When Dreams Come True

by Margaret Daley

  “I think it’s needed in Sweetwater. A youth center might give some of them, who have too much idle time on their hands, something constructive to do.” Alex sipped his iced tea.

  “Are you thinking of the rash of break-ins that have occurred lately?” Dane asked, remembering the last one had been several blocks away just five days before.

  “I’m not saying Eddy is involved. The police didn’t have enough to hold him, but I think he knows something.”

  “We might be able to get the old building next to the church. It needs fixing up, but it’s not being used.” Samuel rose and walked to the coffeepot to pour some more into his mug.

  “Is it safe?” Alex asked.

  “I think so.” Samuel sat again at the kitchen table. “Wilbur Thompson owns the property. I can approach him about what you proposed, Dane.”

  Dane stiffened. “Don’t use my name in connection with this youth center. If Wilbur finds out it was my suggestion, he won’t let us rent the building.” He could still recall his last encounter with the older gentleman who also happened to live at the end of the block. He wasn’t too happy with Dane using someone besides his grandson as the goalie and had told him in no uncertain terms to knock it off.

  “Speaking of money, where will we get the money to fix the building up, buy some equipment and pay the rent?” Alex’s cell phone buzzed. He glanced at the caller ID, then put it back in his pocket. “How uncanny. That’s Wilbur’s number.”

  “Calling to complain again about your assistant coach,” Dane said with a chuckle.

  “No doubt. That’s why I’m not in a rush to return the call. No reason to borrow trouble.”

  “That’s Wilbur, trouble with a capital T.” Dane shifted his gaze from Alex to Samuel. “Do you have any idea where we could get the funding needed to get started?”

  “I think the church’s outreach program could get the ball rolling. And Nick’s been looking for a worthy cause to contribute to. I bet I can convince him this is one. His children will be teens soon enough.”

  The back door opened, and Zoey came into the house with Blake trailing behind her. His son saw Dane and frowned, his eldest child’s usual expression when in his presence. Blake’s gaze slid to each man at the table, then he hurried through the kitchen and pounded up the stairs. In the five weeks he’d been in Sweetwater, the atmosphere between his son and him had worsened. Dane hadn’t thought that possible, but Blake resented him being one of the soccer coaches and went out of his way not to do what he asked at practice.

  Zoey settled her bag of groceries on the counter. “Hi, Alex. Samuel. What brings you two by?”

  “Dane had a great idea he wanted to talk to us about.” Samuel stood, taking his mug to the sink. “He thinks we should start a youth center.”

  The widening of her eyes, the dropping of her jaw, accentuated her surprise. Dane’s grip about his cup tightened. She might as well have advertised her feelings using a neon sign in the front yard. On his trip home to the United States all he could think about was starting over, wiping their past difficulties away. He should have known better. Like his recall of the plane crash—it just wasn’t happening. Why couldn’t it be that easy? Taking a mental eraser and cleaning off the slate in his mind? Because life wasn’t easy. He knew that the hard way.

  Alex, too, pushed to his feet and set his glass in the sink. “It’s been needed for a while. It took someone new to Sweetwater to point that out.”

  An outsider. He’d always been one, even in Dallas, where he’d lived a good part of his adult life. His job hadn’t been conducive to developing friendships because of the secrecy and travel involved in it. But during the past five weeks he’d gotten acquainted with Alex, and through him, Samuel. So when he’d come up with this brainstorm, they were the ones he’d immediately thought to tell.

  Zoey withdrew the gallon of milk from the sack and put it in the refrigerator. “That’s great,” she finally responded.

  Dane heard the tension in her words. The thin-lipped smile she gave Alex and Samuel reinforced Dane’s notion something was wrong.

  “We’d better get going.” Samuel turned at the door into the kitchen. “Dane, I’ll let you know what Wilbur and Nick say.”

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to you two later. Alex, I’ll see you at the game tomorrow.” Dane started to walk them out.

  Alex waved him still. “We’ve got it.”

  After the two men left, the tension in the room skyrocketed. The slamming of the cabinet drawer alerted him to a fight approaching. “Okay. Let’s have it. What’s wrong?”

  Zoey crushed the bag into a ball. “How long have you been planning this youth center? Why do I hear about it from Samuel after you have shared it with them?”

  Dane opened his mouth to say something but didn’t know how to answer her.

  She stalked to the trash can and stuffed the balled sack into it. “That’s what’s wrong. You don’t share anything with me. I don’t know what you’re thinking.” Spinning about on her heel, she planted a fist on her hip. “You can’t even say anything now.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to exclude you. I got this brainstorm this morning after you’d left for school.”

  Zoey gestured toward the front of the house. “But you called Alex at school, not me.”

  Hurt leaked through the anger in her expression, and Dane wasn’t sure what to do. His husband skills were definitely rusty, maybe even nonexistent. He walked toward her, wanting her to understand he hadn’t meant to leave her out of the loop. She backed up until the wall stopped her. Her arm fell loosely to her side, the rigid set of her body melting.

  He started to clasp her upper arms and haul her against him. He wanted to hold her until—he just wanted to hold her. “I called Samuel this afternoon to get his take on the idea. He’s the one who called Alex and they both came right over. It seems they had been kicking this same notion around for the past few months.” He did finally brush his fingers down her arms then grasp her hands, tugging her to him. “I called. You weren’t in your office.”

  “I didn’t get any message you called.” She tilted up her face, filled with confusion and that hurt he’d seen earlier.

  “I didn’t leave one. I knew you would be home soon. In fact, I thought you would be here before Samuel and Alex arrived.”

  She dropped her head, staring at his chest. “I had to take Blake to get some supplies for a school project, then decided to do some grocery shopping while I was there.”

  He released her hands and wound his arms around her. “Well, what do you think?”

  Again she looked him in the eye. “It’s needed. Kids should have a safe place to go. A place where they can hang with their friends. There should be a counseling service available that they can tap into. Most of their problems go beyond school.”

  He caressed the length of her back. “Yeah, I know. I’ve dealt with the kids who turn to drugs to solve their problems. Rarely does it end well.”

  “They need other means available to help them.” Zoey snuggled against Dane, relishing the moment of closeness with her husband. His interest and enthusiasm for the youth center was contagious. She hadn’t seen him like this in a long time.

  “Exactly. Want to volunteer at the center when it gets started?”

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to do that at the center since some of those kids see me at school. I want them not to be afraid to talk to whoever is the counselor. They might not be able to see beyond me being the school counselor. Before you got involved in the DEA, that was your field. Have you considered doing something like that?”

  A shadow crept into his expression. “No! I can’t do that!” Dane stepped back, horror on his face.

  His warmth gone, Zoey mourned its loss, at the same time grappling with the intense emotions flowing from her husband. “Why not?” Tell me. Don’t shut me out.

  “I’m more effective in law enforcement.”

  “Locking those kids up, not helpin
g them stay off drugs?”

  He plunged his fingers through his hair and turned away. “Yes, if you must know. I don’t want to be responsible for someone else’s problems. I’m not good at that. I can’t even deal with my own.”

  Dane headed for the door. Zoey started to go after him, demand he tell her more. Something else was going on. She felt it in her gut. As usual her husband was holding back from her, not telling her the whole story. In college he had enjoyed his classes dealing with counseling and psychology.

  Five minutes later, she heard the front door slam closed. She went into the living room and saw Dane, dressed in his workout clothes, quickly walking away from the house. In a little over a month’s time he had built up his stamina until now he was jogging part of the way. His health was improving, but she didn’t see any change in their relationship. They were two strangers sharing a house and children.

  She leaned her forehead against the cool pane, closing her eyes. Lord, help me. What do I do to get through to him? How can I help him when I don’t know what is really wrong?

  * * *

  Dane drove himself hard, his breathing coming in pants as his feet punished the pavement. He headed for the path by the lake even though it would be dark in half an hour. He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t tell his own wife and see the pity and disappointment in her eyes. The one person he should have been able to help and he had failed his little brother. Some counselor he was. He couldn’t even tell Jacob was in trouble and drowning. He couldn’t tell he was on drugs and crying for help.

  No, he was too involved with his classes and the counseling at the college clinic. Jacob’s death from a drug overdose changed the direction of his life. He wasn’t going to go back to being a counselor. He’d quickly figured that out when he had tried to help out at the halfway house. He was a law officer, determined to rid the world of as many drug dealers as he humanly could.

  His lungs burned as he continued down the path alongside the lakeshore. But he wouldn’t allow the pain in his chest to stop him. Maybe if he was exhausted in body and mind he could forget finding his brother’s lifeless body in his bed as though Jacob had wanted to make a statement by overdosing in Dane’s bedroom.

  Jacob’s image the last time he had seen him on the very bed Dane had slept in only two hours before flashed across the screen of his mind. Dane stumbled, caught himself before going down to his knees. He finally slowed his punishing pace to a jog, then a walk.

  Coming to a halt, Dane leaned against an oak, gasping for air, his chest now ready to explode with his thudding heart. It didn’t erase the memories—or the fact that he had let his little brother die. He should have seen the signs. He should have known Jacob was a drug addict.

  No more! Dane shook his head, trying to rid his mind of thoughts of the past. But still he remembered. He remembered holding his little brother in his arms, rocking him back and forth and willing him to wake up, tears he had never shed before or after running down his face. He had begged God not to take his little brother. But Jacob just lay limp, Dane’s prayers gone unanswered. That was when he had vowed he would make the person who was responsible for selling Jacob the drugs pay. And he had, along with a whole score of others over the years as a DEA agent.

  The beating of his heart decelerated and his breathing returned to an almost normal rate. Dane scanned the area where he was, the lake on one side of the path and a line of trees on the other, and realized he had never been this far before. Darkness closed in on him as he retraced his steps along the lake trail.

  The sound of the water lapping the shore drifted to him. The scent of moisture and vegetation spiced the air. For a few seconds he was whisked back to the rain forest.

  He saw houses lit in the distance and made his way toward them. Civilization. He was back in the States and he didn’t feel like he fit in. He felt as out of place in Sweetwater as in the jungle.

  He eased up on his pace even more when he hit the first residential street. He wasn’t ready to go ho—to go back to Zoey’s. He just couldn’t call it home. He wanted it to be, but he was a stranger living in that house. Zoey felt that; he felt that.

  Halfway down a long, dark road with an occasional house on either side, he heard tires screeching around the corner. Stepping off the pavement, he turned as a red Dodge Ram came barreling down the street, speeding past him. He only caught a glimpse of three of the plate numbers—five, three and eight—before the night obstructed his view.

  At the end of the road the truck slowed to under the speed limit. Someone opened one of its back doors and the next thing Dane saw was a person flying out of the vehicle, landing on the side of the street and rolling down into the drainage ditch.

  Dane barely noticed the truck as it accelerated again and flew around the corner. His arms and legs pumping, he raced toward the ditch, hoping the person was still alive. Adrenaline flowed through him, pushing away the exhaustion and renewed pain as he neared the scene.

  A street lamp a few yards away cast a faint light around the area, illuminating the ditch as he came up to it. Peering down, he prepared himself to jump into it when he heard a moan.

  He’s alive. Relief trembled through Dane. The person, face down in an inch of water, struggled to his knees and hands.

  He slid down the embankment to help the teenager. Gripping one arm, Dane pulled him up as the boy jerked away, staggering back.

  “Get away from me!” Eddy O’Neal shouted, his hands clenched.

  In the dim light the only thing Dane could see was Eddy’s face, a cut over his right eye bleeding, the other swollen nearly shut.

  “Are you hurt?” Dane asked in a calm, authoritative voice, knowing full well he was but hoping his tone would placate the boy.

  The teenager’s raspy panting echoed through the silence. Worried, Dane took a step toward him.

  “I said get away!” He backed up and nearly fell.

  Dane held up his hands in front of him, palms outward. “Fine. I’ll stay right here. Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m just fine. I tripped. That’s all.”

  “I saw what happened. You didn’t trip.”

  “I tripped!” the teenager yelled.

  “Who was in the truck, Eddy?”

  “Who are you?” The boy moved closer as if to get a better look at Dane in the faint light from the street lamp.

  “I’m Dane Witherspoon.”

  “The narc?”

  Dane stiffened at the sneer behind the teen’s question. “Yes. Who was in the truck? Why were you thrown from it?” Keeping his voice steady, he watched the young man glance from side to side, then scramble up the incline and dart across the road.

  With a sigh, Dane went after him, every muscle in his body protesting the further physical abuse. Eddy half limped, half ran toward a large house set back from the road. Dane caught up with him and managed to get in front.

  “Eddy, you’re hurt.”

  “You think! Gee, you are observant. I guess that comes from being a narc.”

  The teenager made the word narc sound dirty, as though he were spitting out a foul-tasting piece of food. “Where do you live?”

  Eddy tried to move around him, stepped awkwardly on his right foot and crumbled to the ground. He cried out, pounding his fist into the dirt. “Get away! I can take care of myself.”

  Dane knelt next to him. “Where do you live?” he asked in the firm voice that he had used a lot in the past—too many times.

  The young man lifted his head, his face in the shadows. “Right behind you.”

  “Then I’ll see you safely inside.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. I’m not going anywhere until I make sure everything’s all right.”

  “Do I look all right to you?”

  “No, and that’s the problem.”

  “Oh, man. My friends had to go somewhere and were late. I stumbled getting out of the truck. That was all there was to it.” Slowly, with a stifled groan, Eddy pushed to his feet.

 
; “I’m still seeing you home. I’m not going away.”

  Dane could feel, not see, the glare piercing into him as though the kid’s eyes were two lasers cutting through a barrier—him. He waited patiently for Eddy to make the next move. Thankfully the teenager began to limp toward the house that had one light on in the front room. The porch was dark, and Eddy fumbled with his key for a good minute before he unlocked the door.

  “Your father isn’t home?” Dane asked, remembering Samuel telling him that day at church that Eddy’s mother had left them.

  “No,” the teenager bit out through gritted teeth as he shuffled into his house, spinning around to close the door on Dane.

  He stuck his foot in the entrance to stop it from shutting. “Where is your father?” He pushed his way into the house, the scent of stale beer accosting him. With a glance into the living room, he found the source of the smell. Empty cans littered the coffee table. “Did you and your friends have a little party earlier?”

  Eddy drew himself up tall, his hands fisted at his sides. “If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”

  Dane lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Please do. They might be interested in what went on tonight. Drinking and driving.”

  “We weren’t drinking and driving.” Eddy pointed to a straight line made by the slats of the wooden flooring. “See, I can walk this line and not—” He fell to the side when he put his full weight down on his right leg.

  Dane caught him. The teen wrenched himself free. If looks could kill, Dane noted he would be dead right now.

  “Let me see your leg. Come on. You aren’t getting rid of me.”

  Eddy gave him one more good glare before hobbling into the living room and plopping down on the navy blue couch. He gingerly slid his pants up to reveal a long, nasty gash down his calf. Blood ran down his leg, pooling in his tennis shoe.

  “You need stitches. How can I get ahold of your father?”

  “My dad’s at work.”

  “Where’s your dad work?”

  The teen’s eyes widened. “You can’t bother him.”