Kaki Warner by Miracle in New Hope Page B

heard, but then had decided it didn’t matter. He was committed now—to her, to Hannah, to seeing how deep this odd, unexplainable connection between them went.
    He studied the block of wood in his hand. “I knew you were listening.”
    “You did?”
    He drew the blade across the wood and thought of the way her body had startled, then calmed under his touch. “The moment you came out of your dream, I felt it under my hand.”
    “Oh.” She hesitated, then said in a rush, “Daniel, I can’t think about courting now. I can’t think about anything but Hannah. Nothing else holds any interest for me. Nothing means anything anymore. Maybe it never will.”
    “I know.” Carefully setting the half-finished figurine and knife on the table, he sat back in his chair. “I’ve been through this, remember? So I know.”
    Tears welled up. He watched her battle them and felt a familiar ache move through his chest. “Losing Pete was hard, but Hannah . . . ” Tears won, overflowed, and rolled in glistening tracks down her cheeks.
    He wanted to taste them, kiss them away, hold her in arms that had been empty for too long.
    “Does it get any better, Daniel? Will this awful empty feeling ever go away?”
    Unable to keep from touching her, he reached over and took one of her hands in his. “No. Not completely. But it quits hurting so much, and eventually you learn to live with it.” Brutal but honest. He would never lie to this woman.
    She wept in silence for a time, then pulled her hand from his and wiped the tears away. “Sometimes I can’t even remember her face, and that terrifies me. Can you still picture your wife and son?”
    “Not their faces.” Daniel probed his memories. But all he found were quick glimpses—impressions—that hovered just at the edge of his vision for an instant, then were gone. A smile, the sound of her laughter, the grip of his tiny hand around his finger. Never their faces.
    He took a deep breath and let the memories go on a long exhale. “What I remember most,” he finally said, “is the way I felt when I was with them. That doesn’t ever change.” He looked over at her and smiled. “But you’ll get better, Lacy. And when we find Hannah and bring her home, everything will feel right to you again, and that empty feeling will pass. I can wait until then to court you.”
    She smiled back, her lips quivering with the effort not to cry. “Oh, Daniel . . . ” Lifting her hand, she laid it against his scarred check as if the puckered ridges against her palm didn’t matter in the least. “You are the dearest man.” Leaning toward him, she pressed her lips to his.
    He froze, shocked and delighted, every sense focused on the smell of her hair, the salty taste of her tears, the warm breath filling his mouth. His arms started up, but she was already drawing away.
    “Thank you,” she whispered. Then, before he could regain his senses, she rose and went back into the bedroom.
    He watched the door close behind her, his heart thumping, blood singing through his veins. Hope could be a dangerous thing, he realized, letting out a deep breath. But after seven empty, lonely years, he was willing to risk it.
    He went to sleep smiling, only to be jerked from Lacy’s arms and thrown back into the chaos of war. Then he realized it was a bugle sounding reveille, not the call to retreat—and Roscoe panting in his face, not Lacy.
    Hell of a disappointing way to start the day.
    Rubbing a hand through his hair, he shoved the hound aside and sat up. The fire was down to coals, and the chill in the room made him shiver. Overhead, floorboards creaked as Jackson moved toward the stairs.
    With a yawn, Daniel rose from his pallet and stoked the fire, then righted the clothing he’d slept in. Wrinkled, but clean enough to go one more day. By the time he returned from the privy out back, the bugler was sounding morning colors, Lacy had wash water heating, and Jackson was parked by the hearth with Roscoe,