Miracles. Part 5

She was being a complete fool, Kate knew, even considering such a thing, because she wasn't about to get involved with an out-of-work stranger who wouldn't even say how long he'd be in the area. Still, she couldn't keep the disappointment from coloring her tone as she said, "I'm sorry, Sam. But it looks as if you came in this morning for nothing."

"Oh, maybe not," he drawled, and the long, slow inspection his gaze made of her said he had a good idea what was going through her mind. "As long as I'm here, if you've got the time, you can show me the way to your sister and brother-in-law's. I still have to pick up my key."

Fl.u.s.tered by his frankly approving look and the unexpected surge of electricity pa.s.sing between them, Kate lowered her gaze. "Well, sure. That'll be fine. I have to go out to Cressie's, anyway."

Doc cleared his throat and took a step toward the door. "If I don't get over to the office, Bert'll have the place reeking with cigar smoke just to spite me. I'll let you know how I make out with the supply house, Kate." Stopping on the top porch step, he turned to look at Sam, standing beside her in the doorway.

"You going to be doing much fishing while you're here?" he asked.

"Some, maybe," Sam replied.

"Hmm." Doc studied him. "You got business in the area?"

"No, sir."

"No? Hmm. Well, then-"

"Sam's on vacation," Kate said, hugging one side of the door frame with both hands and leaning forward to give Doc a meaningful look. "And he doesn't need busybodies like you and me spoiling it with a bunch of questions. So why don't you go nag Bert to give up his cigars, and tell that supply clerk to deliver our order, like he promised three weeks ago, and let me get to work. I've got a million things to do."

Doc frowned, then delivered his parting shot as he started down the steps. "Sam, you watch out for this girl," he said. "She's a bossy one."

"Oh, you-" Kate began, but her affectionate scolding was cut off by Sam's earthy chuckle.

"Don't worry," he called after Doc. "Katie already knows how poor I am at taking orders." Then, with a slight pause, his voice dropped low to finish. "Then again, I can think of some things I wouldn't mind her telling me to do. . . . No, I wouldn'tmind at all."

His meaning was unmistakable, and her cheeks burned as she stared, unseeing, at the empty front walk. No man had ever made her such an obvious proposition-and on such short acquaintance. It was unnerving-and a little frightening. It was also wildly exciting. But for a woman who was used to thinking she inspired men's appet.i.tes, not their pa.s.sion, it was mostly confusing.

She felt his gaze upon her. She tried not to look at him as she turned, mumbling something about getting her shoes so they could leave. But her gaze skittered upward briefly, and then she was trapped, unable to look away from or to deny the hot message his clear gray eyes conveyed.

The rules had changed. Yesterday was a bad dream. Today she was at no disadvantage that would protect her from having to deal with this; he wanted her, and if she didn't want him, she was going to have to tell him so directly. But with her knees feeling so rubbery and a flush of sensual awareness curling through her, she couldn't utter a word.

"Get your shoes, Katie, and let's go," Sam said softly. "Ed Davenport tells me they're expecting another storm tonight, and I've got a window to fix."

Four.

Kate spent the ride telling Sam about her sister and brother-in-law, who lived in an old farmhouse three miles east of Bourner's Crossing. She explained that Cressie-named Crescent by their romantic mother for having been conceived under a crescent moon-had met Steve when he was flying seaplanes on Lake Superior, using their father's marina as a port of call for his fishermen clientele. For various reasons, mostly Cressie's fear of flying, Steve had sold his two planes and taken a job with the National Forest Service. The money from the sale had bought the newlyweds two houses-a dilapidated farmhouse and a hunter's cabin -and they'd made enough improvements to live in the cabin for a year while the farmhouse was being renovated.

"Seems like a d.a.m.n shame," Sam commented, pulling to a stop in the Fourniers' side yard.

"What does?" Kate asked.

"That a man would give up his planes for a two-room cabin and a rundown farm."

Kate looked at him askance. "I don't think that's quite the way Steve saw it. Besides, he never really gave up planes-at least, not to Cressie's satisfaction." Climbing out of the Jeep, she reached into the back for her knapsack, then stopped, her eyebrows rising at the sound of Sam's muttered oath.

He was standing on the other side of the Jeep, staring toward the field beside the red barn, where a trim, single-en-gine airplane basked in the morning sunshine.

Kate's knowledge of planes could be stated in one sen-tence-they went up, and they came down- yet she knew there was something special about this particular old military plane, decked out in its camouflage paint with yellow tail and wing tips.

"I think it's called a T-34 Mentor," she said.

Sam replied with an affirmative grunt. "Right, but what's it doing in the middle of nowhere? There can't be more than a couple hundred of them in civilian hands."

"Steve bought it at an auction," she explained. "He's spent the past year taking it apart and putting it back together, with a bigger engine and bigger fuel tanks and all sorts of updated instruments that cost a fortune. The plan was to make money selling it, but when he finished it, about a month ago, he told Cressie he wanted to fly it in air shows-and she just about went through the roof."

Still looking at the plane, Sam shook his head slowly. "If he's done as good a job on the inside as he has on the outside, that plane's worth a bundle."

"Steve's had offers," Kate admitted. "In fact, I think he's considering one. Since he took a part-time job at Gibson's Garage, and since they've got a new baby, he doesn't have much time to fly. Besides, I think Cressie is wearing him down."

Watching Sam's back, Kate saw his shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath. Then, abruptly, he turned away, walking around the front of the Jeep to take her knapsack from her.

"Thanks," she said, and as they began walking toward the front of the house, she added, "I should warn you about Francis."

Sam glanced down at her. "Francis who?"

"Cressie and Steve's two-year-old. He's deaf, and Cressie's a little-"

"Deaf?" Sam stopped in his tracks.

"Yes, and Cressie's sensitive about it, so-"

"What happened to him?"

She paused briefly to let him catch up; then, casting a glance toward the tall porch windows of the white frame house, she spoke quietly. "About eight months ago, he had a viral infection. It didn't seem like anything too unusual-just a bad stomach thing-but it left him deaf."

Sam's hand shot out to stop her when she started up the front steps. "Can't they fix it?"

"Nerve deafness is permanent," she answered, her voice heavy with regret. "There isn't a specialist in the world who could do anything about it." She started up the steps again, whispering over her shoulder, "Cressie gets nervous sometimes, in front of strangers, so I thought I ought to warn you. Just in case."

Cressie met them at the front door, and Kate saw Sam's gaze slide from her sister to her and back again several times, taking note that Cressie looked very much like her, but for having short hair and being a half-dozen years younger. Cressie had been expecting them, but not together, and Kate's explanation of the day before led to Sam's apology for the broken window and his a.s.surance that it would be fixed that afternoon. Cressie wasn't worried about the window; she was too upset over Kate's being hurt, and she showered Sam with grat.i.tude as she ushered them into the living room and gave him his key.

They stood talking in the large, toy-cluttered room until a small, rosy-cheeked face appeared around the edge of the doorway to the foyer. Kate saw Francis first, and she opened her arms to him with a smile as he came running toward her.

Scooping him up, she planted a kiss on the top of his curly blond head. "How's my sweetheart?" she asked, chuckling. "And how are you and your new sister getting along?"

"Not too well, I'm afraid," Cressie answered, her gaze darting nervously from the little boy to Sam.

Kate noted Cressie's discomfort but decided the best plan was to ignore it. "Oh? How come?" she asked.

"He doesn't understand why I can't just put April down whenever he wants me to play with him. And it's so frustrating, not being able to explain it to him. I suppose I should try, but I just don't know how, or what good it would do, when he can't-"

"Has he held her yet?" Kate asked.

Cressie's expression became horrified. "Oh, no! I mean, I don't think he should." Hesitantly, she added, "Do you?"

"Sure," Kate replied easily as Francis snuggled in her arms. "He'll need help, of course. But I'm sure he'd be tickled to hold her. It would make him feel important-like you trusted him."

"Well . . ." Cressie looked at Francis doubtfully. "I guess if you think so . . ."

"So, are you ready to be a big brother?" Kate mused while Francis examined the thick braid hanging over her shoulder. "When you're a little older, I'll explain the pros and cons of being the oldest to you- except you'll probably have them all figured out on your own. Won't you, my smart little friend?"

She put a finger under Francis's chin to lift his face to her. He looked at her intently for a moment, then placed one stubby finger on her left cheek where her dimple lay hidden. It was a game they'd played before, and Kate grinned in compliance with his request. The dimple magically appeared, and Francis made a pleased sound as he touched the small indentation.

"Francis." She spoke slowly, setting him down so she could "sign" the words. She'd been teaching herself to sign and was pleased that Cressie and Steve were, too. "This is Sam," she told Francis, indicating the man standing beside her. "He's a friend of mine."

Francis's gaze followed her gesture, and he promptly gave Sam a wary scowl. When she looked up, she understood why. Sam, who'd been silent since Francis had run into the room, was scowling at Francis just as warily. She stared at him in disbelief. Why on earth would he frown like that at a child? How insensitive could he be?

But Sam wasn't insensitive, and as though she'd willed him to shape up and prove it, his piercing look softened. Slowly, with a sparkle creeping into his prism-like eyes, he gave Francis a broad smile.

"Hi, buddy."

The little boy hesitated, then smiled back. And an instant later, he let out a sound that, in spite of its harsh, unmodulated tone, couldn't have been anything but a laugh.

The sound tugged at Kate's heart. Despite Cressie's over-protectiveness, Francis was an especially friendly child.

"He doesn't talk," Cressie explained to Sam. "He knew a few words when he was one, but then he caught this terrible virus and-"

"I told Sam already," Kate said gently, going on quickly to ask, "Where's April? I should see her soon, because Sam wants to fix that window before it rains tonight."

"She's upstairs in her crib," Cressie replied. "Let me bring her down."

Kate shook her head, smiling. "Why don't we both go on up, and I'll examine her where she is."

"All right, but let me put Francis in his room."

When Cressie stepped forward to pick up her son, Kate put a hand atop his head, saying, "Maybe we can persuade Francis to keep Sam company."

"Oh, no, Sam won't want to-"

"What do you say, Sam?"

His expression said he thought she'd lost her mind. His features were rigid with shock, and if she hadn' t known better, she'd have said he was scared. Scared of a little boy? Ridiculous.

"You and Francis will be all right while I examine the baby, won't you? It'll only be about fifteen or twenty minutes."

Sam's lips drew into a straight line, and she saw his throat move as he swallowed.

"Sure," he rasped. "Sure, we'll be fine. Won't we, buddy?"

"Oh, Kate, I don't know. . . ."

She grabbed the advantage while she could, bending to explain to Francis in both words and sign, "Sam wants to see your blocks. Will you show them to him?"

Then, pointing toward a pile of wooden blocks, she grabbed Sam's hand and pulled him in that direction, her eyes never leaving Francis. The child followed with a bright-eyed look- he adored his blocks-plopped down on the floor, and tilted his head way back to look at Sam.

"Have fun!" Kate dropped Sam's hand and flashed him a smile as she turned and stepped lightly toward the foyer. When she reached Cressie, hovering in the center of the room, she linked an arm through her sister's elbow to coax her along. "Come on, Cress, let's see that little girl of yours."

She didn't look back, but as she followed Cressie up the stairs, she prayed like mad that her intuition about her s.e.xy but puzzling stranger wasn't wrong.

It was another lost battle. Sam had known it the minute he laid eyes on Francis. Kids got to him every time. He didn't mind that so much-kids got to everybody, didn't they?-but it was starting to feel like he'd jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. h.e.l.l, he'd come up here to get away from all this.

An instant later, his mouth slanted in a dry smile. It served him right, getting the hots for a nurse. He could have been holed up in the woods right now instead of sitting in the middle of a pile of blocks. It occurred to him there might be some sort of weird irony to the scene. Like someone-or Someone- was telling him that, if he thought he could go hide in the woods and forget what he was supposed to be doing, he had another think coming. That wasn't part of the deal.

But, dammit, he wasn't trying to squirrel his way out of anything; he was just trying to survive. And, by G.o.d, he could still hide in the woods. He wanted anonymity? Ha! With Francis, it was guaranteed. The kid couldn't talk.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite the round-faced, blue-eyed boy, Sam picked up a block and placed it atop the tower Francis had constructed. The toddler looked at him, his blond lashes and curly hair shining in the sunshine coming through the window.

Suddenly, with a whack of his chubby hand, Francis sent the block tower flying, an act accompanied by excited, incomprehensible chatter. He grinned broadly at Sam, who grinned back in approval. And together they began constructing the tower again. They built it two more times, each time with Francis taking great pleasure in destroying it, before Sam decided he'd established what they called rapport with the boy.

He began looking for a way to make his next move, but before he'd figured it out, Francis scrambled to his sneaker-clad feet and toddled over to the bookshelf beside the couch. Yanking a book from it, he toddled back, and, to Sam's astonishment, climbed into his lap. He perched himself sideways on one thigh, then opened the book across his own small lap. Pointing at a picture of a tractor with one finger, he made some noise that distinctly ended on a question mark.

Sam blinked, thoroughly disarmed, a flash of awkwardness making him uncertain. But then, while he was wondering what to do with his arms, a strange, warm feeling stole over him, the child's boldness and trust taking a chunk out of the wall he'd spent years constructing around himself. It felt good having Francis 's st.u.r.dy little body close to his. Letting instinct take over, he put an arm around the small, straight back. Francis promptly moved closer, sliding a diapered bottom higher up his thigh. Sam tucked him closer. And when Francis craned his neck to look up at him again, he smiled, lifting his hand to ruffle the child's blond hair.

It was as easy as that. Sam nearly laughed, thinking this was going to be a piece of cake.

Francis looked at the book, pointing to something else-a car this time. Sam said the word aloud and nodded, turning pages slowly with one hand, all the while stroking the silky locks on the small head, his fingers tangling gently in the curls, tracing them as they curved around the child's right ear, resting lightly there . . . lingering. . . .

Lingering as the sunshine poured through the lacy-curtained windows to warm the air, to warm the pages of the book upon which it fell, to warm the golden curls on a little boy's head and the flesh of a man's strong, gentle hand . . .

Kate p.r.o.nounced her new niece healthy and flourishing, then, giving April to Cressie to nurse, packed up her things and went to "check on the boys." Halfway down the stairs, she heard Sam's voice. At first she thought he was reading to Francis-and activity her nephew enjoyed if there were pictures to look at. Then, however, she realized Sam was making up the story, and it surprised her not to hear blocks clattering or other impatient sounds indicating that Francis was bored with the sound-oriented exercise.

What surprised her more, though, was the sense of drama, the feeling, in Sam's gravelly voice. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, she was caught up in the story, whether or not Francis found it interesting.

"And, you know, buddy, it was a dream come true," Sam said. "Oh, sure, the boy had flown other planes, but this plane was the one everybody said was the greatest revolution in aviation in decades. And it was a beauty. Nothing like anybody had ever seen. A hundred feet wide and only thirty feet long, and shaped like the wings of a huge white bird. Nothing stuck out on it anywhere-no engines, nothing. They'd buried everything inside, so it all sort of blended together in this giant, sweeping curve. And you just knew it was built to punch holes in the sky that hadn't ever been punched before. . . ."

Moving to stand by the arched doorway, Kate remained silent, blatantly eavesdropping. She knew Sam would close up instantly if he realized she was listening, and for some reason it seemed very important that she hear his pilot's fairy tale. She was stealing a glimpse of the inner Sam Reese, a glimpse she suspected he rarely gave anyone. In fact, he wasn't giving it to anyone now. Not knowingly. To whom was he speaking, after all? A deaf child.

Leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes, wondering at the openness, the intensity-the joy-in Sam's voice.

"Well, Francis, that kid was pretty excited. But he was smart enough to play it cool, because if he'd acted too excited, they'd have thought he wasn't taking the whole thing seriously. And he took it seriously, all right. Wringing out a plane for the first time always gets to you. He knew he'd be testing the creases of a brand-new kind of envelope. n.o.body knew where the outside of it was or how far it would stretch. So, naturally, he was a little nervous-not scared or anything like that, but nervous. He wasn't about to tell anybody, though, because he wanted them to think he was . . . well, a man."

Is that what it took? Kate wondered. You had to be a man to want to do what Sam's fict.i.tious young hero was about to do? It certainly was true, the thought of flying a plane no one had ever flown made her stomach knot, but she very much doubted it had anything to do with gender.

"Well," Sam continued, "the big day came. The boy climbed into the c.o.c.kpit and started down the runway. And the next thing he knew, that big white jet went up like an angel lifting off for heaven. It was something else, going almost straight up. All that sky and those piles of white clouds and, above the clouds, nothing but deep blue s.p.a.ce."

Sam paused, and Kate heard him sigh.

"The timing was perfect. It was just before dawn, and he was over the water flying at sixty thousand. So he rolled off into a dive and leveled at ten thousand, into an eastward cruise- and he shot right into the sunrise. Well, I tell you, it burst on him all at once, and for a couple of seconds it blinded him. It's not like it is down here, all pink and gold and kind of mellow. Up there it's . . ." He trailed off briefly, then continued with a soft, nearly wistful inflection. "Up there is where you get to see the white light. It's so clear. So . . . pure. And I'll tell you a secret, buddy. Once you've seen the sunrise from up there, you know almost what it's like to be looking at the gate to heaven."

The gate to heaven. Sam painted the picture with clean strokes that lent the image a simple beauty. When he fell silent, Kate thought he must be finished, but then he began again on a quiet, strangely solemn note.

"'Course, the boy didn't know anything about heaven. He just knew he wanted to fly that plane forever. He hated the thought of coming down because . . . well, he was kind of alone, you see. But up there, being alone didn't matter. In fact, it was better that way. He was in charge, and he didn't have to worry about anybody letting him down or making him feel bad. When he was flying, he felt good inside. Happy and kind of peaceful. He wished sometimes that it could be that way down here, but it never was. And so he kept on flying. He flew every chance he got until . . . until the day he died."