Rescued

by L. P. Maxa

  His first impression was reinforced tenfold. Jennie was smart and gorgeous, and down-to-earth, with a heart as big as all outdoors. And she was fierce, which gave him all sorts of ideas. Crap. There he went again, wandering into territory completely out of sync with the situation.

  With a deep breath, hoping to clear the lust from his brain, Brian told the manager what he needed and she handed him an old towel without a word. The receptionist provided scissors, and he snipped and tore the towel into a long strip that, if necessary, could be used to bind the Bulldog’s mouth.

  “Can I give you a break, Doc?” he asked.

  Jennie glanced up. “I’m okay.”

  Baby snorted, blinked a few times, shuddered, then closed her eyes and relaxed. Jennie stroked her head. “Aww. You’re going to be okay, aren’t you, little girl?” The dog’s tongue came out and swiped over the tip of her snout. Her eyes cracked open, and she began to pant.

  “She’s awake and panting, which will help cool her off.” Jennie sighed. She grabbed a towel from the shelf and wet it. “I’ll squeeze water into her mouth. Get as much in her as I can.”

  Brian bent over and spoke to the dog. “This might be the worst day of your life, and the best,” he muttered.

  Sanchez came around the wall that partitioned the sink area from the rest of the salon. The manager left her customer and came up behind him.

  “How’s our friend?” the cop asked.

  “She’s doing better,” Jennie said. “She’s awake.”

  “That’s good.” Sanchez went on to explain, “The owner showed up. He’s under arrest and on his way to the station. SPCA should be here in five minutes.”

  The manager’s lips slammed together and she turned back to her customer.

  It wasn’t even the five minutes Sanchez estimated before the SPCA workers arrived. While they talked to Jennie and took down her information, Brian located cleaning supplies in the rear of the shop. He mopped up what water had hit the floor, and after the SPCA workers moved Baby to a fiberglass crate, Brian cleaned the sink.

  “We’ll crank the van’s air conditioning to high and get to the hospital as fast as we can,” one of the animal care technicians said. A minute later Baby was gone.

  Area tidied, they headed out. Brian paused as he passed the manager’s salon chair. “Thank you. The dog probably would have died if not for what we were able to do here.” He dug his wallet out of his back pocket, extracted a business card, and offered it. “Here’s my contact information. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks to make sure the salon is fire code compliant.”

  She took his card and slipped it into her pocket. Her gaze rolled to Brian’s face, then returned to her client’s head. She gave a jerky nod. “Fine.”

  Outside on the sidewalk, he and Jennie told Sanchez good-bye. The run was over, the street open to business as usual.

  “Can I buy you breakfast?” Brian asked. He glanced at his watch. “Or maybe early lunch? I’m hungry, and I’m guessing so are you.”

  “That sounds good,” Jennie replied.

  They walked a couple blocks to a popular café and found an outside table available. The moment they were served water, they drank. Brian drained and lowered his glass and considered Jennie’s empty tumbler.

  “It’s a tie,” he said.

  “We worked up an honest thirst. We ran half a race, went toe-to-toe with Ms. Stone-for-a-heart, and saved a Bulldog.”

  The waiter returned with a pitcher and refilled their tumblers. Brian raised his. “We make a good team.”

  “To us.” Jennie smiled, and they clinked glasses and then drank. “Seriously, thank you.” She considered him a moment. “You seem to be a person who steps up when someone needs help. First your neighbor, then Sparky, now me.”

  Her praise made his chest expand and fill with warmth. “It’s part of the job description,” he replied, happy she found him admirable. “You were rather fierce yourself.”

  “Animal abuse makes me crazy-angry,” she stated, head shaking with emphasis. “If someone is so unaware or ignorant or uncaring to leave an animal in a closed car on a hot day, why do they have a pet? That window crack wasn’t accomplishing anything. I’m so glad the owner was arrested.”

  “What will happen to the Bulldog?”

  “She’ll be placed on a custody hold and remain at the SPCA until the owner’s case is concluded. It varies state to state, and even county to county, but here the judge usually encourages the abusive owner to voluntarily surrender ownership of the pet. If the owner does so, then the animal will go into the shelter’s general population and be eligible for adoption.”

  “Or euthanasia, if things don’t go right,” Brian muttered. He folded his hands and rested them on the table.

  Jennie nodded. “I’m afraid that’s true. She’ll be euthanized if she doesn’t recover completely from the heat stroke, or if no one adopts her.”

  “I hate to think of that happening. It could happen to Sparky, too.”

  Jennie reached across the table and rested her hand atop his. “You should see him. We gave him a bath and trim yesterday, and he’s soooo cute.”

  Surprisingly, it didn’t make Brian feel better to think Sparky would be adopted. Would his new family love him the way he should be loved? Give him the attention he needed? He wanted Sparky and Baby to have good homes, the best. Sparky’s bright eyes were so full of personality. He was such a plucky little guy. Baby had been too sick to display her temperament, but any dog who’d suffered at the hands of an owner deserved to be swaddled in love.

  “The hospital was busy yesterday.” Jennie changed the subject. “We admitted several animals and now we’re almost full. We’ll have to discharge Sparky to the shelter soon. Possibly tomorrow.”

  A boulder dropped into Brian’s stomach. He couldn’t blame Jennie. She looked as disturbed as he felt. She’d already kept Sparky beyond what his condition required.

  “Will they be able to care for his feet properly?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Jennie’s voice sounded sincere and definite. “They’ll continue his wound care.”

  For a moment, his thoughts flew to the Chihuahua in the backpack. He imagined toting Sparky on his back. Then he imagined Jennie and her two dogs accompanying them on a mountain trail.

  “My neighbor used to care for my dog when I was on duty, but it was her house that caught fire. It’ll be a few months before she’s back in her home, and without her help, there’s no way I can adopt Sparky.”

  Stars seemed to fire Jennie’s eyes, and a slow smile spread across her face. “You’d adopt him?”

  “I can’t.” But he wanted to.

  “What if…what if I helped? Until your neighbor comes home. He could stay with me when you’re working.”

  Brian pushed his feet into the concrete and stood. Leaned across the table, captured Jennie’s head between his hands, and laid a firm, joyous kiss on her sweet mouth. When he pulled back, she had wide eyes and parted lips. Then the lips curved.

  “I guess you like that idea,” Jennie rasped, a little breathless.

  “I like more than the idea.” He ran his finger down the slope of her nose and tapped the tip. He sat back down. “When can I get my dog?”

  ###

  Two months later Brian stood on Jennie’s front stoop and gazed at Sparky, who danced at Brian’s feet. The terrier quivered with excitement.

  “I know,” Brian said, pushing the doorbell. “You can’t wait to see your friends.” Roxie the cat, Duchess the Cocker, and Blossom the Border Collie.

  Jennie opened the door and Sparky dashed past her to the waiting pack. His paws were healed, and he spun and ran and jumped as if they’d never been injured.

  Brian slid his arm around Jennie’s waist and they kissed. Several times. And then a few more for good measure, as if they hadn’t seen each other last night. When they pulled apart they wore matching grins. “Hi.”

  “Perfect timing. I just lit the grill.”

  Brian
entered the now familiar home and made his way to the kitchen. In a short time, he had food on the grill and a beer in hand. The dogs lay on the grass watching, apparently fascinated by the grilling process.

  After a few minutes, Duchess yawned and closed her eyes, and Blossom rose to trail a meandering butterfly. Sparky’s eyes remained fixed on Brian. “You’re more attentive than the most gung-ho rookie I ever trained, Sparks,” Brian noted. He knew it was because the little pooch loved him. The feeling went both ways.

  Jennie set guacamole and chips on the patio table.

  “Luis Sanchez called me today.”

  “Is everything all right?” Jennie asked.

  “His little girl loves Petunia.” Petunia, previously known as Baby, and before that, Useless. Brian pulled his cell phone from his pocket, opened his messages, and tapped the picture Sanchez had texted. He turned the phone and showed Jennie. Sanchez’s little girl, Emily, appeared to be serving tea to Petunia, who wore a hat.

  “Petunia looks good in pink.” Jennie smiled, and that familiar feeling grabbed at Brian’s chest.

  “Sanchez, Emily, and Petunia are bringing cookies to my station and Station Three tomorrow, to thank everyone for covering Petunia’s medical bills.” After Brian paid for Sparky’s medical care, he’d suggested that the money collected by the firefighters go toward the costs incurred by the Bulldog. All involved had agreed.

  The Bulldog’s owner had surrendered all claim to the dog. It seemed almost as if the dog knew something better waited for her, the way she tolerated her confinement, eating and resting as if determined to heal as quickly as possible. Brian had been surprised and happy when Sanchez contacted him and expressed interest in adopting her.

  “Be sure to take pictures,” Jennie ordered.

  Brian nodded, and grinned inwardly. She was fierce about everything and anything to do with animals. “We’ve got a Dove County Firefighter T-shirt for Emily. And another one that should fit Petunia.”

  Jennie’s brows shot up. “A doggie firefighter T-shirt? Does Sparky have one?”

  Brian stared at her.

  Jennie frowned. “He needs one,” she insisted. “So does Duchess and Blossom.”

  “Is that right?” Brian asked. “I guess I’d better get all my girls outfitted.” He paused. “What size do you wear?” he asked as if he didn’t know, and was rewarded with a smile he planned on seeing again and again, and forever.

  ALWAYS A HERO

  Marilyn Baxter

  Chapter One

  Noah had all but fallen on his knees and begged the universe to divert Hurricane Dolly away from St. Magnus Island. Apparently the universe had other priorities because the storm was still barreling directly toward them, sending everyone into panic mode. And that made his job as a deputy sheriff doubly difficult.

  “Yes, sir. Uh-huh. Yes, sir, I know. The village looks like a ghost town. Red flags are up at all the beaches. The pier is roped off, and all the shops are boarded up. Folks seem to be taking this seriously.” Noah glanced toward Magnolia’s from his position in the parking lot of St. Magnus Beachwear. The family-owned restaurant had shuttered windows, and all the wicker furniture that normally filled the large porch had been brought inside.

  “I’m glad this didn’t happen over Labor Day weekend,” Noah’s boss said from the other end of the radio. Sheriff Josh Henderson had been elected less than a year earlier, and this storm would be his first trial by fire as the county’s chief law enforcement officer.

  “That makes two of us,” Noah agreed. The Marlowe County Sheriff’s office had thirty-five sworn officers, with ten of them being dedicated to St. Magnus Island. On a three-day holiday weekend when the island’s population could easily quadruple with the influx of tourists, law enforcement could be stretched pretty thin.

  “Official evacuation starts tomorrow morning. One way on and off the island, I want to give our people a head start. Listen, Tindall, make one more pass over the main roads and then head home. Carlisle will take over until eight hundred hours. I know tomorrow is supposed to be your day off, but with this storm and Seth’s inexperience, I can’t spare you. I need you to be on call.” Seth Carlisle was the department’s newest deputy and only twenty-five years old. “We can’t order anyone to leave yet, but we can encourage them, if you take my meaning. Any stragglers—do what you can.”

  Noah signed off and slid back into his Jeep. A month earlier, Verlon Bullard had taken a drunken joyride in Noah’s official sheriff’s car. After being involved in a single-vehicle accident where adult beverages had been involved, Verlon had walked away with only whiplash and a small cut over his left eye. The Crown Vic hadn’t been so lucky. The insurance company had declared it a total loss.

  Noah twisted the key in the ignition and the black Jeep’s engine roared to life. He turned left onto Palmetto Street, which became Beachside Drive once it cleared the village area. Noah calculated how much daylight was left then mentally charted a path that would take him on every main road on the twelve-mile-long barrier island. Once he’d completed his patrol, he’d head home for the night and try to relax, knowing tomorrow was going to be tense. With any luck, the majority of the island’s inhabitants had left already, and rounding up the foot-draggers and those whose bravado exceeded their common sense would force him to use his professional training.

  As he approached the last few houses on Beachside, Noah noticed a car in the drive of one, but saw no lights or other signs of occupancy. Odd that the occupants would leave a vehicle outside when the house had a two-car garage. As he drove closer, he could see the car was older—a decade-old compact sedan with red paint faded from years in the hot sun. Perhaps the garage was filled with newer, more expensive vehicles that would be costlier to replace. In this older but upscale area of the island, it wasn’t uncommon for a household to have three or even four vehicles.

  The single-story cedar-shake beach cottage had a steeply pitched roof and a front porch that ran the full width of the structure. Noah guessed it dated from mid-twentieth century when heavy development had begun on St. Magnus. These cottages, though, were quickly disappearing as older owners died and properties were bought by developers who razed the homes and replaced them with three-story monstrosities that towered over their neighbors and appeared too large for the lots upon which they sat.

  This resident must care about maintaining the architectural integrity of the neighborhood, which made Noah smile. He had grown up in the mountains of northwest Georgia, attended a state university, and worked for eighteen months in the metropolitan Atlanta area as a deputy sheriff. When he had seen the want ad for the deputy’s position on the coast, he applied for the job, more than ready to escape the frenetic pace of big city law enforcement. St. Magnus had been home now for ten years, and Noah had never regretted the move.

  He executed a three-point turn at the end of the street and slowed as he approached the cottage. Still no lights, and no sign of occupancy. He accelerated and completed the route he’d charted around the island. When he finally pulled into his carport and angled out of the Jeep, a brisk wind reminded him that Dolly still had the island firmly in her sights. Unless the storm stalled over them, the worst would be over in a matter of hours. But then the island’s inhabitants would be left with the cleanup and days, maybe even weeks, of inconvenience while they worked to return to normal.

  His bungalow on Cypress Street was tucked onto a small lot at the end of the street where civilization ended and Cypress Marsh began. This small subdivision had not yet been invaded by the tear-down-and-replace boom, though Noah feared it couldn’t be avoided much longer. Cypress Acres dated from the 1930s and was one of the older areas on the island. His two-bedroom, one-bath home suited him and had been a steal since it had been well past a fixer-upper. He had spent many nights and weekends repairing and remodeling, knowing all too well if and when he ever sold the house, it would be razed to make way for something larger.

  Noah preferred living on the marsh rather than on th
e beach. His house sat at thirteen feet above sea level in almost the geographic center of the island where the chance of flooding was lower. The view of the marsh from his living room window had been a big selling point. St. Magnus, with its subtropical climate, enjoyed four seasons, though the winters were generally mild. The marsh turned a beautiful gold color in autumn, and the sunsets were typically awesome and dramatic.

  After getting out of the car, he unlatched the fence gate and made his way to the back door. After entering and disarming the security system, Noah shrugged out of his damp rain jacket, then toed off his boots and left them on a mat beside the door. He padded in his sock feet to the master bedroom where he began to strip off his uniform. As he unbuttoned the khaki-colored shirt, he was nudged from behind, knocking him off balance.

  “You know better than to come up behind an armed law enforcement office like that,” he warned. “Haven’t I told you to announce your presence?”

  A deep, rumbling bark boomed behind him, and Noah turned to face a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound black Great Dane. “The bark is a little late, buster. You have to do better next time.”

  The dog responded with another bark, then wagged his tail and rammed his nose against Noah’s hand.

  “I’m sorry you were alone all day. It’s been crazy with this storm. Let me change and I’ll let you out.”

  After changing into jeans and a t-shirt, Noah let his dog out into the fenced backyard where he chased leaves while Noah nuked a frozen pizza. Normally he followed the dog outside and cleaned up after him, but not in this weather. He’d clean it up later. They’d also have to skip their usual walk to a nearby park where he could throw that damn tennis ball for two hours and his buddy would still lope off and come back with a drooly mess that he dropped at Noah’s feet.

  Sometimes a curious kid could be pressed into ball-tossing service. The Great Dane was a gentle giant with an even temperament and friendly nature. But his size intimidated most people, and parents were reluctant to let their children approach, much less engage in play.