Castaway Cove (2013) Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE WORK

  OF JOANN ROSS

  Sea Glass Winter

  “Beautifully descriptive and gently paced, this heart-warmer captures coastal small-town flavor perfectly and nails the high school vibe. A perfect read for a long winter’s night.”

  —Library Journal

  “A fast-paced novel about romantic relationships, parent-child relationships, and teacher-student relationships. The narrative voice has a humor and rhythm that is fun to read, the teenagers walk the walk and talk the talk of real teenagers, and the conversations among the adults are witty, kind, and meaningful.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Sea Glass Winter will wrap you in warmth and good feeling. I’ve read many who say this series will make you want to move to Shelter Bay. I can only say ‘ditto.’”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Fans will enjoy this lovely visit to Shelter Bay. . . . It’s heartwarming to watch old friends settle happily into life . . . like a hot cup of tea on a cold afternoon.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Moonshell Beach

  “A lovely addition to the Shelter Bay series. Ross builds a charming town filled with good, solid people—the best place for warriors to come and rebuild their civilian selves. The women are strong, too, making Shelter Bay a place that readers will really want to visit.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Shelter Bay is the kind of town I’d love to live in myself. . . . I can’t wait for the next book in this series.”

  —Love Romances & More

  On Lavender Lane

  “Cooking, romance, and a warm, inviting setting work their delectable magic in this tender charmer that introduces new characters (and some serious issues) and reprises previous series players.”

  —Library Journal

  “[A] tear-jerking tale of a commitment-shy professional cook learning to love a former Navy SEAL in idyllic rural Oregon . . . [a] savory romance.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The Shelter Bay novels have been lauded, and this one is a worthy entry in the series. The characters, especially the recurring ones, are so likable that the reader can’t help getting caught up in the story . . . engrossing with just enough humor to keep the readers on their toes. I await each new story with anticipation.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “An uplifting novel, it’s especially appealing if you have fond memories of the healing properties of good food and conversation in the cozy comfort of your grandmother’s kitchen. Bon appétit!”

  —Romance Junkies

  One Summer

  “One Summer has romance, a light splash of intrigue, two wonderful protagonists, endearing supporting characters, and an enchanting, fast-paced rhythm, making it the perfect summer read.”

  —Joyfully Reviewed

  The Homecoming

  “Quintessential Ross with a terrific romance [and] mystery. Not to be missed.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “Ross has again hit a homer . . . an outstanding job.”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  “One of the best books I’ve read this summer. . . . Ms. Ross penned such emotion into her story line and created characters that you easily fall in love with.”

  —Night Owl Reviews

  “Ross continues her homage to the brave men and women in the armed services in a romantic and sexy thriller spotlighting the difficulties that members of the military face when they return to civilian life.”

  —Booklist

  “It isn’t often readers find characters they’re willing to spend a weekend with. However, that’s exactly what Ross accomplishes in The Homecoming, enveloping the reader in the lives of two endearing, albeit flawed, characters.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Breakpoint

  “An action-packed thriller that never decelerates until the finish . . . one of the better high-octane sagas on the market today.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Crossfire

  “The plot is riveting, the characters sizzle, and the ending will blow you away. Trust me, you do not want to miss Crossfire. But keep in mind, once you pick it up, it’s impossible to put down.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “[A] can’t-put-down-forget-the-housework-cereal-for-dinner book. The chemistry between Quinn and Cait screams off the page and practically singes your fingers.”

  —Romance Junkies

  Freefall

  “A page-turning mix of danger, suspense, and passion.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Iris Johansen

  No Safe Place

  “Sizzles with the sensuality and danger fans of her romantic thrillers have come to expect.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Impulse

  “[A] great love story with all the thrills and chills that will have the readers coming back for more.”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  Blaze

  “Seamlessly plotted. . . . Ross keeps the heat on right to the last page.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Out of the Storm

  “Out of the Storm sizzles! A captivating and entertaining blend of romance, mystery, and suspense.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  Out of the Blue

  “The best kind of romantic suspense: heart-stopping terror and a heart-tugging romance.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  River Road

  “Skillful and satisfying. . . . With its emotional depth, Ross’s tale will appeal to Nora Roberts fans.”

  —Booklist

  “The romance . . . crackles and the verbal sparring keeps the narrative moving along at an energetic clip . . . delightful.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Confessions

  “[A] hot, steamy . . . page-turner.”

  —A Little Romance

  Also by JoAnn Ross

  Shelter Bay Novels

  Sea Glass Winter

  Moonshell Beach

  On Lavender Lane

  One Summer

  The Homecoming

  High Risk Novels

  Freefall

  Crossfire

  Shattered

  Breakpoint

  CASTAWAY COVE

  A SHELTER BAY NOVEL

  JoAnn Ross

  SIGNET

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © The Ross Family Trust, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  ISBN 978-1-101-61407-5

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Cont
ents

  Praise

  Also by JoAnn Ross

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Excerpt from “Christmas in Shelter Bay”

  To Maureen Hallett. (This time I got it right!)

  Once again, to all our military men and women and their families for their service and sacrifice.

  Also, with admiration and great affection to Operation Write Home, Cards for Soldiers, and Cards for Hospitalized Kids, who deliver so much handmade love with every card.

  And, as always, to Jay, who reminds me every day why I write romance.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, I want to give thanks and a huge shout-out to the best publishing team in the business:

  At NAL: publisher Kara Welsh, for her unwavering support over so many years; editor extraordinaire Kerry Donovan, who’s not only too sweet and supportive for words, but hands down the most brilliant brainstorming editor ever; Jesse Feldman, who’s always been there to take care of details and does the best tweets; editorial director Claire Zion, who rescued my manuscript from her slush pile one memorable fall day in 1982 and literally changed my life; Mimi Bark, who, with watercolor illustrator Paul Janovsky, has wrapped my Shelter Bay stories in such beautiful covers; Erin Galloway, who takes care of publicity with such aplomb; and all the other super people in production, sales, and marketing who actually get my books onto shelves.

  And last, but certainly not least, publishing matchmaker, lunch maven, stellar agent, and friend Robin Rue, and superwoman Beth Miller, who’s always kept everything running so smoothly!

  I truly heart you all and I hope you’ve had as much fun working together these past years as I have!

  1

  Afghanistan

  Disney Drive, the main drag of Bagram Airfield, was about as far from the Magic Kingdom as a person could get.

  A river of bumper-to-bumper vehicles was headed out of the base, packed together like salmon swimming upstream.

  “I swear it’d be easier to just get out and walk,” Staff Sergeant Mac Culhane remarked to the cameraman and the female Airman correspondent from the American Forces Network who were traveling with him.

  “Is it always this crowded?” asked the journalist from the Seattle Examiner, who’d been waiting for Mac when he arrived at the radio station that morning.

  Apparently someone above Mac’s pay grade had decided that some positive, warm-and-fuzzy Stateside press was in order, which was why they were traveling to the village for a meet, greet, and schmooze photo op with the locals.

  “Actually, you’re seeing it on a good day,” Mac said. “At least we’re moving.” Though at nothing near the posted twenty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit.

  “So, is there a story behind why this street’s named after Walt Disney?”

  Jeez. You’d think the guy would’ve at least done some homework on the flight from the States.

  “It’s not. It’s named for an Army specialist who died here when some heavy equipment fell on him,” the AFN reporter said. Although her voice remained neutrally polite, Mac could tell from the very faint edge to her tone that she was as irked by the guy’s question as he was.

  “You definitely don’t want anything on this base named for you,” Mac said. “Because that means that you’re dead.” Another example being the Pat Tillman Memorial USO.

  Mac might be a deejay, assigned to play songs and impart news and information, but like all the others he worked with, he took the AFN motto—Serving those who serve—seriously. Whenever he could, he’d go outside the wire and travel to some of the world’s most dangerous war zones to entertain the troops and to film footage that was not only shown on AFN television but also sent home to family and loved ones.

  He was now on his second tour in Afghanistan, where along with entertaining with music and banter, he also delivered the news of troop deaths. More during the surge, but lately the bad guys had stepped up their game.

  “Damned if you didn’t jinx us by saying we were moving,” the cameraman complained as the river of vehicles on the lane leading out of the base came to an abrupt halt.

  In less than a minute, the driver of one of the white pickups that civilian contractors tended to drive leaned on his horn.

  Yeah. Like that was going to help.

  Not wanting to be left out of the fun, a utility four-wheeler, looking like a combat golf cart behind Mac’s MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle) got into the act, adding his horn to the cacophony, which wasn’t helped by the roar of jets streaking overhead.

  Meanwhile, pedestrians were packed as tightly together as the vehicles. Military personnel jockeyed for some semblance of personal space with civilian contractors and Afghans. Some, trying to speed up the process, had taken to walking or jogging in the street.

  Finally, they got beyond the gate and headed out into the countryside, where the roads were even more of a joke. Bagram was definitely not a country club base—rocket attacks came so often that diving into bunkers became routine, not to mention the constant threat of insurgent attacks, and more recently “green on blue” violence from Afghan forces—and Mac often thought that you really took your life in your hands by traveling on any of the narrow, winding roads.

  The base was in a valley surrounded by the Hindu Kush, where sunshine had the snow on the mountains gleaming like diamonds. There’d been a time, a thousand years ago, when Bagram was a wealthy, bustling city on the silk route. These days it was a village dependent on farming, base employment, and fighting.

  Still, the drive past the fields with the mountains in the distance could have been pleasant were it not for the metal signs warning of land mines leftover from Soviet occupation hanging on wires along the road, and the constantly blowing sand that had the consistency of talcum power. Even when you couldn’t see it, you could feel it in your eyes, nose, and throat whenever you went outside.

  The market was bustling. Children, some of the boys wearing blue Cub Scout uniforms supplied by one of the officers at the base, who’d set up a scouting program for the local population, dodged the traffic as they ran through the streets. Giggling, remarkably carefree girls jumped rope and played hopscotch with stones on courts drawn in the dirt.

&
nbsp; Women in dark burkas were focused on their shopping, while local police, trained by allied forces, patrolled past the food stands. As the translator gave the reporter the tour, Mac chatted in his less than fluent Dari with the shopkeepers and his fans, who, every time he came to town, treated him like a celebrity. At first he’d been surprised by that; then he came to realize that while Freedom Radio might consider the troops its target audience, a good portion of the civilians listened as well. And even if they couldn’t understand all the banter, music proved universal.

  As he bought some goat meat and yogurt from an elderly man whose eyes were nearly black in his dark, sun-weathered face, a brightly colored vehicle, locally referred to as a “jingle truck” because of the bells drivers put on the top of their cabs, pulled up to deliver a load of kaddo bourani, Afghan pumpkins.

  Which led to Mac telling the Seattle reporter how he and his crew were going to set up a catapult for Freedom Radio’s Thanksgiving pumpkin-hurling competition. He was just thinking how much he freaking loved his job when the world exploded in a fireball that sent him flying through the air.

  Mac didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious. But when he heard the Airman calling his name over the ringing in his ears, he managed with difficulty to open his eyes, which were even grittier with sand than usual. He hoped that explained the fact that trying to focus on anything was like looking through fractured glass.

  “I’m okay,” he called out.

  If you didn’t count the crushing headache, the nausea, the blood he could feel pouring down his face, and the fact that he felt as if his body had been peppered with fiery birdshot.

  He wasn’t sure whether he’d managed to get the words out of his mouth or had just thought them. And although he could sort of hear the Airman shouting, either she’d begun speaking in a foreign language or his brain wasn’t decoding what she was trying to ask him.

  As disoriented as he was, one searing thought flashed through Mac’s mind. Please, God, let my brain not be permanently scrambled.

  “Okay,” he repeated, flinching as he turned his head to try to look around.

  His left eye seemed to have been flash-blinded, while the vision in his right was hazy, but that didn’t keep him from seeing that the explosion had ripped through the heart of the market, clearing a wide swath. At the periphery, burned and bloody bodies were piled up like so much cordwood.