Time slowed as he felt the radiant blast of heat against the right side of his face. In a blink he’d crossed the meridian and was beside the woman before she could scream. This was what he was trained for, and the more the danger, the calmer he became. He was used to the kick of adrenaline that supercharged him. He didn’t feel the shatter of pain in his leg or the sizzle of heat against his skin.

      “Release it. Let go. Do it now.”

      She didn’t respond. Panic was curling through her, and it was her enemy, blocking all rational thought. He caught her by the arm to keep her from flinging the hose away in panic. He couldn’t let her spread the fire, over her, him or innocent bystanders.

      “Drop it!” he commanded.

      Only when her fingers released the handle did he shove her to the ground, rolling her on the concrete. This didn’t help douse the flames greedily devouring her loose walking shorts.

      Suddenly another set of hands came out of nowhere offering a dripping-wet blanket. Perfect. Just what he needed. He ignored the woman’s cries of protest and smothered the flames. She was out of danger, and the identity of the person who’d come with the blanket didn’t register in his thoughts as he barked commands to keep the woman back—he was already on task for the next priority.

      The kids. The vehicle wasn’t yet engulfed. Leaving the nozzle in the tank had bought enough time. Although he saw the first problem: the van had only one side door—on the pump side, where flames were visible through the closed window.

      One toddler had started to cry. Ben dived into the driver’s seat, spotted a trucker running with a fire extinguisher and barked orders. “Hit the tank, and stay back.”

      You’ve only got a few more minutes, so move, he told himself.

      The air in the van was getting smoky. He twisted through the space between the seats, ignoring the awkward angle of his flexible cast. He unbuckled the crying kid, a little girl with red ringlet curls who seemed to have changed her mind about letting a stranger haul her out of her seat.

      “I’ll take you to your mom, okay?” he said, hauling her little wiggly form against him. Someone was there—the RV driver, he realized—so Ben shoved the girl at him.

      “Go!” he shouted, choked on a mouthful of smoke. The passenger window was open and the flames were roaring.

      The sleeping baby was harder to grab. He heard the squeal of a siren, the shouts from bystanders telling him to hurry and the lethal roar of the fire gaining strength. The buckle gave, the limp baby tumbled into his hands and he pulled him against his chest. The baby stirred, waking with a cry, but he was moving fast, feeling the heat and counting the seconds.

      Fresh air beat across his face, and he was free. He kept on going, feeling no pain, aware only of the eerie seconds stretching out like minutes. He shielded the little one with his body, keeping on his feet as the fire surged. He felt the heat burn into his back.

      The kids were safe, but he was on fire.

      He hated fire.

      “I’ll take him.” It was a middle-aged woman—probably from the RV, and he handed over the little tyke.

      “Go out toward the street. Go,” he told the woman and the man, who must be her husband. “No telling how dangerous this’ll be if it explodes. And get everyone back.”

      He beat at his shirt the best he could, but he wasn’t sure about where he couldn’t see or reach. It couldn’t be too bad, though, or he’d be in serious trouble by now. He kept smacking at the worst of it—emberlike spots mostly—and didn’t give it any more thought. He had a medical situation to assess.

      It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been on fire before. It happened to soldiers, and he was well trained.

      The mom was sitting up on the ground, held back by the clerk from behind the counter. Her fear rose eerily into the smoky air. He saw Cadence kneeling beside the woman, wrapping her burns with dripping-wet rags. Cold water. The best way to cool down the fire-hot flesh. He dropped to his knees and peeled back an icy terry cloth.

      Good. The water wasn’t merely cold, it was freezing. Melting chunks from bagged ice bobbed in a bucket. Nothing more than second-degree burns, from the looks of it. СКАЧАТЬ