Cas: Heroes at Heart

  Cas

  Heroes at Heart

  Maryann Jordan

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Afterword

  Also by Maryann Jordan

  About the Author

  Cas (Heroes at Heart) Copyright 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then you are reading an illegal pirated copy. If you would be concerned about working for no pay, then please respect the author’s work! Make sure that you are only reading a copy that has been officially released by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by: Becky McGraw

  ISBN ebook: 978-1-947214-52-1

  ISBN print: 978-1-947214-53-8

  Created with Vellum

  Author’s Note

  Please remember that this is a work of fiction. I have lived in numerous states as well as overseas, but for the last twenty years have called Virginia my home. I often choose to use fictional city names with some geographical accuracies.

  These fictionally named cities allow me to use my creativity and not feel constricted by attempting to accurately portray the areas.

  It is my hope that my readers will allow me this creative license and understand my fictional world.

  I also do quite a bit of research on my books and try to write on subjects with accuracy. There will always be points where creative license will be used in order to create scenes or plots.

  Dedication

  As an adolescent counselor for over twenty-five years, I had the opportunity to work with many young people. One young man, upset over a poor choice he had made, came to me. As I listened to his story and his confession, I told him that the true measure of a man was not in the mistakes he made, but in how he handled those mistakes. I remember the look on his face when I told him I was sure he was going to be a good man.

  So this series is dedicated to all the students over the years who allowed me to be a part of their lives.

  1

  I wonder who is moving in across the street…

  The autumn day was hot and sunny, and Miss Ethel stood at her front door, knowing that her boys would soon be getting off the school bus. Activity across the street had captured her interest for most of the day, and she watched as movers made continuous trips back and forth from a small moving van to the inside of the house.

  There was only one other car in the driveway, and a man and a young girl alighted from the vehicle. The man walked directly into the house, stopping only to talk to one of the moving men, but the girl had skipped around the front yard, hopping with excitement and dancing with what appeared to be absolute delight.

  Miss Ethel chuckled aloud at the girl’s antics. It had not escaped her notice over the years that young girls often exhibited an uninhibited sense of self… until they became older. They laughed when they wanted to laugh. Danced when they wanted to dance. Sang when they wanted to sing.

  She had been blessed with all boys but knew that if God had gifted her with a girl first, that was what she would have taken in. She waited for a few seconds to see if regret would slide through her, but it did not.

  “Oh, George, I still sometimes wonder what our lives would have been like if we had had children.” Her husband had died many years ago, but she still talked to him, taking comfort in his Heavenly presence. At the time he passed, she had searched for a new purpose in life, and by chance overheard a conversation at her church about the need for foster families. That not only gave her a purpose but changed her irrevocably.

  The little girl twirling in her front yard across the street recaptured Miss Ethel’s attention, and her smile widened.

  “Somewhere over the rainbow…”

  The little girl was now singing at the top of her lungs. She was a tiny thing with sleek black hair, and Miss Ethel wondered her age. It’s so hard to tell nowadays… some of my boys already look like men.

  The years had passed quicker than she had wanted. Zander was now a junior in high school with the others in grades just below him, ending with Asher, Zeke, and Cas in eighth grade.

  The little girl ran inside her house, and just as Miss Ethel was turning from the door, the school bus stopped at the corner, letting out the middle and high school students who lived in the neighborhood. She watched as all eight of her boys walked down the street together, coming up the driveway as they neared the house. “Oh, my, George. Look how handsome they all are.”

  As was her daily habit, she stepped out onto the porch to greet them at the end of the school day. A slight breeze ruffled her dress, and she was struck with the thought that the winds of time were passing quickly.

  Change was not always easy, but it came whether we wanted it to or not. Miss Ethel had certainly lived long enough to know how true that was. She had lived for many years without the sounds of children in her home and knew that there would be many years of solitude after they left. She was smart enough to know what was inevitable and honest enough to know that it would be painful. “To say goodbye is to die a little.” The quote from Raymond Chandler ran through her mind and she sighed. Pushing those thoughts to the side, she smiled as each of her boys greeted her warmly, almost in unison.

  “Hello, boys,” she called out, a hug offered to each of them. “Cookies are just out of the oven, so have a snack.”

  “Chocolate chip oatmeal?”

  “Now, Cas. What do you think?”

  Laughing, he said, “I know that’s our favorite, so I’ll bet that’s what you made.”

  “Go on in and find out,” she said, her eyes twinkling. All eight boys passed by her as they made their way down the hall and into the kitchen.

  Their routine was well established. She would listen as they talked about their day, loving every moment of hearing what they had done, what they had learned, and, most importantly, what they thought. They were growing up, and, like any mother, she felt the pride and the pangs of that maturation.

  Hearing the boys in the dining room with their snacks, she blinked, realizing she was still standing at the front door. With another glance across the street, she spied the little girl once more in the yard twirling.

  Change was coming… she could feel it with the breeze. A slow smile curved her lips. Sometimes, change is good.

  Castiel Holtz sat in the shade of one of the large trees in the front yard. At thirteen years old he would be considered by many to be too old to just sit under a tree, but his family never made him feel self-conscious about his habit. His brothers were practicing their pitches in the back yard where they had plenty of room, but he preferred the small copse o
f trees that were in the front corner of the yard. Sitting on the moss, the earthy scent rose up to meet him.

  He used the time to whittle, picking up any stick that was available and watching the wood change as the knife blade scraped over its surface. The knife had belonged to his father, one of the few things that he had left.

  Sitting under the trees was also where he remembered his family’s house in the woods. He remembered his father’s workshop, filled with various saws, planers, routers, sanders, and all the other items needed to turn pieces of wood into beautiful pieces of furniture. He remembered the burning smell as the electric saw sliced through the wood. He remembered the way the wood would curl in little bits as his father moved the planer over its surface.

  Memories, a few pictures, and his father’s pocketknife were all he had left of his parents. Senseless violence had ripped everything else away from him. As time went by, it was sometimes harder and harder to remember. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed the quiet time whittling in the corner of the yard.

  The first time Miss Ethel found him whittling, his heart had pounded in fear that she would take his knife away.

  She had smiled and said, “What a lovely knife. My father and my husband always carried a knife in their pocket. Back then, most men had one.”

  He was surprised she did not get upset, considering his earlier foster homes had forbidden him to have a knife. “My dad liked to whittle and carve.”

  Miss Ethel had clapped her hands in joy and said, “Oh, my father loved to whittle also! You will have to show me some of the work you do.”

  He had breathed a sigh of relief, remembering how his first foster mother had screamed at the sight of him holding the knife, sure that he was going to hurt someone. He had hidden the knife, lying when asked about it later, telling them he lost it. He was in two more foster homes after that and kept his father’s pocketknife secret both times, not willing for someone to take it from him.

  Miss Ethel was different. She allowed him to work with the wood whenever he wanted to, always impressed with whatever he created.

  Shouts were heard from the back yard, and he smiled. Zander probably hit a home run… or at least hit it over the back fence.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  Startled out of his private musings, his eyes jerked open wide as his head swung around toward the sidewalk at the sound of a high-pitched voice. Just on the other side of the fence stood a dark-haired little girl. With him sitting on the ground, her face was partially hidden by the slats in the picket fence. He did not recognize her, but, irritated that she had disturbed his quiet, he wanted her to leave him alone. Shrugging, he turned back to his whittling, dismissing her with a one-word answer. “Nothing.”

  She huffed loudly. “I can see you’re not doing nothing. You’ve got a knife. What are you making?” Her face was pressed close to the fence slats so she could peek through.

  “Why is it any of your business?” he fired back, jumping to his feet. Now that he was standing and could see over the fence, he had a better look at her. Her hair was black, trimmed to just above her shoulders, and held back from her face with a blue headband. He had no idea how old she was, but even though she was small, he now thought she was older than he had originally assumed.

  Her face was pale as though she did not play out in the sun very often, but he had to admit it was pretty. Not pretty like the eighth-grade girls in his class who wore makeup and most of whom giggled too much but already had boobs and hips that made all the eighth-grade boys take notice. This girl was too young for him to have those thoughts, but she was pretty, nonetheless.

  She continued to stare at him with large, blue eyes, tilting her head slightly as she smiled. “My name’s Bianca,” she said. She twisted her head and glanced to the house across the street and said, “We just moved there today. Me and my dad. We used to live on the other side of town in an apartment, but Dad wanted me to have a house and a neighborhood to play in.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say he did not care what her name was or where she lived, but when she did not mention a mom, he took notice. He deflated as the desire to be rude left him. “My name is Cas.” He waited for the inevitable question about his name, but she simply smiled again.

  “Cas. I like that. Is it short for something?”

  Jaw tight, he admitted, “Castiel. It’s short for Castiel.”

  Eyes wide, she smiled wider. “Oh, I really like your name.” Her blue eyes twinkled, and she bounced on her toes. “How old are you?”

  He opened his mouth then snapped it closed again. She kept staring, so he finally answered. “Thirteen.”

  “I’m eleven.”

  Her age surprised him because of her small stature.

  She clapped her hands at his wide-eyed surprise. “I know. I’m little. Dad says my mom was little, too.”

  Once again, he noted that her mom was mentioned in past tense and wondered about Bianca’s family.

  More shouts could be heard from the back yard, and her brows lowered slightly as she asked, “Who’s that?”

  “You’ve got a lot of questions.”

  “Yes, but how can you find out anything unless you ask questions?”

  It did not pass his notice that she asked a question about asking questions, and he fought to keep the smile from his face. “Those are my brothers.” He tended to keep his answers simple, finding it so much easier than trying to explain. The truth was they were not his blood brothers. Cas had been an only child, fate dealing him a blow when he was placed into the foster care system at the age of eleven.

  Two of his earlier foster homes had been temporary, families that only took children in emergencies, each stay lasting less than two months. Another one ended when the foster family discovered they were having a baby and no longer wanted to foster. The next had ended when the family decided to move out of the area.

  By the time he landed with Miss Ethel, he was not sure he would ever have a lasting home. The seven other teenage boys were also under her care, creating a large family.

  “I don’t have any brothers or sisters,” Bianca said, sighing. “I wish I did. It would be so much more fun. I would always have someone to play with. Someone to share secrets with. Someone to be with when I’m lonely.”

  Another rousing cacophony of cheers rose from the back yard, and her brows raised in surprise again. “How many brothers do you have?”

  Shrugging, he said, “Seven.”

  “Seven!” She suddenly burst out laughing, still bouncing on her toes. “That’s like living with the seven dwarfs!”

  Rolling his eyes, he thought that if she could see the size of his brothers, the word dwarf would be the last description she would use. Before he had a chance to reply, a man stepped out onto the front porch of the house across the street and called, “Bianca! Time to come in!”

  She waved toward the man before turning back to Cas. “That’s my dad. I have to go now. It was nice to meet you. I hope I can see you again.”

  Her dad went back inside their house, and she darted toward the curb. Instinct took over, and Cas called out a warning. “Be careful! Look both ways first.”

  She looked over her shoulder and gave him a brilliant smile as though his words had taken her by surprise and pleased her. Then he watched her trot across the street, telling himself that he just wanted to make sure she made it home safely. As soon as she disappeared inside, he turned and walked toward the front of his house.

  Miss Ethel stepped onto the porch, her smile resting on him before it moved beyond his shoulder to the house across the street. “I believe we have new neighbors.”

  Nodding, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Was that their young girl you were speaking to?”

  Nodding again, he said, “I was sitting under the trees when she came to the fence.” He chuckled. “When she found out I had seven brothers, she said it must be like living with the seven dwarfs. I didn’t tell her how big they really were.”

 
Miss Ethel laughed, placing her hand on his shoulder as they walked inside the house. “Well, I love a child with an imagination. She should be a sweet addition to the neighborhood.”

  She headed down the hall toward the back door to call his brothers in for dinner, and he turned and stared out the front porch screen door. The house across the street was smaller, but if it was just the girl and her father, they would not need as much room. He thought of the way her smile brightened her whole face and wondered if he would see much of her.

  As he heard the noise of his brothers coming in from the back yard, he could not help but grin at her description. Seven giants would be more like it.

  The oldest, Zander, was already over six feet tall. Rafe was about the same size as Zander, but Cael was already almost four inches taller than the twins, Jaxon and Jayden, who were in ninth grade, both coming close to six feet in height. That left the three youngest: Cas, Asher, and Zeke. All three in eighth grade, none of them were that tall yet, but Miss Ethel kept swearing that they would soon all need new clothes and shoes.

  With a final glance across the street, he closed the door. She had been a cute kid to chat with, but a young girl had no business hanging around eight big boys, and he felt certain that her father would warn her away. Strange, but that thought brought him no peace.

  “You seemed lost in thought today as you sat under the trees,” Miss Ethel said softly.

  It was nighttime and as was their custom every evening after reading, Miss Ethel would move to each boy and talk for a moment. It was a habit born from the time they came to live with her, and, as far as Cas knew, she had never broken the tradition.