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In My Dreams
Muriel Jensen
All he wants is family… Crawling on his belly through enemy fire is nothing compared to the murder that ripped Jack Palmer's childhood apart. Now that he's home from his tour of duty, the ex-soldier's most critical mission lies ahead: finding his long-lost sisters. And Sarah Reed can help.The compassionate former pediatric nurse awakens powerful feelings in Jack. Yet Sarah's traumatic loss of a young patient prevents her from wanting a family of her own. Is Jack ready to risk his place in his adopted family for the chance to reunite with his biological one…and claim a childless future with the woman he loves?
All he wants is family...
Crawling on his belly through enemy fire is nothing compared to the murder that ripped Jack Palmer’s childhood apart. Now that he’s home from his tour of duty, the ex-soldier’s most critical mission lies ahead: finding his long-lost sisters. And Sarah Reed can help.
The compassionate former pediatric nurse awakens powerful feelings in Jack. Yet Sarah’s traumatic loss of a young patient prevents her from wanting a family of her own. Is Jack ready to risk his place in his adopted family for the chance to reunite with his biological one...and claim a childless future with the woman he loves?
“It’ll get better, Jack.”
Suddenly overwhelmed with empathy for what he was going through, she instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck.
“The bad memories will fade and you’ll find your sisters.”
They shared a moment of stillness, until she recognized the instant her embrace stopped being about comfort and became...something else.
“Sarah,” he whispered.
He pushed her slightly away, looking down into her face. She looked up. His mouth came down, and hers reached up. The kiss was a gentle communication.
For about a second...
Dear Reader (#ulink_e4399324-714b-5f8c-a80b-90cc8e4991fb),
Ideas for books usually fall on my head, as though there are helpful muses in the clouds attaching notes to bricks and letting them fly. That’s truly how it feels when I think I have a good idea. Before it arrives, I think and think, read all kinds of different things looking for plot possibilities or character inspiration, then it hits me!
This time inspiration came from across the street in the person of our young neighbor who did two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan and remains the nicest, dearest man. His parents are wonderful and my hero’s childhood experiences are not at all Sean’s, though their war experiences are very similar.
I love the beleaguered hero who is strong despite it all, and a heroine who can still find love to give when her own life is difficult. So I crossed Jack Palmer’s path with Sarah Reed’s and sort of tore up the roadway.
He’s plagued by dreams of all he’s seen in war, and his confused subconscious is mixing them up with memories of his childhood so that his mother is riding in the turret of his Humvee. He fears for his sanity.
Sarah wants to help him, but she has her own awful memories of a career as a pediatric nurse and the heartbreak of trying to help children with health problems for which there are no solutions.
Let’s raise our glasses and coffee mugs to people in pain who reach out with love anyway. People who try to make a better world when their own little corner of it has been awful. Let’s put them into office. Let’s pay them multimillion-dollar salaries.
That’s how you start to think when a brick hits you in the head.
I hope you enjoy the story it created.
Muriel
In My Dreams
Muriel Jensen
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
MURIEL JENSEN lives with her husband, Ron, in a simple old Victorian looking down on the Columbia River in Astoria, Oregon. They share the space with a loudmouthed husky mix and two eccentric tabbies. They have three children, eight grandchildren and four great-grandchildren.
Their neighborhood is charmed, populated with the kindest and most fun-to-be-around people. Who would have guessed that the eight-year-old who lived across the street and came to watch television and eat cookies after school when he’d misplaced his key would grow up to inspire a book and its hero?
No one is safe from the writer’s reach.
To Sgt. Sean M. Johnson
Apache Troop 3rd Squadron, 89th Cavalry Regiment
4th Brigade, 10th Mountain Division
This handsome young man, who has lived across the street from us since he was a child, has grown up to be a credit to his parents and his own sense of honor. When I told him I wanted to dedicate this book to him for all his help with the first chapter, and the psyche of my hero, he said, “Dedicate it to all those who’ve served and sacrificed their lives, and for all who still put their lives on the line.”
He is now Officer Sean Johnson with the Cannon Beach, Oregon, Police Department, and has a beautiful wife, Allison, and brand-new son, Odin Curtis-Wayne Johnson, born July 17.
Contents
Cover (#ud8975c7d-43e5-5db2-b7da-b05a1ad5b731)
Back Cover Text (#udb868a9f-bb18-584b-89fa-f8631c6c2453)
Introduction (#uf1507498-433e-53f0-9272-c4f2cd5f38e5)
Dear Reader (#u55d03e0d-f555-5777-a88f-22a2da0a5d59)
Title Page (#u481b8f18-ff60-573d-a0ee-c08e9e3e4591)
About the Author (#ue65502f6-9644-5052-ac41-590b5d409e33)
Dedication (#uf451325f-61cc-5890-9268-f6784e39d4ea)
CHAPTER ONE (#ue161570e-036c-5fe1-93b5-728b5c2044ac)
CHAPTER TWO (#u82c8f4fe-4886-547d-bc6d-f42f862cb6f5)
CHAPTER THREE (#u27e54eff-b00d-564c-9ed7-1e213239751e)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u6b2fa5d8-4887-5fcc-aebe-465f8fa491fa)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_00d008f1-bfe3-59c6-ac93-8ce0a9662a96)
THE AIR INSIDE the Humvee was thick with dust and heat. Under his camo jacket, Jack’s skin prickled with the threat of danger as he scanned the road ahead. The escort of Special Forces to a chicken farm in Southeastern Iraq where the farmer was dealing in rockets and missiles had been uneventful, but it was insurgent strategy to let them pass, plant IEDs when they were out of sight, then wait for the patrol to return and watch the jihad happen.
Sweat broke out along his spine. He had leave in a week and a half. He was just imagining trouble. He was going to be fine. The day was quiet. He was a cavalry scout, the best of the best, the baddest of the bad, able to take on the world—or so the scouts told each other. Ego could keep you alive.
“You feel that?” Bolton asked. He was a teacher from New Jersey and claimed to be “in tune with the universe.” He sat beside Jack.
“Yeah,” Jack said. It wasn’t anything audible, just hung in the air like a weight. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. But something.”
Everything inside Jack sharpened—his senses, his instincts and his primal sense of survival. This close to the end of his tour, fear no longer had meaning. He couldn’t function with it. Simple, steady common sense and remembering his training became the focus of every moment on the road.
The flash of light burst all around him like some personal supernova. Later, the other joes would talk about the deafening explosion, but he never heard it. There was only the light and the diffusion of everything beyond its circle.
When Jack came to, Bolton was slumped in his seat and the whole right side of the vehicle, which included the computer and a rifle, was gone. Above Jack’s head, Curry, the gunner, was praying urgently. “Help me. Please, God, help me.”
Jack forced himself to assess. He ran his hands up and down his arms, felt his thighs, his knees. He was okay. He pushed at Bolton’s shoulder. “You okay? Bolton?”
Bolton didn’t answer. There wasn’t a sound from the three other vehicles in the convoy. Jack’s heart beat fast enough to choke him.
He checked Bolton for injuries and found a lot of blood on his right side. But he had a pulse.
“Help me,” Curry continued to pray. “Please help me.”
Jack leaped out on his side and climbed into the turret. Curry’s face was white and his blood was everywhere. The explosion had blown away most of his right forearm, still held on by something stringy—a tendon, maybe. Swallowing the need to hurl, Jack pulled a tourniquet from pieces of the first-aid kit in his pocket. He tied it just above Curry’s elbow.
That’s when he saw the figure approaching from the west and drew his sidearm. It was a column of white walking out of the dry desert grass on the side of the road.
The caftan billowed in a whisper of breeze as the figure took a step forward. Jack aimed his weapon, widened his stance and shouted, “Stop!” The figure kept coming. Jack shouted again and held up his hand in the universal signal to halt. Still, the figure kept coming as though simply on a stroll. Jack fired above his head, but the figure didn’t stop.
Jack aimed for the chest, his finger on the trigger, but confusion made him hold back. Why wasn’t the attacker returning fire? He could see both his hands, scanned his body for a weapon and saw none—unless a bomb was strapped to his chest. Jack’s heartbeat accelerated and sweat ran into his eyes as the guy closed the distance between them.
Then he realized it was not a man. The walk was fluid and graceful. A woman. She could be as lethal as any man. He took aim again and then the pistol went slack in his hands as the woman raised her head to reveal a beautiful, wholesome face. The last time he’d seen that face, he’d been eight years old and the world as he knew it had ended.
“Mom?” He heard his astonished whisper.
The face’s soft beauty suggested the complete opposite of the drug-hungry woman who’d had three children she’d ignored while going through man after man in her attempt to stay high. Blue eyes met his and honey-blond hair ruffled as she pulled off the hijab.
“I’m going, Jack,” she said in the slightly slurred voice he remembered. She came to a stop near the vehicle. “You’ll be fine.”
Now two little girls who hadn’t been there a moment ago held her hands. One of them was dark featured and about four. The other was just a toddler with blond hair. Both pulled away from their mother and reached for him, crying his name. “Jack! Jackie!”
He felt a burning in his gut, as though she’d shot him.
He was Section 8. He’d been afraid this would happen. The guys who survived emotionally in this bubble of hell managed to somehow exist outside it. After living through an ugly childhood, he’d thought he was strong enough to get through anything, but apparently he wasn’t. After all he’d seen and done and survived, he was now hallucinating. His mother had been in jail for over twenty years, and he hadn’t seen his sisters in about as long.
His mother called his name, but it couldn’t be her; it was his brain playing tricks. He screamed for the image to go away or he’d shoot again. Now the girls were gone and his mother climbed the turret and took hold of his forearms.
“No!” he shouted and used every ounce of strength he had left to push her away. She screamed as she fell backward.
* * *
“JACK!” SARAH SHOUTED into his face, pushing at his chest with both hands. It was like trying to move a refrigerator. She wanted to think he wouldn’t harm her, but he was caught in one of his nightmares and in this one, she seemed to be a threat. Since he was a well-honed fighting machine, she had to wake him. “Jack! Stop! It’s me!”
Whatever was going on in his mind had twisted his handsome face into a mask of pain.
“Jack!” she said again. “Wake up!”
His eyes opened and he blinked, confusion, disorientation in his face. She took advantage of the moment to push harder against him and roll him over so that she knelt astride him and pinned him to the mattress. “Wake up!”
“Geez!” A strong male arm suddenly circled her waist and pulled her off Jack. “What happened?” Ben demanded, setting her on her feet and holding Jack down with his other hand.
Ben, a Beggar’s Bay, Oregon, police officer, was Jack’s brother and her boyfriend. She smiled feebly and indicated Jack, who was now clearly awake and trying to sit up but for the hand to his chest. “He was crying out. I was starting breakfast and came in to see if he was okay.”
Jack pushed Ben’s hand away and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He wore boxer shorts and a T-shirt, revealing bulging arm and thigh muscles. He smiled apologetically. “I was dreaming that she was going to make me eat oatmeal again today,” he said, his brown-eyed, bloodshot glance teasing. “I want bacon and eggs.”
“Funny man.” Sarah took a steadying breath and turned to give Ben a quick kiss. He looked stressed out. “Hi. My hero.” She put her hands on her hips and frowned good-naturedly at Jack. “You know, I’d like you better if you didn’t try to kill me when I come over to make your breakfast.”
She’d promised Jack and Ben’s parents that while they were at their winter place in Arizona, she’d prepare meals and keep an eye on Jack. She worked for Coast Care, a home health-care provider.
Neither brother had kitchen skills and the Palmers had been concerned about Jack’s nightmares. He’d been cleared of mental health issues upon discharge two weeks ago. He insisted he would be fine as soon as he put the past six years away and reclaimed his civilian life.
To ease his parents’ minds, Ben had assured them that he and Sarah would look out for his brother. To that end, he’d temporarily vacated his condo and moved into their childhood home. Sarah had been coming daily as promised. This was the second time Jack had mistaken her for an Iraqi insurgent.
