Her Wedding Wish

Her Wedding Wish
Jillian Hart

Her husband couldn't remember her Jonas Lowell, a police officer shot in the line of duty, now had amnesia.And his wife, Danielle McKaslin Lowell, had tried everything to spark his recollection of her and their young children, but he could look at his adoring wife only with a stranger's gaze. His memory of the life they shared–the future they'd dreamed of–was gone.But with a lot of faith and a sweet new courtship, Danielle's handsome husband just might fall in love all over again.

The doctors were sure his memory

would not return.

Danielle didn’t know how it could possibly be that she was a stranger to the man she’d loved so fiercely, who’d been her best friend and husband for more than seven years and the father of their two children. She hadn’t realized how much she had hoped the sight of their house would spark something for him.

There was no recognition in his eyes as he turned to her. “We live here?”

“We moved in right before Tyler was born.”

“Tyler.” Sad lines crinkled around Jonas’s eyes. “I wish I could remember my own kids.”

Tyler pounded into the room just then, threw his arms wide and wrapped them around Jonas. “Daddy, you’re home!”

Jonas’s eyes filled with emotion as he ran an awkward hand over the top of his little son’s head, affectionate and sweet and devoted.

What truly mattered hadn’t changed.

JILLIAN HART

makes her home in Washington State, where she has lived most of her life. When Jillian is not hard at work on her next story, she loves to read, go to lunch with her friends and spend quiet evenings with her family.

Her Wedding Wish

Jillian Hart

See, I am sending an angel ahead of you

to guard you along the way and to bring you

to the place I have prepared.

—Exodus 23:20

Contents

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

Epilogue

Questions For Discussion

Prologue

Danielle Lowell had never felt so cold as she followed the desk nurse along the dimly lit, tomblike corridors of the hospital. Their movements echoed along the barren walls like heartbeats—first the muted pad of the nurse’s rubber-soled shoes, and then the tap, tap of her open-toed sandals.

When she looked down, she saw, in contrast to the scuffed beige floor tiles, the cheerful cotton-candy pink of her toenails. She had painted them just this morning, both hers and her daughter’s while holding the toddler on her lap. Madison had giggled and babbled with glee. Danielle had been happy, as warm as the cheerful June sunshine.

Now, hours later, it was as if the sun had gone down forever. Her veins had turned to ice, her heart to a glacier.

An eternity had passed since that afternoon when she’d answered her cell phone to the sound of Jonas’s supervisor’s voice. She’d known it was bad news even before Rick had said the words. She’d felt a warm embrace, as if comforting arms had wrapped around her chest, as if someone was holding her tightly.

At the back of her mind she wondered if her husband was dead and she felt his spirit, his soul, somehow come to tell her goodbye. But the touch didn’t feel familiar, and maybe it was the effect of too much sun.

Either way, she knew the words before Rick spoke them. Jonas has been shot in the line of duty.

“You have ten minutes.” The nurse’s voice startled her, although she spoke in a modulated, almost whisper. “Your husband is unconscious, so don’t be alarmed. The equipment can look frightening at first. Hold his hand. Talk to him. He’ll hear you.”

“How can that be? They told me he’s in a coma. Has he woken up?” That faint hope flickered like a new flame in a harsh wind and died.

“No, he’s in a deep coma, I’m afraid. That hasn’t changed. But studies have taught us that hearing is the last of the senses to fail. Besides, I believe our hearts are always listening. His will know yours. God bless.” She led the way into the small isolated room.

Danielle stumbled at the sight of the stranger on the bed, waxy looking and motionless. Jonas. Her heart cracked and, like the edge of a glacier, sheared off.

This was her husband? Her knees failed and she hit the ground, kneeling at his side. The beep of the monitors, the ticking that marked his heart, the whir of a ventilator were out of a nightmare. She stared at the bags of fluid and drugs that hung like Japanese lanterns around his bedside. Shock took what little life was left in her.

My poor Jonas. His face was different—two already bruising black eyes, a stitched gash over his cheekbone and his hair shaved to his bare scalp, marred by a zigzagged suture line and bandages.