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A Soldier's Devotion
Cheryl Wyatt
U.S. Air Force pararescue jumper Vince Reardon was headed to a lifesaving mission.Until a too-pretty lawyer crashed her fancy car into his motorcycle–sidelining him for two weeks. Vince can barely accept Valentina Russo's heartfelt apologies. Ever since his brother was wrongly convicted–and killed in prison–Vince has lost respect for lawyers.But wait–is that Val volunteering at his refuge for underprivileged kids? If Vince isn't careful, this lady of the law might just earn his respect and his heart.
“There must be something about you to love,”
Val said, “because I saw a throng of people in that waiting room who love you.”
“Wait. You came to the hospital to see me?” Vince asked.
“Yes. Although I didn’t have the guts to approach you.”
That made him laugh. But his smile quickly faded as he shook his head. “Those people you saw, that’s my pararescue team. They tolerate me because they have no choice. We’re assigned together.”
“Of course they have a choice. It goes beyond your role on the PJ team. They love you, even though you’re brooding, stubborn and obstinate.”
“Stubborn and obstinate? Well, now. Looks like we have something in common.” His stormy eyes did a commando crawl across her face.
“Fine,” he said. “It’s on.”
“Yes,” she whispered sarcastically. “The battle of the century.”
CHERYL WYATT
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.
A Soldier’s Devotion
Cheryl Wyatt
“Remember, O Lord, how I have walked before you faithfully and with wholehearted devotion and have done what is good in your eyes.”
—Isaiah 38:3
To the Seekers. (www.seekerville.blogspot.com)
I am thankful for your friendship and support.
My life is richer because of each of you.
To God. Thank You for pursuing us with a stubborn, relentless love.
To agent Rachel Zurakowski and the team at Books and Such for helping me to strive for literary excellence. Thanks also for your career guidance and the gazillion other things you do.
To Sarah McDaniel and Melissa Endlich and the Steeple Hill team. From Art to Marketing and everyone else, you do a fantastic job and it is a tremendous honor to be able to write these books under your logo.
Acknowledgments
Shane and Jennifer Aden for all things attorney related. Who knew prosecutors don’t work in firms? Thankfully, you! Thanks for setting me straight and for making my heroine’s career seem more authentic. By the way, I think I saw Pooky sneak off with that rock-concert kilt…
Contents
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
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
This is the second-worst day of my life.
U.S. Air Force Pararescue Jumper Vince Reardon lay pressed to wet asphalt. Rain pelted his face.
The woman who’d seconds ago smashed her sizzling-red sedan into his chrome-and-black-lacquered motorcycle hovered in his periphery. Smoky eyes bulged with worry from a trepid face that begged him not to be mad. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t look at you, or I’ll erupt.” Vince pushed a groan through gritted teeth and tried like mad to distract himself from blowtorch-caliber pain searing through the palms of his hands, left arm and outer left leg. “Saw you on your cell phone seconds before you hit my bike.”
Correction. The custom, one-of-a-kind masterpiece on wheels that his late brother hand-built weeks before his death.
Once again the woman murmured soft words, rested a shaky palm on Vince’s shoulder. And prayed. He tried not to flinch away from her. Wanted to yell at her to leave him alone. Wanted to scream out in pain. Alone.
He clenched his eyes to shut out the pity on the strained faces of bystanders who’d come to his aid. More specifically, he wanted to shut her out.
But the truth was her presence and her prayers soothed. Besides, it wasn’t like he could get away from her.
“Lord, help him be okay. Please don’t let anything be broken.”
Vince found her face and lashed a hard look at her remorseful one. “I’m not one for religion, lady.” He beamed visual warning flares. Tried not to get his gaze snagged by eyes that were heavily lined and radiantly luminous. Or the stylish pixie cut that caused jagged angles of hair to hug prominent cheekbones.
Anything to distract from discomfort.
Other than desert-sand-colored swaths streaking through dark brown hair, giving her a youngish, trendy look, she smacked of “career woman.” She wore sleek high-end shoes with some seriously dangerous skyscraper heels and a conservative charcoal business suit which could not camouflage her curves.
He wouldn’t be so perturbed if she weren’t so glaringly pretty.
French-manicured nails rested once again on his shoulder.
No ring.
And just why would he care, other than to feel scolded for noticing her curviness, if she were married? The fact that her barren finger hitched his eyes a little too long on her hand drew a second frustrated sigh.
He might be down, but he wasn’t dead. The gal was stunning.
“You need to get out of the intersection. Least till the cops get here,” Vince ground out.
He didn’t want both of them to be in danger of getting reamed by oncoming traffic should some other driver pull her gig and forget to pay attention. He brought his hands up to carefully remove his helmet.
“I’m not leaving you,” came her soft but firm reply.
She helped him take his helmet off. Turned it over, gasped then set it aside. Her bugged-wide eyes closed and her lips moved in frenzy. Something about thank you.
Against his wishes and his will, she prayed.
That it brought the slightest measure of peace angered him more than anything. He clamped his lips to keep from cursing. Sure, she’d smashed his bike, but he didn’t want to disrespect a lady.
Even if she had just destroyed his most prized possession.
And ruined his chance to join his team on the type of mission that came few and far between. An allied pilot shot down and in need of rapid-reaction rescue on hostile soil.
Vince not being at the chopper when it was ready to lift could cost that pilot his life.
Shivers claimed him. Adrenaline OD. Had to be.
Once his team figured out crucial minutes too late that he wasn’t coming, they would have to pull his weight plus manage their own.
Way dangerous.
Especially since they all had specific jobs they were trained to do during a rescue. There’d be no time to replace him.
Nothing rapid-reaction about him writhing here in the middle of a rain-driven road, wishing like crazy this irksome brunette hadn’t been driving under the influence of distraction.
Water soaked his back, seeping cold to his bones. A rock dug into his skin below his shoulder. He tried to reposition without moving his neck.
Pain streaked across his shoulder blade. Numbness trickled down his arms and tingled fingers on his left hand. A frustrated sound scraped its way up his throat again but he clamped his lips against it. Despite the early-April cold, sweat broke out over his upper lip. He puffed out breaths but the pain didn’t relent this time.
He was sure he was fine, but as a military paramedic, he knew enough to be still and quiet just the same. A killer headache was building at the base of his skull and he knew better than to move until someone slapped a C-collar on him.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you until too late.” Words wobbled from unsteady lips. Hand remaining on his shoulder, she leaned forward, blocking rain from thrashing his face. She continued her prayers.
“You’re getting soaked.” Crazy lady. Her hair was dripping. Her expensive soft suede suit was probably ruined. She didn’t act like she cared. In fact, the deceptively calm body posture he could tell she fought to maintain looked ready to crumble. Like she was nearing her breaking point.
Rain-mingled tears hovering on long lashes threatened to fall. She blinked rapidly. “Help will be here soon.”
Who was she trying to convince? Him? Or herself?
And how could her voice be soothing and grating at the same time? No matter about his bones. His main concern was his bike.
“How’s my ride?”
Her eyes startled open. “What?”
He clenched his teeth. She was probably some rich chick who didn’t understand one stinking mutilated syllable of street lingo. “My chopper. Bike. Motorcycle. Thing with two wheels that goes down the road. How is it?”
That she didn’t answer and only scanned the area around them with ever-widening eyes revved his headache through the roof of his skull.
Incensed, he released the pent-up groan.
“I am sooo sorry. The ambulance will be here soon.”
The urge to laugh hit him full force from nowhere. “For me or the bike?”
A startled look stole over her face before she averted her gaze. “Both, I think. This was all my fault. I—I’ll pay for it.”
Again, her words made him want to laugh. “The bike? Or my hospital and ambulance bills?”
“Both. Of course, both.” She looked like she could cry.
“The cycle—is it drivable?”
