Cheryl Wyatt - Steadfast Soldier

Chance’s life had been bereft of joy for the past six months. How could she consider denying him this one small pleasure?

“I, um, I’m not sure that—”

He smiled. “Please? For me?” He wove his arm through hers and slid his strong, warm hand down until their hands met palm-to-palm.

His touch branded in her a deep and irrefutable knowing.

This is meant to be.

Awestruck, she felt her heart leap inside her.

The world around the two of them faded away. All the personal protests and reasons she shouldn’t ceased to exist in her mind. The chaos calmed.

All she could see was Chance.

Chance’s face sent her pulse skittering. He gently drew her close. “Walk with me, Chloe?”

Her gaze welded to his, she felt a little dazed.

At this moment she wanted nothing more than to take that walk with Chance.

An R.N. 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.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

My heart, O God, is steadfast, my heart is steadfast; I will sing and make music.

—Psalms 57:7

Dear Jesus, thank You for being a fisher of men. Love You, Lord. To Mom and Dad, who raised me to know I’m worth something in your eyes and God’s. I’m blessed to have you. I appreciate you teaching me and Lisa to bait our hooks and cast our own lines, even when one goes astray. Sorry, Dad! You wanted your ear pierced, right? Grin. To Rachel Z at Books & Such for your friendship, industry insight and career guidance. To Melissa Endlich and Sarah McDaniel for loving these characters and believing in my books.

Thanks to this book’s research helpers:

—Kim and Jeremy Woodhouse for your gracious insight into things boat-related. May all your bass be over ten pounds!

—Mary and Ivan Connealy also for help with fishing-boat stuff. Ivan, don’t believe a word Mary tells you about those silly Seeker-villains. Snicker.

—Kim Lunato and Janet Klein for occupational and speech therapy research help, and Cara Putman for introducing me to these contacts.

—Animal therapy expert Eric Gillaspy and Megan DiMaria for this research contact.

—Tina Radcliffe for sharing the inspirational animal-rescue video.

—Janna Ryan for coming up with Chloe’s name. Thanks!

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

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

“Talk about unconventional.” U.S. Air Force pararescue jumper Chance Garrison shoved the gauzy curtain away from the glass pane cooled by the overworked air conditioner. He blinked to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him as he stared at what was coming up the yard he’d just mown.

He pivoted to face his teammate and best bud, Brock, who approached where he stood near the window.

“What?” Brock joined him and tracked his gaze.

“Maybe that’s not her.” Chance pulled his sweat-dampened shirt away from his chest and leaned in. Yep. The woman—and the hairy thing dragging her—were definitely headed up the long driveway of the house Chance had rented for himself and his dad, who was recovering from a stroke he suffered following the death of Chance’s mom. “What kinda person brings her pet to work?”

Brock pressed his face against the window. “A cute one.” He shouldered himself closer and elbowed Chance out of the way, presumably to get a better look. “Very cute.”

Chance had noticed that too. But the fact that the pretty, young occupational therapist was lugging toward them the biggest, blackest Labrador retriever he’d ever seen was taking his attention away from how cute she was.

For the moment.

“Surely she’s not thinking of bringing that animal in here.” Brock tracked the odd pair’s approach.

“She c-can’t. If Dad sees that th-thing in the house, his blood pressure w-w-will hit the roof.” Chance scowled at the stutter and eyed the bedroom door where Dad had retreated to watch midday game shows.

The TV blared through the thick walls, which meant Dad probably didn’t have his hearing aid in.

When the woman stepped onto the landing with dogzilla rather than secure him to the lamppost, Chance’s faith that Dad would comply with his new therapist and his regimen of home therapy drained, as if someone pulled the plug on the only hope left somewhere inside him, like a bathtub quickly draining.

But his teammates’ wives trusted this woman, and he trusted his teammates’ wives. If they crooned that this unconventional therapist could make a difference with Dad, he’d give it a shot. But what was the deal with the dog?

Regardless, he’d see to it that the animal stayed outside.

Chance opened the door and was greeted with the satisfying smell of fresh-cut grass and a smile on the therapist’s face that was so radiant his concentration fled. So did his resolve to order the dog to stay outside. The sudden pounding in his chest when this woman held his gaze and flashed her brilliant smile wasn’t something he’d been remotely prepared for.

Nor was he prepared for the luxurious sheen of her brown-gold hair or the vibrance of her eyes. The green of them matched the glistening beads in her diamond-shaped earrings, dangling beside beautifully sloped cheeks. As he looked closer, he realized that the little circles in the earrings were tiny onyx paws.

Before he knew what he was doing, Chance’s hand inched toward them. Then Brock bumped his arm, and Chance realized he was staring. He dropped his hand quickly and dipped his chin to find blades of grass clinging to his rather ripe T-shirt. At least his deodorant was pulling double duty. Hopefully.

Chance raised his gaze back to her.

The woman’s grin extended, and her generous lips parted to reveal shiny, silver braces. Her easy gaze slid to Brock for the slightest moment, then returned readily to Chance. And stayed.

Shyness swooped in like a stealth bomber, even as ripples of delight over the prolonged eye contact tried to intercept it.

“Hi,” Chance managed. He concentrated on not stumbling over Brock’s jump boots as he stepped back to let her in.

Smiling, Brock nodded a greeting to the therapist, then moved toward the bedroom. “I’ll help your dad into his transfer chair.”

“Hi,” the therapist replied to Chance and stepped fully inside the door. With dogzilla. She extended her hand. “You must be Chance. I’m Chloe.”