Return to Me (A Covington Cove Novel, Band 1) - Softcover

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Kelly Moran is the winner of the 2013 Catherine Award and earned one of the 10 Best Reads of 2013 from USA Today’s HEA blog. Her books not only have honors from the top review sites, but from New York Times bestselling authors as well. She is a respected reviewer and a Romance Writers of America member. Her interests outside of books include: sappy movies, MLB, NFL, driving others insane, and sleeping when she can. She gets her book ideas from everyone and everything around her, and there’s always a story playing out in her head. No one who knows her bats an eyelash when she talks to herself. She is a closet caffeine junkie and chocoholic, but don’t tell anyone. She resides in Wisconsin with her husband, three sons, and black lab.

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Acknowledgments

chapter
one

The sand beneath his hand didn’t feel like the soft grains from the beach outside his Wilmington, North Carolina, home. This sand was packed, as firm and unforgiving as the region.

Okay, backtrack. Try to think.

He blinked and focused. There should be pain. That was an IED they drove over, right? He should be in pain.

Cole Covington was flat on his back, the goddamn unforgiving Iraq sun scalding his retinas. God, how he hated this place. He’d kill to see rain again. To smell the salt spray off the Atlantic in Wilmington again.

The last thing Cole remembered was heading back to camp. They were in the Humvee, bringing medical supplies to the unit just the other side of Samarra. Finn was driving. He had insisted after Cole nearly flipped the jeep on the last run.

The pansy ass wuss. He smiled. He might not like his life here, but he liked the guys he served with. He hoped they were okay. Panic started to form in his gut.

“Finn?” He couldn’t hear his own voice. He cleared his throat and shouted out to his commander again. Nothing. Come to think of it, he couldn’t hear anything. What the . . .

He tried to roll, but something was sprawled over his chest. Something heavy. His pack was pressing into his spine. Cole lifted his head, expecting a piece of the truck or part of the cargo.

Instead, Donny lay on him. Donny was almost bigger than the truck and just as stupid. Cole loved him to death. When they got out of there next month, he planned on keeping in contact with him. Donny was talking about signing up again. But hell, three years on this tour was enough for Cole. He was going home. Screw the U.S. government. He’d done his duty.

“Hey, man. Get off. Help me up.”

Still no sound. The blast must’ve shot his hearing. Donny didn’t budge.

Cole sighed and geared up to move the lug. He was probably knocked out. Wouldn’t be the first time. He hoped Finn wasn’t, ’cause no way in hell could Cole carry Donny alone.

He raised his arms and froze. Blood. A lot of it. Everywhere.

His chest tightened. He ran his hands over his arms, smearing the blood, trying to find the wound.

Where? Where was it?

No scratches. No gashes. And it didn’t hurt. It wasn’t his blood.

Oh no. Donny?

He wheezed in air, pressing his hands over Donny’s shoulders to push him off. Donny rolled surprisingly easy, flopping to his right.

Cole edged up onto his elbows and looked in the direction of the Humvee. From forty yards away he could tell the supplies weren’t salvageable. The truck lay on its side in flames, a crater next to it where the IED went off. So much for being safe by taking the same route back.

How the hell were they going to get back to base? There was nothing out here. In a couple hours night would fall. They’d be exposed. Three years here and he still wasn’t used to the frigid nights, the blistering days. Third realm of hell, this country was. In more ways than one.

Hoping Finn had his portable radio on him, Cole set his hands down to stand and go in search of him. His hand slipped, causing him to flop face-first over Donny’s prone body. All the damn blood. So sticky.

Blood.

Cole lifted his head slowly, his gaze raking over Donny’s round, boyish face. The kid’s mouth hung open as if he needed to scream but couldn’t. Blue eyes stared blankly into the sky, fixated on the heavens above that he prayed to every night, like the good, God-fearing Southern boy he was.

Cole’s hands shook as reality sunk in. His gaze darted down over Donny’s body. Down, down. Past his chest, his stomach, and to his waist, where he stopped. Literally stopped. Donny’s entire lower half was gone.

“Fuck!”

Cole scrambled to back up but got nowhere.

No. No. No.

“Come on, Donny boy. Wake up, man.” He grabbed Donny’s vest and shook the kid for everything he was worth. Donny’s head rolled and drooped back, bobbing like a fishing float in the Cape Fear River back home.

A claw of terror ripped the beat from his heart. Oh God! His fingers relaxed and dropped to the dirt.

Cole ran a shaking hand over his face and tore his gaze away. The other half of Donny was near the crater. He saw it now. Him now. Him. Donny was a person. Even in two pieces.

Finn. Where was Finn? Cole called out again, but even if Finn called back, he couldn’t hear him through the vacuum in his ears. His gaze searched the expanse of desert surrounding their location.

There! A hundred yards in the opposite direction was . . .

A leg. Part of an arm. More blood.

Adrenaline had him surging up. Searing pain reared him back down. Losing his leverage, he sprawled on his back again.

Fire. He was on fire. His whole left side burned in agony. His hands coursed over his chest. No. His face. No. Over his arms. There. His left shoulder. Marred layers of black flesh riddled the muscle of his shoulder and arm. So much pain.

Okay. Okay. Just the arm. You’re fine, man. Get up. Breathe through.

Fuck. And his leg.

His hand instinctively clutched for the pain and couldn’t reach it. He sucked in a breath and lifted his head. His uniform was shredded and burned, the tatters flapping in the wind. More blood.

His head flopped back down with the exertion of moving too much. He closed his eyes, counted to twenty, and tried again. Half of his left thigh was . . . gone. Muscles and tendons protruded like a morbid plate of spaghetti.

His stomach recoiled. His breakfast MRE came back up. He wretched and heaved until there wasn’t anything left of the ready-to-eat crap.

His head slammed back down, his pack digging farther into his spine. He probably had a broken back. He was in pieces, too. How had he survived when Finn and Donny . . .

“Sweet Home Alabama” had been blaring in the Humvee’s CD player. Finn and Donny were arguing the semantics of whether it was Lynyrd Skynyrd’s best song. Cole was in the back, laughing at their absurdity, trying not to take sides. That was how he survived. He was in the back. Protected.

Finn had a wife and kids at home. Donny a mother and a sister. Why’d Cole make it? He had . . . nothing left to go home to.

Pain flared again, stealing his breath. Fire and ice, pulsing and pounding. He wouldn’t be alive for long either. He’d lost a lot of blood. He was a mangled wreck. He wasn’t aware of anyone who knew they were out there. By the time the base discovered they hadn’t gotten back on time, it would be too late.

Cole swallowed. The cold sensation of shock set in, very different from the empty cold of the past ten years. It settled in his bones before the tremors started. He’d seen guys go into shock more times than he cared to count. No, it wouldn’t be long at all.

Alone. He was gonna die alone.

Once, he almost had it all. Even now, he had more than most. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he was going out with a rifle in his hand. He’d give it all up to have her back again. To go back to that day he’d told her to walk.

Tremors turned into violent convulsions as he lay there. So cold. His fingers crawled over his chest to get to his breast pocket. That’s where Mia was. In his pocket. In his memory. The only two places he could have her.

He slid the photo out and raised it. The sun washed out any distinguishable characteristics. All except...