A Soldier's Family
On A Crash Course With Love She was the woman of pararescue jumper Manny Pena's dreams. But he'd stuck his foot in his mouth the last time he met Celia Munoz. Now, grounded after a parachuting accident, he was desperate to make amends with the beautiful widow.But Celia wasn't having it. The last thing she needed was another man with a dangerous job–even if he had given his life to God. Yet Manny's growing commitment to her and her troubled son began to convince her that perhaps she should take her own leap of faith.
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A Soldierâs Family
Cheryl Wyatt
Published by Steeple Hill Books>â¢
To Jesus: Thank You for the gift and the gumption to
write. May every word pour over You as worship.
To Papawâs Patio Plotstormers who can leap over
tall plot holes with a single clause.
To my grandmothers for sharing a part of each of
yourselves with me. You are great and honorable women whom I admire greatly, and who have shaped my life in unspeakably wondrous ways.
Grandma Veda: for your sense of humor and a
giving and selfless spirit.
Grandma Mary: for an unquenchable love for books
and reading.
Grandma Alma: for modeling prayer and a life that
honors God.
Grandma Nellie: for instilling in me love for family
and faith in Godâs hand on our lives.
If I could thank every person who helped and
encouraged me on this journey, the word count of this book would have doubled.
Special thanks to Pam and Bill for your advice, encouragement and support.
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
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Chapter One
This was not the smartest way to die.
U.S.A.F. Pararescue Jumper Manny Péna grunted, tensed his muscles and tried again to flare the canopy on his parachute.
No go.
Panic blew through him like the gust of crisp October wind that had whipped him laterally through Refugeâs early morning sky moments ago, causing part of his chute to collapse.
Manny swallowed. Must keep his head or this could end badly. He glanced at the ground.
Still slamming up to meet him. Fast. Way too fast.
It could end badly anyway.
He pulled one steer cord, then the other. Ropes dug into his gloved hands, burning his palms. Something definitely didnât feel right. Manny tilted his head to peer at the underside of his canopy. Still one-third collapsed.
Not. Good.
Two lines had twisted near the top and heâd made the cardinal mistake of giving his knife to one of the students. Jumping without it was something heâd never done.
Except today.
The one jump he deviated from procedure, and now there was no way to cut away his main chute. Manny pulled the rip cord on the emergency reserve parachute. It bubbled open, but caught on his main chute, the worst possible scenario.
No ifs, ands or buts about it.
He was crashing.
A thousand yards from earth, wicked wind had blown him one way and his chute the other, winding them like a kid on a swing.
Manny brought his legs up. The upward thrust of air flapped loose material on his camo-clad arms and legs in rapid, violent clips. Manny kicked off the heavy field kit strapped to his thighs. It tumbled into the roaring Southern Illinois sky.
The position change and lightened load didnât straighten out his malfunctioning chute. Manny continued to fall through howling air at a dangerous pace. He flicked another glance to the ominous earth. His pulse spiked.
Treetops were about five hundred yards down. If he could veer sideways away from them, he may have a better chance. He steered left. His team had to be wigging out. By now theyâd know as well as he did it was too late to right himself enough to slow down for a safe landing. He fought hard to steer the wayward chute.
Three hundred yards. He tuned out fear-filled screams from skydiving patrons and directive shouts from his team that originated from both ground and air.
One hundred yards. He wished they didnât have to see this, hoped theyâd close their eyes before he impacted.
Fifty yards.
Twenty. Manny clenched his eyes as the drop zone screamed up. Maybe heâd clear the trees after all.
A violent jerk informed him otherwise. He arced downward toward a tall spruce. Gravity thrust him forward, head down. Fear gnawed him like the wood, splintering his calm. He sprang both arms up to protect his head.
Lot of good that would do if he broke his neck.
He blurred through a downward vortex of browns and greens. Cracking and popping sounds ricocheted around him. Frenzied shrieks came from everywhere. Pinecones pounded. Leaves slapped. Fresh sap and pine smells hit him with nausea the same time a metallic taste entered his mouth.
If he was about to die, he hoped heâd go quick, âcause it sure wasnât painless.
A deafening thud and white-hot pain snatched his hearing and vision.
Darkness cloaked Manny. His mind fumbled with rational thought. Peace enclosed him and whispered through this chaos that at least he was no longer on the outs with God.
And I didnât even tell them. Sorry. Give me ânother chance.
âBP, ninety over fifty, and heâs responsive to pain.â
Nope. Not dead. Dead people didnât hurt like this. Manny groaned. More pain. A poke like a mad hornet sting, then burning in his forearm. He tried to pull his arm free. Hands tightened around his wrist.
âManny, donât move,â came from a soothing yet concerned voice. Team leader, Joel Montgomery. Manny then realized the pinprick had been Joel starting an intravenous infusion. A stream of deep cold traveled up his arm.
