Wounded Heroes Boxed Set Read online

  The Summit Authors Present:

  Favorite Romance Themes™

  WOUNDED HEROES

  Five complete novels in one volume

  Meet the Authors:

  Judith Arnold is a USA Today bestselling, award-winning author of more than 90 novels, with more than 10 million copies of her books in print. Her writing has been called "enchantingly charming," "quietly lyrical," and, according to Publishers Weekly, "scrumptious."

  Kathryn Shay is a USA Today bestselling author and has more than 5 million copies in print of her 48 published novels. Her contemporary romances have been serialized in Cosmopolitan magazine and featured in The Wall Street Journal and People magazine.

  Patricia Ryan is a USA Today bestselling author and RITA Award-winner known for breaking boundaries with her "fresh, swift and sexy" page-turners that blend romance, history and suspense. Her 30 books have been published in more than 20 countries.

  Jean Brashear is a USA Today bestselling author of nearly forty books. She finds enormous joy in sharing her stories and her rock-solid belief that love is the most powerful force in the world.

  Lisa Mondello is a USA Today Best Selling author of over fourteen contemporary romance and romantic suspense books. Her romantic suspense, MATERIAL WITNESS, written under the pen name L.A. Mondello, made the USA Today Bestsellers List and was named one of Kirkus Review’s Best Books of 2012.

  Samples

  If you downloaded the free sample of this boxed set, you can click below to sample the opening chapter of:

  Survivors by Judith Arnold

  Waiting For You by Kathryn Shay

  Silken Threads by Patricia Ryan

  Texas Refuge by Jean Brashear

  The More I See by Lisa Mondello

  Table of Contents

  * * *

  SURVIVORS "Judith Arnold is an amazing writer." – Amazon reviews

  Prologue

  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

  * * *

  WAITING FOR YOU "A wonderful book! Shay takes the impossible and makes it believable." A reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  * * *

  SILKEN THREADS "Silken Threads is romance at its best—this one goes on my keeper shelf." The Romance Reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  * * *

  TEXAS REFUGE "Jean Brashear writes with warmth and emotional truth. The depth of her understanding of human nature marks her as a writer to watch." – Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  * * *

  THE MORE I SEE "May be one of the best books I have ever read! Wonderful story of healing and learning to live again. Could not put it down." – Amazon Reviews

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  SURVIVORS

  * * *

  By Judith Arnold

  Copyright 1990 by Barbara Keiler

  Prologue

  * * *

  May, 1969

  "NO," SAID PAUL . "I’m not going."

  Around him swirled the nocturnal sounds of the forest: the incessant screeching of crickets, the distant hoot of an owl, the electric hum of a cicada, the syncopated patter of raindrops that penetrated the dense foliage to strike the muddy ground beneath his feet. To the south lay the village—quiet and dark at night, but Paul had been in country long enough to know that quiet and dark didn’t mean safe.

  "If you wanna talk back to me, private, this isn’t the time," said Macon in a hushed, intense voice. "I just gave you an order."

  Paul held his ground. Intuitions were more important than orders, and this time his intuition was strong. He knew trouble was waiting on the other side of the hill. "Screw your order," he said. "I’m not going."

  "Come on," Swann whispered, giving Paul a friendly nudge. "It’s just over one little baby hill, and then we get to go back to camp. Ain’t nobody gonna fuck with us."

  "I’ve got a feeling," Paul whispered back. He wouldn’t have wasted his breath explaining to Macon, but Swann was his friend. "It just doesn’t feel right to me."

  "This ain’t sniper territory," Swann reminded him.

  "The whole damned country is sniper territory."

  "Let’s just go and get it over with," Rigucci snapped. "We stand around here, we’re sitting ducks." He was hyper, fidgety, probably on speed. Lots of the grunts took it when they pulled night patrol. It was better than nodding off, losing concentration and getting blown away.

  Paul had considered taking something to get him through the night, but now he was glad he hadn’t. His nervous system was working overtime, telling him things, sending out signals he might have missed if he’d had a buzz on.

  "I’m not going," he insisted, staring down the trail through the eerie layers of fog that snagged on the vines and branches like vaporous cobwebs. Something awful was waiting for them on the other side of the hill. He didn’t know what, but his gut told him it was going to go down bad if they patrolled over there.

  Macon clamped an iron hand around Paul’s upper arm and gave him a sharp tug. Off-duty, the sergeant was a nice enough guy, but when he was pulling rank he could be a real hard-ass. "You march over that ridge with us, Tremaine," he growled, "or you’re going to get brought up on charges."

  "What charges?"

  "Failure to obey a direct order
."

  "I don’t care," Paul said. He did care—his heart was ricocheting around in his chest and his back was drenched in a cold sweat. But the possibility of a court-martial didn’t scare him half as much as going over that ridge.

  "I think he’s nuts," Swann said to Macon. "I think he cracked or something."

  "Tremaine isn’t a loony, Swann. He’s just being stubborn. You’re his buddy—tell him to get it in gear or he’ll ride out the rest of this war in jail."

  "You heard the man," Swann murmured. "He’s gonna hang you out to dry."

  "I’ll take my chances."

  "It’s gonna go on your record, man. You might wind up doin’ hard time."

  "I’m doing hard time now," Paul muttered.

  "I’m gonna do you hard time with my boot on your butt," Macon snarled, trying to yank Paul back onto the trail. His eyes were hard and round in his camouflage-painted face; his helmet rode the back of his skull. His neck was leathery and large dark circles stained his shirt under the arms. "Now get moving, or I’m bringing you up on charges."

  Paul wrenched his arm free. "Go to hell, Macon."

  "Come on," Rigucci muttered, starting down the trail. "I can’t stand still any longer."

  "I’ll be back for you." Macon jabbed a thick, threatening finger at Paul, then hiked his rifle higher on his shoulder and turned to join the others. "Your days are numbered Tremaine. I’ll be back for you."

  Paul stayed where he was, partially hidden behind a mesh of rain-slick vines, watching as Rigucci, Swann and Macon fell into step on the trail. He listened to the crunch of their boots on the loose-pebbled path and the clank of their canteens against their belts as they headed up the hill, vanishing into the eddying folds of fog.

  Chapter One

  * * *

  Twenty-five years later

  LIKE MOST OF THE BACK ROADS in Northford, Carpenter Road was a twisting, hilly strip of asphalt barely two lanes wide, bordered by tall trees and massive outcroppings of granite. Cruising down Carpenter Road—especially when you drove fast and tight, the way Paul did—required a fair amount of concentration. He had the pickup’s windows open, the radio cranked up and a few sacks of cedar chips in back. His eyes were on the double yellow line and his mind was on the sixpack chilling in his refrigerator at home. As soon as he dropped off the cedar chips back at the nursery, he planned to head for his house, pop open a beer and unwind. He worked most Saturdays, so he felt no compunction about leaving the nursery early Friday nights. And tonight he had no date, no plans, no obligations.

  Lost in the pleasures of driving, he almost didn’t see the boy standing just beyond a sharp bend in the road, his head turned to stare over his left shoulder and his right thumb stuck out in silent supplication. His hair was scruffy and tawny-colored, his jeans were torn at the knees and his feet were encased in oversized leather hightops. He was tall and stringy in build, with peach-fuzz cheeks and squinting eyes.

  Paul slowed to a halt, shifted into neutral, and turned down the volume on the radio. Then he leaned across the seat toward the passenger window. "Where you headed?" he asked.

  The boy peered into the cab of the truck. Paul saw that behind his squint he had gentle hazel eyes, almost feminine in their beauty. "Fair Hollow Lane," the boy said, his voice twanging and cracking the way male voices did during early adolescence.

  Fair Hollow Lane was on the southern end of town, well out of Paul’s way. But if he didn’t give the kid a lift, someone else might—some creep, maybe. Tall though the boy was, he lacked the heft to defend himself. "Get in," Paul said, straightening in his seat.

  "Thanks." The boy gave him a broad, toothy smile and climbed into the truck.

  Paul waited until his passenger was settled before he shifted into gear. He drove for a minute in silence, keeping his speed down and contemplating whether he should offer a lecture along with the ride. He didn’t like being lectured, himself, but this kid appeared too innocent, too trusting. He ought to be more cautious, given how many sick people there were in the world. "You know, hitching isn’t safe," he said, hoping he didn’t sound judgmental.

  The boy shot him a quick look, then shrugged. "This is a small town. It’s not like I’d hitch in Lowell or Boston or anything."

  "Small town or not, you run a major risk getting into a stranger’s car. You’re lucky I came along. I’m sane. A lot of folks aren’t."

  The boy eyed him, his expression a blend of impatience and edginess. "Yeah, well..." He turned his gaze to the windshield. The thick, shaggy locks of his dirty-blond hair blew back from his face in the spring-tinged breeze that gusted in through the open window.

  "What’s your name?" Paul asked.

  The boy gave him another toothy grin. "Shane Hudson. What’s yours?"

  "Paul Tremaine."

  "Yeah, I noticed that on the outside of the truck. ‘Tremaine Nursery.’"

  Paul nodded. "It’s my uncle’s business," he said. "I just work there." That was an understatement; Uncle Steve had already started the paperwork to transfer half-ownership of the operation to Paul. But, as much as he enjoyed the myriad tasks of running the farm and its retail nursery—and as good as he was at it—he didn’t like viewing himself as an entrepreneur. It sounded so white-collar.

  "So, what, you sell plants and stuff?" Shane asked.

  "We grow them, we sell them, we plant them. Wholesale and retail. Shrubbery is our middle name."

  "Huh?"

  Paul glimpsed Shane and realized that his joke had flown over the boy’s head. "Never mind." He braked at the stop sign, then turned right, heading south into the center of town.

  Symptoms of civilization began to proliferate around them. The road grew straighter and wider and the number of houses increased: fewer rambling old farm houses, stone-walled mansions and derelict mobile homes, more neat cape-cods and colonials. The closer to town they traveled, the tidier the yards and the greater the preponderance of white clapboard in the architecture.

  The heart of Northford was its rectangular green. The streets bordering it held the Congregational church, the Methodist church, the Unitarian church, the town hall, the post office, a couple of stores and the fenced-in playground of the elementary school. Pristine sidewalks criss-crossed the green beneath the leafy boughs of several ancient maple and oak trees. At the east end of the green stood a granite obelisk bearing a plaque which read: "In Memory of The Brave Men Who Gave Their Lives in the Service of Their Country."

  Paul was familiar with that monument. He knew every name carved onto its four sloping faces: those lost in the Civil War, World War I, World War II and Korea. Some had been born in Northford; some had resided in Northford just prior to their deaths. What mattered was that they’d died in war and the town of Northford had wanted to honor them.

  What also mattered was that the obelisk didn’t have room on it for Paul’s war.

  The knoll where he wanted to put a new memorial was on the western end of the green, a good fifteen yards from the nearest oak tree. He’d made his proposal at the town meeting a week ago, and while the idea hadn’t automatically been approved, at least he hadn’t been booed out of the room. The councilmen had expressed their gratitude that Paul was willing to donate ten thousand dollars of his own money toward the project, and they’d said they would review the budget to see what monies the town might contribute. Providing a small parcel of land on the town green would be no problem, they had assured him.

  In fact, as far as Paul could tell, the only problem his memorial faced was the objection of that belligerent schoolteacher who’d risen to her feet and declared that she thought it would be downright scandalous to spend thousands of dollars in a celebration of the nation’s militaristic blunders when the elementary school couldn’t even scrape together the funds to update its library. The councilmen had listened to her as respectfully as they’d listened to Paul, but he suspected they were on his side. Who was she, after all, but some recent arrival, someone without any real roots in the town. Paul�
��s father had grown up in Northford, and so had he. His uncle, who had never lived anywhere else, was currently managing fifty fertile acres and paying taxes on them. The Tremaine name meant something in these parts.

  Sooner or later, persnickety schoolteacher or no, Paul was going to erect his memorial. Then he’d be able to put the past to rest.

  "Make a right here," Shane was saying, indicating the intersection at the southwest corner of the green. "It’s a great short-cut to my house."

  "Are you in a hurry?" Paul asked. It occurred to him that not ten minutes ago he’d been in a rush to drop the extra sacks of cedar chips off at the nursery and head for home. For some reason, he wasn’t quite as anxious to race home now as he’d been before. The boy wasn’t exactly scintillating company, but Paul was enjoying the drive and the balmy May dusk.

  "Well...I don’t want to get in trouble with my mom."

  "How old are you?" Paul asked.

  "Fourteen, almost."

  "That’s an unusual name—Shane."

  The boy shrugged. "My father loved that old movie, you know, with Alan Ladd."

  "I know the one," Paul said, wondering why Shane had referred to his father in the past tense. "Mysterious stranger passing through, saving the settlers. It’s a classic."

  Shane turned to him. "You like old movies?"

  "I like new ones better. They’ve got more—" He almost said "skin," but he caught himself in time. "More grit," he said instead.

  "You know what really burns me up?" Shane complained. "Here in Northford, you’ve got to drive to another town just to see a movie. Like, you can’t even get cable TV here—even though my mom probably wouldn’t let me have it, anyway. She thinks TV makes your mind rot. But you can’t just walk to the movies. I mean, like, you’ve got to get someone’s mom to drive you."