Rachel Lee - A Soldier's Homecoming

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

Cover Page

Title Page A Soldier’s Homecoming Rachel Lee www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author RACHEL LEE was hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practised her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. She now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time. Her bestselling Conard County series has won the hearts of readers worldwide and it’s no wonder, given her own approach to life and love. As she says: “Life is the biggest romantic adventure of all – and if you’re open and aware, the most marvellous things are just waiting to be discovered.” To Mom, who got me started. I will always miss you

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

Copyright

RACHEL LEEwas hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practised her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. She now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

Her bestselling Conard County series has won the hearts of readers worldwide and it’s no wonder, given her own approach to life and love. As she says: “Life is the biggest romantic adventure of all – and if you’re open and aware, the most marvellous things are just waiting to be discovered.”

To Mom, who got me started. I will always miss you

Deputy Constance Halloran drove along the U.S. highway toward Conard City, taking her time, keeping an eye on traffic, glad her shift was almost over.

Spring had settled over the county, greening it with recent rains, filling the air with the fragrance of wildflowers and the scent she thought of as green. With her window rolled down, the aroma wafted into her car, earth’s special perfume.

Today had been a lazy day, an easy shift. She’d had only one call about a minor theft at one of the ranches; then she’d spent most of the day patrolling her sector. She hadn’t written any speeding tickets, which was unusual. Even the traffic seemed to be enjoying a case of spring fever.

Maybe she would light the barbecue tonight and make some hamburgers. Sophie, her seven-year-old daughter, loved grilled hamburgers beyond everything, and loved the opportunity to eat outside at their porch table almost as much. Of course, the evenings could still get chilly, but a sweater would do.

The idea pleased her, and she began to hum a lilting melody. A semi passed her from the opposite direction and flashed his lights in a friendly manner. Connie flashed back, her smile broadening. Some days it felt good just to be alive.

Another mile down the road, she spotted a man standing on the shoulder, thumb out. At once she put on her roof lights, gave one whoop of her siren and pulled over until he was square in the view of her dash camera. He dropped his arm and waited for her.

A couple of cars passed as she radioed dispatch with her position and the reason for her stop.

“Got it, Connie,” Velma said, her smoke-frogged voice cracking. “You be careful, hear?”

“I always am.”

Glancing over to make sure she wouldn’t be opening her door into traffic, Connie climbed out and approached the man.

As she drew closer, she realized he looked scruffy and exotic all at once. Native American, she registered instantly. Long black hair with a streak of gray fell to his shoulders. He also had a beard, unusually thick for someone of his genetic background. Dark eyes looked back at her. The thousand-yard stare. She’d seen it before.

For an instant she wondered if he was mentally ill; then her mind pieced together the conglomeration of clothing he wore, and she identified him as a soldier, or maybe a veteran. His pants were made of the new digitized camouflage fabric, but his jacket was the old olive drab. As she approached, he let a backpack slip from his shoulder to the ground, revealing the collar of his cammie shirt, and she saw the black oak leaf of a major.

At once some of her tension eased. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said courteously, “but hitchhiking is illegal.”

He nodded, his gaze leaving her and scanning the surrounding countryside. “Sorry, I forgot. Been out of the country.”

“I guessed that. Whereabouts?”

His inky gaze returned to her. “Afghanistan. I’ll just keep walking.”

“No,” she said impulsively, breaking all the rules in an instant. “I’ll drive you to town. How come you don’t have a car?”

Something like amusement, just a hint, flickered swiftly across his face. “I need to be home a while longer before I’ll be comfortable behind the wheel.”

She let that go, sensing the story behind it wasn’t something he was about to share. “Well, hop in. I’m going off shift, so unless something happens, I’ll have you in town in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks.”

He hefted his backpack and followed her to the car. Breaking more rules, she let him sit in front with her, rather than in the safer backseat cage. Even in the large SUVs the department preferred, he seemed too big. Over six feet, easily, and sturdily built.

She reached for her microphone and called the dispatcher. “I’m back on the road, Velma, on my way in. I’m giving someone a ride.”

Velma tutted loudly. “You know you shouldn’t.”

“It’s a special case.”

“Whatever.” Velma sounded disgusted in the way of a woman used to having her good advice ignored.

Connie signed off and smiled at her passenger. “Velma is the department’s mother.”

He nodded, saying nothing. A few seconds later they were back on the road, heading down the highway toward town. They passed a herd of cattle on a gentle slope, grazing amicably alongside a group of deer. In places the barbed-wire fences were totally hidden in a tangle of tumbleweed. Indian paintbrush dotted the roadside with scarlet and orange, as if the colors had been scattered by a giant hand.

“It’s beautiful country,” Connie remarked. “Are you staying or just passing through?”

“A bit of both.”

“You have friends here?”

“Sort of. Some folks I want to see, anyway.”

She opened her mouth to ask who, then swallowed the words. He didn’t seem to want to talk much—maybe with good reason, considering where he’d been. She thought of Billy Joe Yuma, her cousin Wendy’s husband, and the problems he still suffered sometimes from Vietnam. This guy’s wounds had to be fresher.

When she spoke again, it was to ask something less invasive. “Ever been here before?”

“No.”

Well, that gambit wasn’t going to work. Stifling a sigh, she gave her attention back to the road and tried to ignore the man beside her. If he stayed in town for more than twenty-four hours, someone would learn something about him and word would pass faster than wildfire. The county had grown quite a bit in the past fifteen years, but it hadn’t grown much. People still knew everything about their neighbors, and strangers still attracted a lot of curiosity and speculation.