by Jane Josephs
Table of Contents
THE EMERALD HORSESHOES
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
Epilogue
THE EMERALD HORSESHOES
The Dirty Boat Guys of Coronado Series
JANE JOSEPHS
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
THE EMERALD HORSESHOES
Copyright©2019
JANE JOSEPHS
Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-64716-029-6
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
In memory of my mother
Kathryn “Kate” Watson Fankhauser
One of the great cloud of witnesses.
Hebrews 12:1
Acknowledgments
As a writer I live by the motto, just get something on the page. It’s not fancy, but it works for me, especially if I have a deadline to meet.
Six very dear friends helped me get something on the page when they agreed to read and critique The Emerald Horseshoes, even as I wrote it. Every two weeks I handed out two chapters to Lettie Cederquist, Kirsten Kelleher, Dana Kloo, Julie Levi, Diana Ong, and Shaby Tolo. And they faithfully returned them with comments and corrections. These dear friends and sisters in Christ encouraged me when my resolve weakened, challenged me to re-think and re-write until I got it right, and never stopped praying for God’s wisdom to guide me. I can never thank you enough!!!
I also owe big thanks to my Poway critique group: Kathryn, Kathleen, Allison, Janene, and Glen. I love reading your stuff and knowing that we’re in this together! You have been wonderful!
To my editor Debby Gilbert, my deepest gratitude for your patience, understanding, and incredible skill. I am in awe to be working with Soul Mate Publishing!
My husband deserves a medal for all the times he’s figured out my technical blunders and rescued me. Thanks, hon! And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention how supportive my children, Laura and Michael, have been. Their spouses and friends, too! I love all of you dearly.
Above all, thanks and praise to my Lord Jesus Christ, who brought me out of darkness into his marvelous light. His mercies are new every morning!
Chapter 1
Across the San Diego Bay, the sun slipped behind the skyline of Shelter Island. At the living room window of her luxury condominium overlooking Harbor Drive, Alison Dockerty sipped from a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade and watched a sailboat skimming across the bay. How long had it been since she’d been out on the water? A year, two? She shook her head. Certainly not since that disastrous fling with blue-eyed, two-timing Josh.
Alison sighed and turned from the window to cross the living room. A trio of Pinto ponies on her TV screen saver caught her eye, and another unpleasant memory flashed through her mind.
Shaking her head, she strode down the hall to her bedroom, set the lemonade on a coaster on her nightstand, and flung off her robe. Why was she wasting time thinking about the past? Nothing could change what had been. The choices she’d made.
Alison focused on the beauty of the evening sky outside her bedroom window, intentionally breathing deeply through her nose and exhaling through her mouth. The scene calmed her. But not enough to erase the memory of the afternoon she’d fallen off her horse at the Circle R Stables. She’d been what? Twelve? Alison quickly calculated the math. Had that argument with her mother and the owner of the Circle R really happened almost thirteen years ago? She hadn’t been on a horse since.
With impatient, hurried motions, Alison pulled on silk crepe straight-leg slacks, the soft fabric caressing her skin. A black floral top went on next. She checked the time. Happy Hour in the Gaslamp District would be underway. She slipped on strappy stiletto heels and crossed to the pier mirror leaning against the wall to appraise her tall, willowy form. Look for something you like about your body. Her therapist’s words rolled through her mind. She took a deep breath and stepped closer to the mirror. A moment later, she smiled, admiring the shape of her lips. Throwing herself a kiss, she fluffed her hair and turned to call an Uber.
~ ~ ~
Rain pelted the veranda roof of the ranch house with sharp staccato pings. A dreary gray dawn filled the sky. Seated by the kitchen window in her Ramona, California home, Ginny Reid stroked the gray kitten in her lap and hummed a prayer of thanks for the moisture that flooded her garden. After six years of drought, California was getting rain, and plenty of it. Her prayers, and those of many others, were being answered by the Good Lord.
In the back hallway on the other side of the living room, a door closed. Ginny smiled. Nick. Up early and eager to be on his way somewhere.
Ten minutes later, fresh from his shower, he breezed into the kitchen, his short, dark hair still wet. The woodsy pine scent of his shampoo perfumed the air.
“Morning, Ma,” Nick said, crossing the room.
She palmed his neck and kissed his cheek. “Good morning. Where are you off to? It’s barely light out. And raining. A good morning to sleep in.”
“So, what are you doing sitting out here in the kitchen? Couldn’t sleep again?” Nick filled the coffee carafe with water and dumped it in the machine, scooped Classic Roast in the basket and pushed the ‘on’ switch.
“I got a few hours. Enough. I know you told me, but where is it you’re going again?”
“Long Beach. The U.S.S. Iowa Battleship Museum for the Warrior Fit competition. Tony signed me up to be his partner. There are six of us
boat guys competing.” He glanced out the window. “That is, if they’re still having it. I guess we won’t know till we get there.” He pulled a cast iron skillet out of the oven and set it on a burner to heat. “I had Richie set two alarm clocks, and you heard me remind him last night about gathering the eggs and feeding the horses this morning. It’s too wet to muck out the paddock but he knows he’s got to do the stalls.”
“Richie. That boy has me worried,” Ginny said under her breath. She stroked Kennedy, her favorite of last year’s litter of foster kittens, and the one she just couldn’t part with when the rest had to go back to the shelter. “He missed his curfew again last night.” Ginny closed her eyes. Since losing her husband a little over a year ago, her son Richie, now sixteen, had been in and out of trouble. Always pushing the boundaries.
Nick stopped in the act of cracking an egg on the rim of the skillet. “He did? That little sh . . .” Shaking his head, he choked off the expletive and dumped the egg into the pan. Three more followed before he turned to the toaster. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I’m not sure when I’ll get home tonight. Tony’s pestering me to come to his place after the competition. Don’t know if it’s a party, maybe cards, or what, but he’s been pretty insistent.”
Ginny smiled and nodded, her brown eyes thoughtful. “You should go. You need to be out with your friends more. You’re almost twenty-six. It’s time you found a girlfriend again.”
Nick lifted the lid of the butter dish and knifed off a large chunk. “I got time. Don’t push it, Ma. Please.” He buttered his toast, slid the eggs onto a plate, and came to the table.
As he sat, Ginny caught a glimpse of the front of his shirt. “What’s that say on your T- shirt? Dirty . . .”
“Dirty Boat Guys,” Nick said, dunking his toast in one of the egg yolks. “It’s what we call ourselves. Some guys even have DBG tattoos.”
“So, no one calls you Special Warfare Combatant-Craft Crewmen anymore. Too much of a mouthful, I suppose.”
“No, we’re still called Swicks. It’s just that most people don’t know how to pronounce it when they see the letters SWCC. And most people don’t even know about Special Warfare Boat Guys. The SEALs get the attention. And that’s fine by me.” Nick finished the first egg and went to work on the rest. In minutes, he finished the meal by popping the last morsel of toast in his mouth. “I’ll get your coffee, Ma,” he said, rising with the dirty plate.
Ginny rocked in her chair. “Thanks, Nick, honey. You’re so good to me. I’m sure blessed to have a son like you.”
“Here you go.” He handed her the mug and turned away to wash his plate.
Ginny sighed. Her husband, Jed, had always made the coffee in the house. The day after his funeral Nick had moved back home and took over the job. Including serving it to her. Such a little act of kindness, and yet it never failed to touch her heart and remind her that she had family who loved her.
She studied her oldest son, moving with such ease in the kitchen. He had the grace of a cougar, just like his father—tall, lean, tan, and toned from hours of working on the ranch almost every day since they bought the place twenty years ago.
He had joined the Navy right out of college, the first in their family to get a degree, and the third Reid to choose the Navy. Ginny smiled, her gaze focused on the bulging muscles peeking out from under the short sleeve of his T-shirt. After two deployments, Nick had been assigned the job of Instructor at the Naval Special Warfare Basic Training Command on the U. S. Navy Amphibious Base in Coronado, California. It demanded he be in top condition. Working with SWCC hopefuls meant that every physical challenge they had to complete was one Nick could handle with ease. He prided himself on keeping ahead of the young men who passed or failed under his watchful eye. Men who either measured up to SWCC standards or were sent to the fleet.
“When does the competition start?” Ginny asked. The cat jumped off her lap. She stood and refilled her coffee mug.
“Nine, I think. Tony wants us to meet at 8:30. It’ll take me a couple of hours to get there.” Opening a cupboard, Nick found a box of protein bars. “Guess I should have put these on my grocery list.” He upended the box and grabbed the last bar. “Richie’s eating them now, too.”
“There’s some leftover chicken from last night in the refrigerator you can take. Or will you go out?”
“Not sure. But I think we’ll be on the ship all day, so I’ll take the chicken. It’s probably pizza at Tony’s house tonight, so I’ve got some cash.” He scrounged in the refrigerator and found the chicken, popped a leg and a breast into a baggie and tossed the bag into his backpack. “I think I’m set. Wish me luck.”
“Go in God’s strength. Do your best, and it’s good enough.” She hugged him fiercely. “I love you so much. Be safe, too. If you’re going to be later than midnight, give me a call, okay?”
“And wake up you and Richie? No, Ma. No news is good news. I’ll be careful.” He patted her cheek and winked. “Don’t worry. I won’t miss church.” Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he opened the front door and went out into the rain.
~ ~ ~
The alarm clock blared, startling Alison from a deep sleep. She groaned. Slamming her hand over the offending instrument, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. Darkness still filled the window of her bedroom. She sat up and pushed her long dark brown hair away from her face, every muscle in her twenty-four-year-old body screaming in protest after yesterday’s workout. “More like a torture session,” Alison murmured.
What was I thinking? What am I doing? Two weeks ago, she had seen an ad to get in shape and had impulsively joined a group called CrossFit in Ocean Beach. Then yesterday, when she had almost passed out from exhaustion, a girl named Kayla had invited her to go to Long Beach today to see some warrior game thing. Why had she said yes? Alison shook her head. Crazy, just plain crazy.
No. Research, she reminded herself, getting out of bed. She needed material to keep her blog going and give her some fresh ideas for the novel she had started. Who better than some muscled-up guys to fan the flames of her sweet fantasy website? Pulling off her night shirt, Alison glanced at her naked body in the bathroom mirror. Five feet nine inches of little more than skin and bones. Small boobs and a flat butt. But very little muscle tone to speak of. The team at CrossFit promised to change that—if she’d stick with it.
Shoving her negative feelings about her body aside, Alison captured her hair in a clip and covered it with a shower cap. At least no one could complain about her hair. Her glory covering, her grandmother used to say as she brushed it for Alison. Sadly, those days of spending time together had come to an end a year ago. Grandma Kate had died.
Tears threatened with the memory of her grandmother’s last days. She had lost her best friend, but Alison didn’t allow herself the luxury of crying. Instead, she glanced at her phone. Five-fifteen. She covered a yawn and turned on the shower. Kayla would be here in a half hour to pick her up. She still needed to pack some warm clothes, some healthy food, and an outfit that would get her noticed after the competition at Tony something-or-other’s party. She wasn’t sure, but she thought Kayla and Tony were a couple. Living together or just together? Maybe she would find out today.
Her phone dinged as she stuffed a peanut butter sandwich in her backpack. Kayla and Tony were waiting. She grabbed her pack and went out the door. The elevator took forever, but when it opened, she had it to herself. The advantage of living on the twelfth floor was the view. The downside? The elevator took forever.
On the street, she spotted Kayla and jogged to the car, every leg muscle screaming in protest. She opened the back door. “Hey, sorry to be late. I’ll treat if we can stop at Starbucks.” She tossed her backpack on top of some other gear and got in.
“Let’s see how the traffic looks. Maybe when we get closer, okay?” Kayla said.
“Sure, sound
s good,” Alison said, securing her seatbelt as Tony pulled out into traffic. “Tell me what to expect today.”
In the front seat, Kayla and Tony exchanged glances. Kayla turned in her seat. “This competition is for anyone in uniform—military, police, fire, and paramedics, so it’s going to be tough. Probably lots and lots of reps.”
Tony added, “Every competition is different. We got a look at the program a few days ago. We’re meeting the team early so we can get warmed up and pray.”
“Who’s on our team?” Alison asked, choosing to ignore the part about praying.
“Actually, there are three teams of two men each,” Tony said. “We’re all Navy, some from the Training Command and some from Special Boat Team 12, stationed in Coronado. So, we’re calling ourselves Dirty Boat Guys 1, 2 and 3. Very original.”
“Oh, yeah, I think Kayla told me you’re in the Navy, but what is it you do again?” Alison leaned forward. If she was going to spend the day—and maybe part of the evening—with these people, it wouldn’t hurt to know about their jobs. Maybe work it into one of her blogs. She smiled. None of these people had a clue about what she wrote in her blog. And she planned on keeping it that way just a little longer.
~ ~ ~
Threatened by angry, gray-black rain clouds, the U.S.S. Iowa Battleship hunkered at its dock on the Los Angeles Waterfront, reminding Alison of a huge, silver leviathan quietly waiting to strike. A quick Google search had told her that the ship was nicknamed the Battleship of Presidents and had seen more than fifty years of service in two wars before being decommissioned and becoming a museum. As she made her way up the steep gangway, she shivered, not only from the chilly rain, but from the excitement of being on board the actual ship that had carried President Franklin D. Roosevelt across the Atlantic during World War II for a secret meeting with Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin.