Ruth Herne - Reunited Hearts

Oh, no.

Alyssa stared up into Trent’s face. “No, I’m fine, actually. I was just…” She tried to pull herself up and out of the jungle gym tunnel, but her cuff was caught.

Before Alyssa could protest, Trent caught her arms and pulled.

“I wasn’t really stuck.” She nodded her daughter Cory’s way. “We were playing a game.”

“But you were,” Cory protested. “You wescued her, mister.”

He smiled. “You can call me Trent.”

“And you can call me Cory. And now we can be fwiends.”

A group of small children entered the playground from below. Cory turned, hopeful. Alyssa nodded their way. “Yes, go ahead.”

Trent moved toward the slide. “It seems there’s only one way down. I’ll go first.”

He slid down, then stood grinning from the ground below. “Your turn.”

Was it the thought of her getting caught on the slide that sparked his grin or was he just trying to cajole a laugh out of her?

As he did so long ago…

Born into poverty, Ruth puts great stock in one of her favorite Ben Franklinisms: “Having been poor is no shame. Being ashamed of it is.” With God-given appreciation for the amazing opportunities abounding in our land, Ruth finds simple gifts in the everyday blessings of smudge-faced small children, bright flowers, fresh baked goods, good friends, family, puppies and higher education. She believes a good woman should never fear dirt, snakes or spiders, all of which like to infest her aged farmhouse, necessitating a good pair of tongs for extracting the snakes, a flat-bottomed shoe for the spiders, and the dirt…

Simply put, she’s learned that some things aren’t worth fretting about! If you laugh in the face of dust and love to talk about God, men, romance, great shoes and wonderful food, feel free to contact Ruth through her website at www.ruthloganherne.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have

no compassion on the child she has borne? Though

she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have

engraved you on the palms of my hands.

—Isaiah 49:15, 16

This book is dedicated to my four boys,

Matthew, Seth, Zach and Luke, four delights in my life

whose antics and humor have kept me laughing, which

is about the only thing that spared their lives some days.

Thanks for the constant kudos, the love,

the support and your belief in me. I’m so grateful.

And to Jon, my erstwhile and kindly son-in-law,

a gentle man in all respects. I love you guys.

First to Rene, Patty, Colleen, Rita, Andrea, Fran,

Meaghan and Susan, who’ve steadfastly believed.

To my buddy Kevin, who’s read them all

and makes me feel good about myself. You guys rock!

To the Song-Prayers, who’ve been wonderful supporters,

first readers and have my back in times of trouble.

I love you guys, prayer-warriors all. My day-care moms,

such a great group of women. I love that you

entrust your precious children to Baby: Survivor.

To my family, who juggle their schedules to help mine.

I could not ask for more, except maybe more chocolate.

And a maid. A maid would be really nice.

Thanks to Jason Sweeney for his advice on

military contracts and contacts, and to

Lieutenant Colonel Tim Hall from MIT for his advice

on military education and command. Huge.

Thanks to Cher Neidermeyer and Glenn Pierce of the

Ronald McDonald House in Rochester, and a special

thanks to Dr. Vermilion and Bernadette of the Golisano

Children’s Hospital at Strong. Thank you for your time

and expertise, helping me get it right. I’m very grateful.

To Dave for sitting next to me in church, jumping in all

over the place and pretending to love sandwiches, dust

and clutter. Your gentle support is a true blessing.

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

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Two words jerked Trent Michaels out of his comfort zone, tunneling him back a dozen years, pre-West Point, pre-deployment, a young man searching for answers. For hope.

“Alyssa. Hello.”

Heart pumping from a swift adrenaline punch, Trent stared straight ahead as his high school love leaned down to accept his new boss’s hug, looking…

Amazing. Beautiful. Wonderful.

His heart ground to a stop, unwilling to believe what his eyes held true. Dark brown hair, clipped back, framed a face no less beautiful at thirty. Probably more so, the mature features offering a true version of what girlish looks had only hinted. Dark brows arched over hazel eyes, tiny spikes of gold lighting the color from within, her profile as dear and familiar now as it had been twelve years past.

But what was she doing in Jamison, New York?

He’d checked before accepting Helen Walker’s offer of military liaison with Walker Electronics. A good soldier always appraised his front line, and Trent had a slew of battlefield commendations testifying to his thoroughness. As of last week, Alyssa had been living in a squirrel’s hole-sized town in eastern Montana.

“How’s your father, dear? The surgery went well, I hear?”

Lyssa nodded, her expression warm, a small smile curving soft, sweet lips he remembered like it was yesterday. “Yes, thank you, although he’s already chomping at the bit. My mother has her hands full.”

Helen clucked womanly empathy. “I’ll bet she does, but at least you were able to come back.” She squeezed Lyssa’s hand in a silent message, her look sympathetic. “That’s a big help right there.”

“I hope so.” Lyssa straightened, her gaze traveling the table full of men with a polite smile of welcome, right until she came to him.

She stopped.

Stared.

So did he.

One hand came to her throat in a convulsive movement. She didn’t look happy to see him. Shocked, yes. Surprised, absolutely.

And scared. No, wait. Make that petrified.

Trent had become an expert in tactical assessment during his long stint in the military, but his current appraisal made little sense.

A second ticked by. Then two. And suddenly a voice interrupted the moment, a familiar voice, yet not one he’d heard in a long time. Twenty years, give or take, because it was his voice, his voice as a child, the speaker obscured by a curved oak support draped in grape vine and clear twinkle lights.

“Excuse me, Mom?”

Lyssa turned, her face ashen. Her gaze darted from Trent to the silhouetted boy, her expression mouse-on-the-glue-board trapped. Her lips moved, but nothing came out.

The boy moved closer.

Trent saw his face, his hair, his shoulders as they’d been twenty years before, the boy’s stance, his smile, his look of question totally Trent Michaels.

He froze, tight and taut, his head unwilling to digest what his gaze held true.

“Jim says I’m all set in the kitchen. Can I go back to Grandma’s now? Practice my throws?”

She nodded, still silent, the beat of her heart evident beneath a ribbed knit top, her breathing tight and forced.