Cheryl Wyatt - A Soldier's Devotion

Val said, “because I saw a throng of people in that waiting room who love you.”

“Wait. You came to the hospital to see me?” Vince asked.

“Yes. Although I didn’t have the guts to approach you.”

That made him laugh. But his smile quickly faded as he shook his head. “Those people you saw, that’s my pararescue team. They tolerate me because they have no choice. We’re assigned together.”

“Of course they have a choice. It goes beyond your role on the PJ team. They love you, even though you’re brooding, stubborn and obstinate.”

“Stubborn and obstinate? Well, now. Looks like we have something in common.” His stormy eyes did a commando crawl across her face.

“Fine,” he said. “It’s on.”

“Yes,” she whispered sarcastically. “The battle of the century.”

CHERYL WYATT

An RN turned stay-at-home mom and wife, Cheryl delights in the stolen moments God gives her to write action- and faith-driven romance. She stays active in her church and in her laundry room. She’s convinced that having been born on a naval base on Valentine’s Day destined her to write military romance. A native of San Diego, California, Cheryl currently resides in beautiful, rustic Southern Illinois, but has also enjoyed living in New Mexico and Oklahoma. Cheryl loves hearing from readers. You are invited to contact her at Cheryl@CherylWyatt.com or P.O. Box 2955, Carbondale, IL 62902–2955. Visit her on the Web at www.CherylWyatt.com and sign up for her newsletter if you’d like updates on new releases, events and other fun stuff. Hang out with her in the blogosphere at www.Scrollsquirrel.blogspot.com or on the message boards at www.SteepleHill.com.

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“Remember, O Lord, how I have walked before you faithfully and with wholehearted devotion and have done what is good in your eyes.”

—Isaiah 38:3

To the Seekers. (www.seekerville.blogspot.com)

I am thankful for your friendship and support.

My life is richer because of each of you.

To God. Thank You for pursuing us with a stubborn, relentless love.

To agent Rachel Zurakowski and the team at Books and Such for helping me to strive for literary excellence. Thanks also for your career guidance and the gazillion other things you do.

To Sarah McDaniel and Melissa Endlich and the Steeple Hill team. From Art to Marketing and everyone else, you do a fantastic job and it is a tremendous honor to be able to write these books under your logo.

Shane and Jennifer Aden for all things attorney related. Who knew prosecutors don’t work in firms? Thankfully, you! Thanks for setting me straight and for making my heroine’s career seem more authentic. By the way, I think I saw Pooky sneak off with that rock-concert kilt…

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Questions for Discussion

This is the second-worst day of my life.

U.S. Air Force Pararescue Jumper Vince Reardon lay pressed to wet asphalt. Rain pelted his face.

The woman who’d seconds ago smashed her sizzling-red sedan into his chrome-and-black-lacquered motorcycle hovered in his periphery. Smoky eyes bulged with worry from a trepid face that begged him not to be mad. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t look at you, or I’ll erupt.” Vince pushed a groan through gritted teeth and tried like mad to distract himself from blowtorch-caliber pain searing through the palms of his hands, left arm and outer left leg. “Saw you on your cell phone seconds before you hit my bike.”

Correction. The custom, one-of-a-kind masterpiece on wheels that his late brother hand-built weeks before his death.

Once again the woman murmured soft words, rested a shaky palm on Vince’s shoulder. And prayed. He tried not to flinch away from her. Wanted to yell at her to leave him alone. Wanted to scream out in pain. Alone.

He clenched his eyes to shut out the pity on the strained faces of bystanders who’d come to his aid. More specifically, he wanted to shut her out.

But the truth was her presence and her prayers soothed. Besides, it wasn’t like he could get away from her.

“Lord, help him be okay. Please don’t let anything be broken.”

Vince found her face and lashed a hard look at her remorseful one. “I’m not one for religion, lady.” He beamed visual warning flares. Tried not to get his gaze snagged by eyes that were heavily lined and radiantly luminous. Or the stylish pixie cut that caused jagged angles of hair to hug prominent cheekbones.

Anything to distract from discomfort.

Other than desert-sand-colored swaths streaking through dark brown hair, giving her a youngish, trendy look, she smacked of “career woman.” She wore sleek high-end shoes with some seriously dangerous skyscraper heels and a conservative charcoal business suit which could not camouflage her curves.

He wouldn’t be so perturbed if she weren’t so glaringly pretty.

French-manicured nails rested once again on his shoulder.

No ring.

And just why would he care, other than to feel scolded for noticing her curviness, if she were married? The fact that her barren finger hitched his eyes a little too long on her hand drew a second frustrated sigh.

He might be down, but he wasn’t dead. The gal was stunning.

“You need to get out of the intersection. Least till the cops get here,” Vince ground out.

He didn’t want both of them to be in danger of getting reamed by oncoming traffic should some other driver pull her gig and forget to pay attention. He brought his hands up to carefully remove his helmet.

“I’m not leaving you,” came her soft but firm reply.

She helped him take his helmet off. Turned it over, gasped then set it aside. Her bugged-wide eyes closed and her lips moved in frenzy. Something about thank you.

Against his wishes and his will, she prayed.

That it brought the slightest measure of peace angered him more than anything. He clamped his lips to keep from cursing. Sure, she’d smashed his bike, but he didn’t want to disrespect a lady.

Even if she had just destroyed his most prized possession.

And ruined his chance to join his team on the type of mission that came few and far between. An allied pilot shot down and in need of rapid-reaction rescue on hostile soil.