by Loree Lough
A Man of Honor
Loree Lough brings A Man of Honor to her readers, and she delivers a woman of honor, as well. Although Grace and Dusty have endured and survived much in the past, both struggle to provide the care they know others in their lives deserve. Readers will experience friendship, tragedy, love, and the uplifting power of faith as they live the story right along with the characters. Loree has crafted yet another book that kept me turning pages all night long.
—ROBIN BAYNE, author of ten novels/novellas, including Carol Award winner The Artist’s Granddaughter
As always, Loree Lough takes her fans on a deeply emotional journey in A Man of Honor. With her dynamic storytelling style, Lough has masterfully crafted scenes that are sure to leave readers breathless and knowing there’s hope, even after the most tragic events anyone can imagine.
—DEBBY MAYNE, author of Sweet Baklava and the upcoming Class Reunion series.
Be prepared for one of Loree Lough’s most moving tales yet. The challenges Grace and Dusty face in A Man of Honor will plunge readers into moments of shattered innocence and tragic loss, in a search for truth, love, and healing, not only for themselves but for all the people that surround them. Book 3 in the First Responders series reminds readers that “. . . the greatest of these is love.”
—RITA GERLACH, author of Surrender the Wind and other reader favorites
Other Recent Books by Loree Lough
From Ashes to Honor, Book 1 of the First Responders series
Honor Redeemed, Book 2 of the First Responder series
Suddenly Daddy/Suddenly Mommy (two full-length contemporary romances)
Accidental Family (Book 3 in Accidental Blessings series)
The Lone Star Legends series: Beautiful Bandit, Maverick Heart, Rio Grande Moon
Love Finds You in Paradise, Pennsylvania
Love Finds You in North Pole, Alaska
Love Finds You in Folly Beach, South Carolina
Be Still . . . and Let Your Nail Polish Dry (devotional with Andrea Boeshaar, Sandra D. Bricker, and Debby Mayne)
His Grace Is Sufficient . . . but Decaf is NOT (devotional with Sandra D. Bricker, Trish Perry, and Cynthia Ruchti)
A MAN OF
HONOR
Book 3 of the First
Responders Series
Loree Lough
A Man of Honor
Copyright © 2012 by Loree Lough
ISBN-13: 978-1-68299-868-7
Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202
www.abingdonpress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lough, Loree.
A man of honor / Loree Lough.
p. cm. — (First responders series bk. 3)
ISBN 978-1-4267-1462-7 (book - pbk. / trade pbk. : alk. paper) 1. First responders—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3562.08147M36 2012
813'.54—dc23
2012015940
Scripture on page 7 is from the Common English Bible. © Copyright 2011 by the Common English Bible. All rights reserved. Used by permission. (www.CommonEnglishBible.com)
Prayer on pages 331-332 is taken from www.allaboutprayer.com published by AllAboutGOD.com ministries, M. Houdmann, P. Matthews-Rose, R. Niles, editors, 2002–2011. Used by permission.
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 17 16 15 14 13 12
To my beloved mom (who joined the Father
while I was writing this book).
Her love of books and talent for storytelling
put me on the road to writing.
And to my dedicated readers . . .
without all of you, none of this would be possible!
Acknowledgments
My sincere thanks to Susannah Charleson, whose outstanding book, Scent of the Missing, inspired me to feature rescue dogs and the dedicated people who train them in two of the First Responders series novels.
Heartfelt gratitude to the Reverend Robert Crutchfield, who not only wrote the first responders prayer but also graciously allowed me to share it in all of the First Responders series novels.
Thanks, too, to the spirit-led people at All About God, for granting permission to use the moving prayer found in this story. (To learn more, visit http://www.allaboutgod.com)
Last, but certainly not least, thanks to God . . . for gracing me with this story idea and delivering daily doses of energy and enthusiasm to bring it to a satisfying conclusion.
Dear Reader,
No matter your age, there’s a good chance you’re lugging around some emotional baggage. Broken hearts, broken homes, health issues, the death of a loved one, a runaway child, unemployment, fear of foreclosure . . . the list of stuff that our nightmares and bad memories are made of goes on and on!
Surviving each tragedy is the exercise that builds moral fiber and the strength of character required to steer clear of the potholes on life’s rocky road . . . and to keep our eyes on the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.
When a stranger’s heartbreak brings Dusty and Grace together, they’re instantly drawn to each other. But before they can realize their dreams of a bright future together, they must first leave the darkness of past hurts and disappointments behind them.
This is what I pray for you, dear reader . . . that you’ll always have the strength to maneuver around any hurdles that are preventing you from realizing your own hopes and dreams!
Blessings to you and yours,
Loree
No one has greater love than to give up one’s life
for one’s friends.
—John 15:13 CEB
1
Dusty stifled a yawn and deployed the Harley’s kickstand. The handlebar clock said 5:15, and beside it, the temperature gauge registered seventy-two muggy degrees. He shook his head and hoped weatherman Marty Bass was wrong about thunderstorms in the forecast, because if he wasn’t, more than this morning’s search and rescue mission—SAR for short—was in jeopardy. It meant he’d have to put off fixing the roof. Again. And that meant new mattresses for the boys who called The Last Chance their home.
Grumbling under his breath, he stowed his helmet, and after squeezing rain from his ponytail, pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, soaked clean through by the deluge that had chased him halfway around the Baltimore Beltway.
Dusty shouldered his way through the tunnel of waterlogged branches that canopied the footpath. If he’d stopped for a sack of burgers from the twenty-four-hour McDonald’s on North Howard, his stomach wouldn’t be groaning now. But then, he wouldn’t have beaten the morning gridlock, either. Tradeoffs. Lately, they seemed to dominate every facet of his life.
A fat raindrop oozed from a leaf and landed on the tip of his nose, then slid to the blacktopped footpath where it gleamed like a new dime. Up ahead, the blue and red strobes of emergency vehicles sliced through the gray mist, and the whoop of sirens silenced the usual chirp of tree frogs and crickets. If that didn’t lend gritty balance to the postcard-pretty sight, Dusty didn’t know what did.
He passed two stern-faced cops, interviewing a guy in a baggy orange jogging suit. “Shadow is the best-behaved dog I’ve ever owned,” he heard the guy say, “but he spotted something over the
re . . .” The man pointed to a break in the tree line, “and went completely off his nut.”
Dusty took note of the German shepherd’s stance—ears pricked forward and tail straight out—as it stared at the spot, some twenty yards away.
“Probably just a squirrel or something,” the owner said, “but with the story of that young girl, I figured—”
“We appreciate the tip, sir,” the tallest officer said. He tucked a tablet into his shirt pocket while his partner returned the guy’s driver’s license. “Don’t worry, if we need anything more, we know how to get in touch.” He gave the pocket flap a pat.
In other words, Dusty thought, hit the road, dude, so we can get to work. The jogger took the hint and led his dog across the parking lot as Dusty joined the small circle of SAR workers already assembled. Jones, this mission’s Operation Leader, quickly brought them up to speed: Melissa Logan, age sixteen, hadn’t been home since the night of her prom. Last seen a few miles west of the park, her disappearance had sparked an intensive dawn-to-dusk manhunt that left everyone scratching their heads. And when the jogger’s shepherd started acting spooky, the dominos began to fall, starting with its owner’s 9-1-1 call and ending with another search, here.
“It’s been nearly a week since she went missing,” Jones warned, “so prepare yourselves.”
Meaning, dead or alive, Melissa Logan wouldn’t look very pretty, even in her fancy prom gown.
They all knew the drill, but Jones went over it, anyway. “Let’s try not to make too big a mess, stomping through the underbrush, shall we?”
Because the cops will need every scrap of evidence to catch the animal who did this.
Next, came the OL’s reminder to double-check field packs for standard equipment: Compass, knife, matches and rope, sterile dressing and bandages, bottled water, space blanket, and metal mirror. Memory of the time he’d needed the snake-bite kit faded as the sound of surgical gloves, snapping into place, went around the circle.
The team field tested their radios and counted off, starting with Dusty and ending with Honor Mackenzie, the best rescue dog trainer he’d ever worked with. Today, she’d brought Rerun, instead of the more experienced Rowdy. His gut—and those dark circles under Honor’s sad eyes—told him something bad had happened to the personable Golden Retriever that had earned awards, a fan page on Facebook, and the respect of every team member, two-legged and four. Maybe later he’d ask her about that. . . .
“You volunteers,” Jones said, “pair up with somebody who’s wearing a pack.”
Technically, they were all volunteers, but SAR personnel had earned their certs by putting in long, grueling hours of training, while the rest—friends and family of the girl, mostly—had probably never done anything like this before.
“And you with packs,” Jones continued, “double-check to make sure your partners are wearing gloves, too.” He met Dusty’s eyes. “Parker, you want to start us off with a prayer?”
As chaplain of the local fire department, he was expected to ask God’s blessing on the mission, and Dusty had never let them down.
Until today.
Today? He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and he didn’t have a clue why. Didn’t need to open his eyes, either, to know that the team—even guys who weren’t particularly religious—needed him to find the right words to fit this circumstance.
Two empty seconds ticked by: Zero.
Four seconds: Zip.
Six: Nothing.
And because they continued to stand there, waiting in the prickly silence, Dusty launched into a bland, one-size-fits-all-occasions petition. “Father,” he began, “we ask your blessing on those assembled. Show us, Lord, the signs that will lead to Melissa. Let us find her alive, suffering only exhaustion and exposure. And if. . . .”
He paused, searching his mind for words that would help them cope when they found something more ominous, instead.
No one could read his thoughts, so why had he chosen if rather than when?
When the answer refused to materialize, Dusty lifted his head and exhaled a deep breath. “And now, if you’ll join me in reciting the first responders’ prayer. . . .”
“Father in Heaven,” they said together, “please make me strong when others are weak, brave when others are afraid, and vigilant when others are distracted by chaos. Provide comfort and companionship to my family when I must be away. Serve beside me and protect me as I seek to protect others.”
A dozen “Amens” echoed around the tight circle, followed by a few “Thank-yous” and “Good job, Dustys.” Then, nodding and muttering, the crew marched forward, some poking at the ground with sticks, others employing a slow slide-kick method to keep from stepping on evidence that might lead to the missing girl.
A few minutes into the search, a soft voice near Dusty’s elbow said, “Mind if I follow you?”
Young and wide-eyed, her expression told him she belonged with the “never did anything like this before” group. He had a notion to ask, “Why do I get stuck with all the newbies?” Instead, he said, “Does Jones have your contact info?”
“He does.”
He gave her a quick once-over. Wasn’t likely she’d keep up with him on legs that short, but even if she did, her to-the-point answer gave him hope that she wouldn’t hammer him with inane chatter.
“Move slowly and steadily, and stay a yard behind me and to my right.” So I can keep an eye on you. “And if you see anything, point it out to me and do not touch it.”
“Got it.”
There was something in her trembly tone, in her worried eyes, that told him she had a link to the missing girl. He started to ask about the connection when the toe of his boot tapped against something. One hand up to stop her, he took a knee and parted the weeds . . .
. . . and revealed a glittery high-heeled shoe. Six inches to its left, he saw the mate, and a few yards ahead of that, the once-pretty young woman who’d worn them to her prom.
Rising slowly, he radioed his location, then backpedaled, taking care to match every footfall to the boot print he’d left in the damp grass. He’d almost forgotten his tiny, human shadow, until she stepped up beside him.
“Oh, God,” came her shaky whisper. “Oh, no. . . .”
Jones’s voice crackled through the radio. “Roger that, Parker. Keep a clean scene. I’ll point the cops your way.”
Dusty reholstered his handset, then inspected his temporary partner’s face. “You okay?”
She swallowed, hard enough that he heard it, then croaked out, “I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t, as evidenced by her wavering voice and ashen complexion. He saw her knees buckle, and knew if he didn’t do something fast, she’d fall, right where she stood. One hand gripping each of her upper arms, he held tight as she knelt in the wet grass, then sat back on her heels and combed rain-dampened fingers through her hair. Five seconds of silence ticked by before she whispered, “Her name is Missy Logan. Melissa. Melissa Logan.” Eyes closed, she lifted her face to the grey clouds overhead. “She’s one of my students. English. Art. And Art History, too.”
She hardly looked old enough to be in high school, let alone teach in one. When she met his eyes, he knew she hadn’t chosen the profession for monetary reasons. The pain glittering in the big brown orbs told him that Missy Logan had meant something to her. Maybe she’d mentored the girl. Dusty would have asked if that was the case, if Jones and half a dozen SAR members hadn’t jogged up right then.
The OL groaned, wincing with deep pain when he saw the teenager’s broken, bloody remains.
“Oh, man,” echoed another, grimacing.
The teacher got to her feet as Dusty said, “This young lady says the girl is one of her students.”
“Was her student, you mean,” said a voice Dusty didn’t recognize. He looked over his shoulder, intent on aiming the stink-eye at the rude bozo. When he turned face-forward again, she was gone, no doubt pulled aside by one of the investigators now swarming the scene.
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Jones waved his team closer to hear his usual “how to handle stupid reporter questions” lecture. Then, one by one, SAR personnel were rounded up and questioned by the FBI agents assigned to the missing girl’s case. Working in twos, the agents made fast work of taking statements, handing out business cards, and securing each team member’s promise to call the Baltimore field office with details that might come to mind later. Halfway through his own interview, Dusty’s stomach began to churn. He blamed it on lack of sleep. The midnight pizza, devoured while helping one of his boys study for finals. The disturbing sight of the girl who’d never go home again.
He’d been at this for years. Melissa Logan hadn’t been his first “find.” So why the jitters and sweaty palms? Dusty stuffed an agent’s card into his pocket and promised to call if anything came to mind an hour or even a day from now. Then he walked away, stifling a frustrated groan as he slapped a palm to the back of his neck. Why didn’t any of the mind-over-matter tricks that helped his pals cope with stuff like this ever work for him?
Leaning his backside against a tree, he pulled a bottle of water from his pack and unscrewed the cap. With any luck, it would settle his roiling gut. Staring through the rippled plastic as he gulped, the scene took on a hazy, surreal look. What he wouldn’t give for the images to blur that way tonight, tomorrow, every night for weeks as the images flashed in his dreams.
“Idiot,” he muttered. For one thing, a guy had to sleep in order to dream, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept more than an hour or two at a stretch.
He glanced at his watch. In half an hour, Mitch would load the Last Chance boys into the van and drive them to Our Daily Bread, where they’d spend the day stocking shelves, cleaning, peeling potatoes, and doing dishes. If Dusty left right now, he might just get ahead of the traffic snarl on 695, and catch a few Z’s before joining them.
Stuffing the water bottle back into his pack, he jogged toward his Harley, and nearly collided with the two agents who’d interviewed him. They were with the pretty young teacher now. She clutched both blue surgical gloves in one hand as she stood, head down, nodding. He followed Agent One’s line of vision; he, too, had noticed that she was trembling all the way down to her soaked sneakers. Give the kid a break, he wanted to say. Because if the morning had been this tough on him, how much more had it affected a first-timer?