Cheryl Wyatt - Ready-Made Family

Amelia fought against the urge to demand to know why he held her daughter in his arms. Reece didn’t warm easily to anyone. Strangers terrified her.

The man cradled Reece’s head in a tender way that made Amelia’s heart dip. Child in arms, he rose on powerful legs and approached. As a priceless jewel set in precious metal, he placed Reece beside Amelia on the hospital bed.

“My name’s Ben Dillinger. Your daughter found me in the parking lot of the mall where you fainted.” Questions sparked deep in his brown eyes. “Why did you faint?”

“That isn’t any of your business,” she whispered.

“When I see a life in jeopardy, it becomes my business. You were driving when you passed out, and your car crashed into a pole. You nearly died today.”

Amelia had always faced life head-on without backing down. But suddenly, the pressure threatened to do her in. “What am I gonna do?”

“Let me help you, Amelia.”

“But why?”

“Because I care.”

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

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.

Published by Steeple Hill Books ™

I led them with cords of human kindness, with ties of love; I lifted the yoke from their neck and bent down to feed them.

—Hosea 11:4

To my church family at The Vine in Carbondale,

Illinois. I’ve fashioned Refuge Community Church

after everything you are. Thank you for teaching me

how to love God and live out my faith. Thank you

for embracing ethnicity, and for stretching wings of

refuge across every socioeconomic barrier to serve the

community without agenda. Thank you for being a

place where people can come as they are and be loved.

Dear Jesus, this one’s for You.

Help me always write as worship.

Melissa Endlich, every reader touched by these stories

is because you and the Steeple Hill Books team took a

chance on an unknown, unpublished, unproven author.

Thank you from the depths of my heart.

Thank-you to Gretchen Reynolds for help with research for Carolina’s outer banks.

Huge thank-you to to Donna Fleisher for all your Air Force assistance. Thank you also to Amn Nolan, Pennock and “BH,” as well as Nancy Barnes, her squadron commander husband and the PJ community at Hurlburt Field who input ideas and answered my gazillion research questions. I appreciate your help with all things pararescue! May God watch over you and keep you safe while you do these things, “So others may live.”

Congratulations to Connie Kuykendall, who won the opportunity to name a character in my book. Gus Johnson is the perfect name for Refuge’s lovable hillbilly mechanic!

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

Questions for Discussion

“Mister! Mommy needs help!”

The child’s cry spun U.S.A.F. Pararescue Jumper Ben-li Dillinger on his toes to face its source. Purchases clunked beside his car, Ben’s feet propelled him toward the youngster.

Tears falling from two teddy-bear-big eyes brought Ben, heart and body, to his knees. Speaking of bears, she clutched a tattered brown one.

“What’s wrong, princess?”

Ben scanned Refuge Mall’s parking lot for the mother. Maybe she had car trouble. But it wouldn’t make sense for a parent to send a child this young for help. No vehicle with its hood propped, either. In fact, his was only one of the few remaining since closing time minutes ago. Not only that, the child’s duress surpassed a stranded-car scenario.

A tiny hand tugged him up. “C’mon! Mommy’s over here. Something bad happened!”

Urgency speared Ben. Hand in hand they loped around the building. Near a pharmacy across the deserted lot, a compact car that had seen better days sat, trunk open. Steam billows hissed from a gaping hood accordioned by impact. A dented front bumper hugged a light pole. A motionless human form plastered to the dash spiked Ben’s pulse.

He loosened his hand from the girl’s and ran at a dead run toward the car, then stopped. Kid couldn’t be more than six, seven years old. Too short for an SUV to see if it sped across the lot. Ben circled back, swept her up and sprinted to the fractured vehicle. Primer, faded red paint and rust coated the exterior. The child panted, either from ninety-degree heat or fear.

Closer now, Ben wished for more light from the low-slung southern Illinois sunset and peered through the driver’s side window. A young woman lay slumped over the steering wheel.

Wavy, light brown hair spilled over her cheeks and dusted the dash. Fog misted the inside glass, prohibiting him from assessing her further. At least the haze indicated she had to have been breathing recently. Child still hoisted with one arm, Ben yanked the driver’s side door handle with his free hand.

Locked. And hot.

“Ma’am?” He pressed his face to the front glass. Palm flat against it, he pounded on it, then the side window. Nothing. Hand fisted, he banged harder, called louder. “Ma’am!”

He set the little girl down on the curb and gave her shoulders a comforting squeeze. “Stay put, princess. I’m a paramedic. I’ll help your mom.”

If it’s not already too late.

Ben hustled down the length of the car. Jerked the back door handle. Resistance met his effort. Hands cupped against the glass, he peered, called and pounded.

Other than music wafting like a dirge from within, eerie, dead silence entombed the interior. He imagined ovenworthy temperatures inside the car could fry eggs on the dash.