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“Who are you?”
Amelia fought against the urge to demand to know why he held her daughter in his arms. Reece didn’t warm easily to anyone. Strangers terrified her.
The man cradled Reece’s head in a tender way that made Amelia’s heart dip. Child in arms, he rose on powerful legs and approached. As a priceless jewel set in precious metal, he placed Reece beside Amelia on the hospital bed.
“My name’s Ben Dillinger. Your daughter found me in the parking lot of the mall where you fainted.” Questions sparked deep in his brown eyes. “Why did you faint?”
“That isn’t any of your business,” she whispered.
“When I see a life in jeopardy, it becomes my business. You were driving when you passed out, and your car crashed into a pole. You nearly died today.”
Amelia had always faced life head-on without backing down. But suddenly, the pressure threatened to do her in. “What am I gonna do?”
“Let me help you, Amelia.”
“But why?”
“Because I care.”
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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 [email protected] 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.
Ready-Made Family
Cheryl Wyatt
Published by Steeple Hill Books™
I led them with cords of human kindness, with ties of love; I lifted the yoke from their neck and bent down to feed them.
—Hosea 11:4
To my church family at The Vine in Carbondale,
Illinois. I’ve fashioned Refuge Community Church
after everything you are. Thank you for teaching me
how to love God and live out my faith. Thank you
for embracing ethnicity, and for stretching wings of
refuge across every socioeconomic barrier to serve the
community without agenda. Thank you for being a
place where people can come as they are and be loved.
Dear Jesus, this one’s for You.
Help me always write as worship.
Melissa Endlich, every reader touched by these stories
is because you and the Steeple Hill Books team took a
chance on an unknown, unpublished, unproven author.
Thank you from the depths of my heart.
Acknowledgments
Thank-you to Gretchen Reynolds for help with research for Carolina’s outer banks.
Huge thank-you to to Donna Fleisher for all your Air Force assistance. Thank you also to Amn Nolan, Pennock and “BH,” as well as Nancy Barnes, her squadron commander husband and the PJ community at Hurlburt Field who input ideas and answered my gazillion research questions. I appreciate your help with all things pararescue! May God watch over you and keep you safe while you do these things, “So others may live.”
Congratulations to Connie Kuykendall, who won the opportunity to name a character in my book. Gus Johnson is the perfect name for Refuge’s lovable hillbilly mechanic!
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
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
“Mister! Mommy needs help!”
The child’s cry spun U.S.A.F. Pararescue Jumper Ben-li Dillinger on his toes to face its source. Purchases clunked beside his car, Ben’s feet propelled him toward the youngster.
Tears falling from two teddy-bear-big eyes brought Ben, heart and body, to his knees. Speaking of bears, she clutched a tattered brown one.
“What’s wrong, princess?”
Ben scanned Refuge Mall’s parking lot for the mother. Maybe she had car trouble. But it wouldn’t make sense for a parent to send a child this young for help. No vehicle with its hood propped, either. In fact, his was only one of the few remaining since closing time minutes ago. Not only that, the child’s duress surpassed a stranded-car scenario.
A tiny hand tugged him up. “C’mon! Mommy’s over here. Something bad happened!”
Urgency speared Ben. Hand in hand they loped around the building. Near a pharmacy across the deserted lot, a compact car that had seen better days sat, trunk open. Steam billows hissed from a gaping hood accordioned by impact. A dented front bumper hugged a light pole. A motionless human form plastered to the dash spiked Ben’s pulse.
He loosened his hand from the girl’s and ran at a dead run toward the car, then stopped. Kid couldn’t be more than six, seven years old. Too short for an SUV to