by Meg Harding
Table of Contents
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
Epilogue
Accepting the Fall
Meg Harding
Contents
Copyright © 2017 by Meg Harding
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Meg Harding
Copyright © 2017 by Meg Harding
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Published by Oceanside Press
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Morgan, Piper, and Brittany. This wouldn’t have been possible without your help.
Chapter 1
“Mister Whit’ker. Mister Whit’ker.” This was followed by an insistent tug on his sleeve.
Cole’s name whistled through the gap where Bobby Jenson’s two front teeth should be. He turned from where he’d been outlining the alphabet on the board and crouched to Bobby’s level, meeting his sincere blue irises. They were wide and his expression was insistent. His cheeks were red and a smudge of dirt hovered over one eyebrow. Cole had sent the class out for recess with his assistant not even five minutes ago. “Is everything all right, Bobby? Where’s Mr. Fred?”
Bobby’s lower lip wobbled. “Savanah pushed me.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I just wanted to go down the slide.” They spilled over, leaving streaks along his cheeks.
Sometimes, mostly when students like Savanah swept through his class like the Tasmanian devil, Cole wondered why he’d thought becoming a kindergarten teacher was the way to go. Little Savanah Emerson was proving in her first week at Ridgedale Elementary to be quite the bully. Bobby was the third student to come to him in tears. In a week. Was Savanah looking to set some kind of record?
“Did you tell Mr. Fred?” he asked Bobby, reaching out blindly for his desk drawer where he kept the candy stashed.
Bobby shook his head and sand flew from his hair, spraying Cole’s pants and hitting his face. He sniffled, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand.
Cole changed course, grabbing the ever present hand sanitizer from the edge of his desk. “How about we get you cleaned up, and you can do whatever you want for the rest of recess, hmm?”
Like the magic words they were, the tears vanished in reaction and Bobby bounced on his toes. “Whatever I want?” His lisp—thanks to his many missing teeth—grew more pronounced in his excitement.
Please don’t make me regret this. Cole held the Germ X out, squirting a tiny dollop on Bobby’s hand when he extended it. “Whatever you want.” He paused. “Within reason.” Always a caveat to be added when children were involved, he’d learned.
“I can color? With all the crayons to myself?” Bobby appeared ecstatic at the prospect. It was amazing how fast kids recovered.
“Sure, buddy.” Cole stood, holding a hand out for Bobby to take if he wanted. “Let’s get you a tissue, huh? Are you hurt at all?”
“M’fine,” said Bobby, already trying to steer Cole toward the art station in the corner. Cole resisted the tugging, heading for the cabinets in which he stored everything that could possibly be needed to contain germs. Once he was sure Bobby wasn’t going to spread snot all over the art supplies, he let him loose to do as he pleased.
He needed to have a talk with Savanah—clearly the first two had done no good. He was going to have to call a parent this time. He propped the door between his and Mrs. Berkley’s room open so she could keep an eye on Bobby, and then went to find Savanah before she could do damage to anyone else.
She was on the swings alone, the seats on either side of her empty. The other kids had started to avoid her after the first day, when she’d snapped Lily Hopkins favorite My Little Pony pencil in half. Cole had been horrified—and a little impressed by her strength, though he’d never admit it aloud.
He came to a stop just out of leg range. He didn’t want to add a kick to the stomach to his day. “Savanah, can I talk to you?”
He gave her this, she was a bold child. Her dark brown gaze locked on him and the, “No,” that left her mouth was nothing short of prim. Her long braids flew out behind her as she arced into the air. Her feet were perfectly pointed like a ballerina in her flats as she flew.
Cole had a feeling his day was about to get a lot more frustrating. “Savanah, it’s not an option. I need you to stop swinging and come have a chat with me.”
She ignored him, blithely continuing to rock back and forth. She was going too fast, and moving too high, for Cole to stop the swing himself. He wanted to speak to her, not knock her onto the ground. “All right then.”
He turned and scanned the playground for Fred. He was holding one end of a jump rope, head cocked in a way that said he’d been watching Cole. Cole whistled, loud and sharp, to get everyone’s attention. He raised his voice to be heard clearly. “Mr. Fred’s going to take everyone inside, and you’ll have free time to play at whatever stations you want. If you’re well behaved and keep an inside volume, everyone will get candy at the end of the day.” He’d learned to not be above bribery in his ten years as a teacher. It worked as he’d planned, and they filed into the classroom with barely any complaints. Fred shot him a questioning look, and Cole waved him on. He didn’t have the time to explain things now.
With the playground empty of all but Savanah and he, Cole took a seat in the grass to wait her out. Five-year-olds had a lot of energy, but they didn’t have an unending supply. Eventually she’d have to stop. While he waited, he perused Pinterest for dinner options for that night. He had Patrick, his boyfriend, coming over. Cole wanted to impress him with his (limited) culinary ability. He liked a butternut squash and spinach tortellini dish and contemplated the possibility of successfully making zucchini meatballs. Or maybe avocado egg rolls…. From the corner of his eye, Savanah stubbornly swung on.
The only time Cole moved was to yell to Fred to let him know he would have the honor of teaching today’s lesson on lower case letters.
Eventually, Savanah’s muscles overcame her stubbornness, and the swing slowly came to a rocking halt. They eyed each other. Sweat was trickling down the sides of her pixie face. The hair around the edges was curling, frizzing out. Cole could empathize. It was so hot out, his button up was probably soaked through in places.
“Are we ready to talk?” he asked.
She didn’t move from the seat. She also didn’t answer him. Her small hands were curled around the chain of the swing.
Cole glanced to the heavens and wo
ndered why him. “Okay. I’ll talk then.” He didn’t stand. Towering over her would get him nothing, instead he went for eye contact. “We don’t push people. Not for any reason. If you have a problem you can’t solve with words—nice ones—then you come find me or Mr. Fred. It doesn’t matter what the problem is, how big or small. We never lay a hand on someone else. You wouldn’t want them pushing you, would you? It wouldn’t make you feel good. Don’t do to someone else what you wouldn’t want done to you, yeah?”
Her blank stare was all he received. Savanah had a hell of a poker face for a kid her age.
Cole sighed. “Come on. I’m done lecturing you.” He stood, dusting his khakis off and hoping the back wasn’t grass stained.
Savanah slid from the swing, her legs trembling under her weight for a moment. She straightened, and then walked toward him, coming to stop by his side. Her dark gaze took him in, assessing. He waited patiently, after all, what was a few minutes more?
“You’re not my daddy,” she said. The first words she’d spoken to him all day.
“I’m not.” He was starting to have a very low opinion of whoever was. “I’d like to meet him, though.” He had some strong words to share with the man.
Her long black lashes fluttered as she blinked. She had such a solemn countenance. “You won’t. He’s always workin’. He doesn’t have the time.”
Suspecting he already knew the answer, Cole asked, “And your mom?”
Little shoulders, clad in the standard maroon school uniform, shrugged. “She left.”
“She left” could mean a lot of things. Cole didn’t focus on that. He was starting to get a blurry image of what might be going on here. He’d like to say it wasn’t common, but he’d been around long enough to have seen the story play out in a thousand different ways. “Would you want to talk to someone about stuff?”
Her nose wrinkled. “You?”
She didn’t need to sound so skeptical. Cole was a great listener, thanks very much. “No. Not me. Someone who talks to people professionally.” The school had a counselor, and Savanah might really benefit from seeing her. Cole wasn’t equipped to deal with these kinds of problems on his own.
“If I think about it, will I not be in trouble?” Out came the innocent “who me” expression.
“Yeah, no.” Cole held in his smile. It wouldn’t be appropriate. “You’re going to the front office to tell them why you thought pushing another student was a good idea.”
There were a lot of things Cole loved—his mom liked to say he had a big heart—but at the top of the list was coming home. Without fail, whenever he pulled into his garage, he could hear his herd of dogs howling for him to get his ass inside. He moved too much when he was younger to ever have animals, and the second he’d been able to support himself, he’d gone to the local shelter. He’d intended to only rescue one dog.
There was a saying about intentions for a reason.
Nearly ten years later, and Cole was on a first name basis with all the shelters and conservations in the area. He was slowly but steadily taking vet courses at an online college during his summers. Teaching was his passion, but he had room for another.
He was mobbed the second he opened the door, heavy paws thumping his thighs and slobbery tongues licking whatever they could. Behind the mini herd of dogs, two of his cats watched the display of affection disdainfully.
“Hey guys,” cooed Cole, juggling his school bag so he could pet everyone. “Daddy’s home, yeah. Have we gone a day without eating any of his furniture? Hmm?” He was currently fostering—and would probably end up keeping because he was nothing if not a sappy sucker—a three-month old terrier mix. He’d already lost a pillow and two pairs of shoes to Casper’s needle teeth. “How about you guys let me in?”
They took their sweet time.
Cole dropped his bag on the dining room table and walked through to the living room. One wall had large bay doors, and he flicked aside the curtains to check the yard. He lived on a five-acre stretch of land, even though his need for space meant his trek to work ranged from thirty minutes to an hour some days. He didn’t spot any of his mares or cows, but the pot belly pig, Arthur, who he’d rescued last year was sunbathing on his porch stoop. He let the curtain swish back into place and gave Arthur some privacy.
He needed to get started on dinner if it was going to be done by the time Patrick arrived. He’d recently renovated his kitchen, replacing old appliances with new and changing the white laminate cabinets to a gorgeous wood hickory. The walls along the counters were done in brick tile, and the rest of the room was a soft beige. Cheshire, his steel gray, three-legged Maine Coon, lounged regally on the counter top beside the fridge.
“You’re a dick,” said Cole, meeting Cheshire’s slitted yellow stare.
His fluffy tail flicked lazily.
Cole went to retrieve his gloves so he could get Cheshire down without too much damage. The damn cat lived to frustrate him. He hissed and squirmed as Cole lowered him, rocketing off to hide somewhere once all three paws were on the ground. His yowl of indignation echoed behind him.
Once he’d cleaned everything, Cole pulled up one of his many Spotify playlists and prepared to become a master chef for the evening. He grated zucchini to the beat of Bleacher’s I Wanna Get Better and deposited it in the skillet to simmer to the tune of DNCE’s Be Mean. His five babies—dogs—sprawled on the tile floor, attention locked on Cole and any food he might drop.
It might have been a testament to his future as an animal hoarder, but as he cooked, Cole narrated his day for the animals. It helped to voice his concerns to them, even if they couldn’t impart advice in return. “I don’t think she’s a genuinely mean child,” he said of Savanah. “Most aren’t. And I think a lot of her behavior has to do with acting out because of her home life. But I can’t cut her slack because of that, you know? I wouldn’t be doing my job if I let her bully the other kids and made excuses for her.”
He stirred the grated zucchini, absently wondering how simmered was simmered enough. “What do you think?” he asked his audience, twisting to see their no doubt half-asleep expressions. Smaug, a Rottweiler he’d had for three years now, yawned widely and twitched one folded ear. Cole nodded. “Yeah, I agree.”
His front door opened, and the dogs went running as he was taking the zucchini meatballs from the oven. Instead of the squash meal, he’d gone the easy route and made an arugula pasta salad as a main course. So what if it was an odd addition to the meatless meatballs. He set the baking tray next to the salad bowl, and then went to the door before the dogs knocked his boyfriend down.
Patrick stood on the other side, a bouquet of pretty spring flowers in hand. Cole didn’t really care for flowers, they made his throat itch and died quickly, but Patrick liked to randomly show up with them. He thought it was romantic, and Cole figured he’d learn to live with them eventually. “Hey.” He leaned in, moving Thor aside with his knee, to kiss Patrick’s cheek. “Come on in.”
He’d met Patrick at a friend’s dinner party over two years ago. He was five years Cole’s senior, and he built computers. He had a quiet voice, and if Cole was asked to describe him he’d use the word nice. Patrick looked like the boy next door all grown up, and he had manners in spades. His black-rimmed glasses gave him a dorky flair.
Cole looked at him, and he saw safe. A guy couldn’t ask for more than that.
The man could be taken out of the military, but the military couldn’t be taken out of the man. Zander didn’t truly know who he was if he wasn’t a soldier. He still made his bed and his bunk at the station with hospital corners, and he had a habit of eating like it might be his last meal. Going through the required training to become a firefighter had seemed logical when he left the marines after his last tour. It gave him a built-in team, the same sense of family the unit had provided. People came and they went, but someone always replaced them. That was constant enough for Zander. He fell right into it much like he had the military, sliding smoothly into the
ranks and excelling at his job.
It was the whole kid thing he was having trouble with. What did one do with them? For all he understood her, Savanah might as well have been an alien. She’d shown up on his doorstep at the end of the year before, birth certificate in hand and a note from her mom saying she was all his. He hadn’t even known about her before then.
He didn’t enlist for another tour of duty.
Sometimes, in the dark place at the back of his brain, he wished he had. Savanah would be better off with someone else, and Zander’s life would go back to being simple. God, he missed knowing what he was doing at all times.
Tired and lungs stinging from putting out a small forest fire for the last couple hours, Zander all but collapsed into the passenger seat of the fire truck. His skin was sweaty beneath his uniform, hot and uncomfortable. Everything ached. Florida was too fucking dry. It needed to rain already before the whole state went up. He wiped sooty sweat from his forehead and wiped that from his hands on to his dirty uniform pants. Not that it did much good.
Mitchell Reed thumped into the driver’s seat beside him. His breathing was heavy and his face streaked with ash. His hazel eyes were red and watery. “I think I’m going to retire,” he said between puffs of air. He laid his head on the steering wheel.
“You’re thirty-one,” said Zander, rolling his eyes. All the guys joked about retiring, but none of them probably would until they literally couldn’t do it anymore. “I think you’ve got a while left.”
“Ugh.”
They sat there waiting to leave, slumped and nearly drowsing, as everyone loaded up. Zander wanted a shower and a bed. He was ready for this seemingly never-ending shift to be done with. Seven hours to go….
His head had just hit his pillow when he was unceremoniously shaken awake. He batted the hand away from him. “What the fuck?” he slurred. “Lemme sleep.” He cracked one eyelid open to look fuzzily upon Kevin Dunnellon.