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He cried her name over and over, was whispering it hoarsely when Dwight and half the county found him hours later still clinging to that tree trunk, even though the water had receded.
They wrapped him in blankets, but the shivering didn’t stop. He didn’t think it ever would, and right then he didn’t care.
Dwight pried the story out of him. Strangely, his uncle wasn’t angry that Holden had risked his life over a dog. He set a forearm across Holden’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze.
“She’s gone, son,” he said. Whether he meant Mama or Elsa wasn’t clear.
Holden hunched his back in resistance and denial. But he couldn’t hold back the truth: He had no one now. No one.
With a sob, he pressed his face against his uncle’s side and cried for all he had loved and lost this day. He cared nothing for the treasure left in the cubbyhole on the edge of the river. That river had taken from him something much more precious. God had taken from him something much more precious.
And he would never, ever forget.
Leaning back in his heavenly throne, God gave a heavy sigh, anguished as always by his children’s pain. Right now, Samuel McKee was waiting at the pearly gates for the arrival of his soul mate. Yet here was another soul who stood aching and alone.
It was not the boy’s time, though. Holden McKee still had much work to do before he would be called home. It was why his canine companion had been placed there, to save the boy. And why God had given man such a creature—to bring the human spirit the example of unwavering trust and hopefulness and faith, which he wished for all his children to find.
“But how to bring them to such trust?” he mused. “Its promise is made on Earth every day—in the bloom of the rose, the rising of the sun, the birth of a child...”
Great fingers drummed a low rumble like thunder on the celestial armrest for a long moment, yet only a blink in time. Then his eyebrows parted like the clouds; eyes cleared like the dawn breaking.
“Of course!” he said. “How else on Earth can you glimpse a little bit of heaven?”
He peered lovingly down upon the boy Holden McKee as he was led home in the darkness.
“Have faith, my son,” God whispered. “I have not forsaken you. In good time, the answers you seek will be yours.”
Chapter One
Dallas, Texas, present day
There came a time in every little boy’s life, Holden supposed, when he was forced to accept the inevitable and often painful fact that the ability to fly was reserved for birds, airplanes, comic book heroes—and certain “illusionists” who performed this amazing deed on prime-time television.
How often had Holden himself listened to such tales of disenchantment as he’d set collarbone or leg, stitched a split lip or patched up the odd contusion sustained as a result of some young man’s literal leap of faith?
Telling himself this instance was no different, Holden shot a sidelong glance at his son, who sat next to him in treatment room three at the Brookside Physical Therapy Associates. Sam’s face was pinched and pensive. Stoop-shouldered, the six-year-old cradled his splinted forearm against him as if protecting a newborn.
Somehow, Holden was not convinced.
Too bad the cast had had to come off this morning, just when Sam seemed to be getting used to it But there was still a lot of healing on his broken arm that needed to be done outside of such a protective shell.
“Are you having any pain?” he asked the boy.
Lips thinning, Sam shook his head.
Holden shifted in his seat, stretching an arm along the back of the empty chair on the other side of him. “That’s good. You should have little discomfort, actually. You heard the orthopedist say the X ray showed the bones had realigned perfectly, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He reached into his suit coat pocket. “You could put on some more of this lotion if your skin itches.”
“I’m okay.”
Holden felt his own mouth crease. He would have asked Sam what was the matter, what he could do for the boy, but he didn’t think Sam would tell him. Ever since Sam’s accident, the gap between father and son had grown, especially after Holden had tried to impress upon him the folly of allowing make-believe to take precedence over common sense.
He simply didn’t know what to do or say or ask next, and had told the grief counselor Sam had been seeing just that. The man had given him the rather simplistic advice that Holden should let Sam make the next move. So far, his son had done nothing.
And so the gap widened, imperceptibly.
Yet what if Sam came to him with a question Holden couldn’t answer, a problem he couldn’t fix?
I’m scared.
And I miss her so much.
With a sigh, Holden dropped his chin and massaged a persistent and painful knot in his jaw muscle. He’d always had a tendency to clench his teeth when under stress, but if he didn’t ease up soon, he’d crack every molar in his mouth.
“dead?”
Holden lifted his head. “Yes?”
“I just wondered if—” Sam was looking at him anxiously. Not often did the boy see him showing any sign of vulnerability. After all he’d been through, Holden made sure of that.
He straightened his spine and asked again, “Yes?”
Sam’s gaze slid away. “If I could, you know, hit the bathroom before the therapist comes in.”
“Oh. Sure. I saw one when we came in. Down the hallway.”
Resisting the urge to offer help, he watched the boy disappear, the door swishing shut behind him. Left alone, Holden let his head fall back against the wall behind him with an oath of self-censure. He really needed to pull himself together, once and for all, for Sam’s sake, if nothing else.
But things had gotten so complicated, so close, lately.
He stared at the recessed spotlights above him and wondered if their brutal illumination, so like the flash-bulb brilliant lighting in the ER, might help him find the distance he usually donned as easily as a stethoscope. At least pondering the subject gave him something to concentrate on, take his mind off of...things.
Like how hard he’d been working. He’d thought leaving the job at County Hospital in Chicago and the daily dose of senseless death would help put his life on a more even footing. Yet even within the less-intensive atmosphere of a private suburban hospital, he continued to feel as if he slogged through a mire as thick as quicksand.
Holden realized the lights had burned hot spots on his retina only after he heard someone say his name. All he could see was a reddened aura surrounding the figure before him.
He closed his eyes, giving them a second to recover.
“Holden McKee?” the still faceless woman repeated. There was something strangely soothing about her voice. Yet rather than calming him, Holden recognized trepidation mingling with the sense of powerlessness he’d been fighting.
“Yes, I’m Holden McKee,” he said blindly, not liking the sensation. “Who are you?”
“I’m here to help your son,” she answered. She had a faint drawl he found rather attractive. “You, too, it would seem. Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. It’s just temporary. Stupid of me, looking into the light like that—”
A hand rested on his shoulder, delicate as an angel’s touch. The impression was reinforced by the caress on the back of his hand, which felt like nothing so much as a feather.
With a certain urgency, Holden blinked. What finally came into focus was a young woman bending toward him, her face inches from his. He realized where he’d gotten the impression of auras and feather-light touches: she was surrounded by a glorious veil of red-gold hair, wavy and as fluid-looking as molten copper. The ends of its waist-length strands brushed his hand as it lay on his knee.
He got the strongest urge to reach up and rub a lock of it between his fingers to see if it was real. Or to bury his face in that thick curtain of softness—to see if she was real.
She smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I don’t believe in—”
The rest of his thought was lost as he was captured by a pair of fine brown eyes fringed with dark eyelashes so curly they curved right up over her brow bone. They were quite expressive—open and honest and caring. Quite...familiar.
With that realization, the calm Holden sought settled over him, as if now that the moment of reckoning was near, he could face it—wanted to face it—and get it over with, once and for all.
Her eyes darkened with bewilderment. He must be staring like a madman. His gaze faltered, bringing her mouth into his line of vision.
He found himself riveted by those full lips, so close to his. A mere heartbeat away. All it would take was the slightest shift in his position to bridge the gap between them in a kiss. And with that connection, somehow he would know...what?
The moment held, a wrinkle in time. He felt himself at a crossroads, as if he was being given a rare, brief glimpse of two possible paths to take.
Neither way was quite clear. So close, though.
“What did you say your name was?” Holden whispered, so elusive was the moment.
“It’s Edie. Edie Turner.” Her voice held puzzlement. She didn’t know him, obviously. Disappointment mushroomed and spread in him.
The moment began to slip away.
Desperately, Holden riffled through a mental Rolodex for her name. Edie Turner. It struck no chords with him, but then he came into contact with so many people. Patients, colleagues, co-workers—all passed in and out of his life at such a rate they seemed one faceless blur. He had no time to stop and look closely at anyone, as he was doing now.
Close. So close.
Where on earth—and when—would he have known a woman named...Edie?
“You’re late.” The words popped out of Holden’s mouth of their own volition. Much too late, he wanted to add.
At his accusing tone, she straightened in surprise. Her hand dropped away. “Yes, I-I am, I guess. A little. But we still have plenty of time. There’ll be no one else after you.”
Why did her assurance—and the hurt in her eyes—do nothing to soothe his sudden anger? In fact, that look nearly undid him again, especially coming on the heels of a moment when he’d almost felt he could have told this woman anything and she would have understood.
Unsure why he was so irritated, Holden stood and indicated the time on his watch. “My son’s appointment was at four. It’s now twenty after. That’s more than a little late.”
She took a step back. Whatever connection he’d felt between them snapped.
“I apologize for any inconvenience I’ve caused,” she said, which only rankled him further.
“I just need to know if this is what I should expect when I bring Sam to his appointments. Because I can certainly put that twenty minutes to good use.”
Edie gave the clipboard in her hand a quick glance. “It’s Dr. McKee, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Of course. Well—again—I apologize for the wait, Dr. McKee, but in the interest of providing the best treatment possible to our patients, appointments sometimes do run over.” Though her tone remained polite, she flicked a long lock of that hair behind her shoulder in a telling gesture. “As a health-care professional yourself, I’m sure you understand.”
He raised an eyebrow at such insubordination. Not the wisest move on her part, but then—
“I deserved that, didn’t I?” Holden said.
“You’re the doctor.” She returned his scrutiny steadily. She had spirit, he’d give her that.
Yet there was not a bit of recognition in her eyes for him. The caring warmth he’d spied there had definitely departed—if he’d actually seen it at all.
He shook his head. He really had been working too hard.
Holden massaged the back of his neck. “I’m the one who should apologize, Ms. Turner. I’ve been under a lot of strain, though that’s hardly an excuse. I guess I don’t blame you, getting back a bit of your own from a doctor. We’re the ones who make the world wait for and on us,” he quipped, trying for a lighter tone.
She seemed slightly mollified, enough to return mildly, “I think they call it a God complex, Dr. McKee.”
Again, the words spilled out of his mouth of their own accord. “Not this doctor, Ms. Turner,” he said with grim emphasis. “Because that would mean I believed there’s such a thing as an almighty and healing God. And the fact is, we’re on our own down here.”
There was a muffled sound from behind him. Holden turned to find Sam had returned and stood in the doorway. He looked as if he’d learned there was no Santa Claus. Holden supposed, in a way, the boy had just endured a similar disillusionment.
His heart sank like lead.
“Sam, I—” Holden extended a hand toward the boy, then dropped it—and shut up. Just as before, he couldn’t think of a single thing he could say to make the situation better. He would have given anything to take back his words. That he couldn’t shake his bitterness about the turn their lives had taken was one thing, but his son ought to have some hope to sustain him.
Yet the futility of trying to make sense of such a loss was a strong force in Holden. Not for the first time, he wondered how he was going to raise this child, given his cynical view of life. Maybe that’s what made him feel so world-weary. There were a thousand hurts he could heal, but what was that power if he couldn’t heal the human spirit? Because his was next to lost. The dearth of hope and trust in him seemed so deep a debt, it would take a miracle to replenish it.
Edie had never seen a person look more forsaken, like he’d just lost his best friend.
The little boy stood in the doorway cradling his injured forearm, the faded-to-gray color of his jeans shorts echoed in eyes so like his father’s. He held the support crossed on his chest, fist on his heart, as if he were set to swear an allegiance and waited only for someone to tell him to whom. And if no one did, he’d bolt at any moment.
In that instant, he owned her heart.
All the cautions given her by the clinic supervisor not three hours ago—that she could not be the world’s rescuer and continue to work in health care—flew right out of Edie’s head. How could she not respond to such a silent cry for help?
He was a handsome child, with those enormous eyes and that spiky dark-brown hair begging for a hand to smooth it down. She wondered what his mother was like, and what kept her from being here in her child’s time of need.
Her heart squeezed painfully.
Edie tossed a reproachful glance at his father, whose own eyes—more gray-green than strictly gray—looked as bleak, his face carved from stone. Thank God he’d checked his tongue before completely demoralizing the boy. Even she had flinched at the gloom and doom in his voice. At least he seemed to perceive his blunder, for she saw the doctor’s jaw bulge with the gritting of his teeth.
Reluctant sympathy stirred in her. She’d give him credit for his remorse, even if she had a feeling the damage had already been done, in so many ways.
She’d have to do the best she could with what was left.
“So you’re Sam,” Edie said, bending at the waist so she was on a level with the boy. Her action worked. Sam shifted his gaze from his father to her.
Edie smiled her warmest smile. “I’m Edie Turner, your physical therapist, which means I’m going to see if we can make that arm of yours better so you can get back to playing all your games. Why don’t you hop up here on the table and we’ll take a look at your arm?”
