Honor Redeemed

by Loree Lough

  She didn’t know what to make of his perceptive nod and decided against asking if it meant he’d heard about her work … or her past. “So, Mr. Pulitzer winner, why does Austin call you The Defender?”

  She’d already heard the stories, and expected him to puff out his chest and crow about the heroic deeds that began at age ten, when he thwarted a purse snatching, and continued through to his college years, when he beat a would-be rapist to a pulp. He’d rescued a gaggle of Afghani kids from certain death by loading them onto a Humvee, minutes before an IED detonated. Much to her surprise, he blushed and blinked and fidgeted so badly that Honor felt genuine regret for asking. Having been on the receiving end of “none of your business” inquiries too many times to count, she said what she wished her interrogators had said upon seeing her discomfort: “Look, it’s really none of my business.”

  “It’s no big deal, really. I’m just—”

  The tow truck came to a halt in front of his pickup. “Saved by the squeal,” he said, laughing. Ten minutes later, once Manny and her car were on the way to the garage, Matt shifted the pickup into drive. “I told the boys I’d bring ‘em pizza for supper. Tony’s—see, another T place!—is right on the way. Mind if I stop at the house and keep my promise before I drop you off?”

  “How do you know it’s on the way to my place?”

  “You told me.”

  I did? Next time her car broke down, she’d check her blabbermouth at the door. “Can’t let two growing boys starve, now can we?”

  He snapped open his cell phone and scrolled to Tony’s number.

  “It’s illegal to drive and talk,” she said.

  “Good point.” He handed her the phone. “Two large thin crust pizzas. Pepperoni and mushrooms on one, plain cheese on the other. For pickup. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

  “Can’t. Dogs. Full bladders. Remember?”

  “Yeah. Now that you mention it, I do.” He maneuvered into traffic as she repeated his order, and when she returned the phone, her stomach growled.

  “Oh, boy. Now you have to join us. It’ll be half an hour before the pizzas are ready. Plenty of time to stop by your place and tend to your boys.”

  Pizza sounded great. Meeting his boys, even greater. But spending more time alone with Matt? Not so great. “I really can’t. They’ve been cooped up inside all day.”

  “Good point,” he said again.

  Moments later, he pulled into her driveway, slid the gearshift into Park, and as she opened her door, he said, “Maybe we can do the pizza thing another time.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Not, she thought.

  She hopped down from the cab, then turned to grab her bag, only to find Matt trying to hand it to her. For an instant, his fingertips brushed hers, sending her heart into overdrive. He’s a reporter, she reminded herself, and well-deserved or not, his nickname alone didn’t make him trustworthy. Once she found her voice, Honor said, “Thanks, Matt. I owe you one.”

  “No, you don’t.” When he leaned across the seat to pull the door shut, their fingers touched again. This time, his boyish, lopsided smile made the breath catch in her throat. “Enjoy your pizza,” she said, stepping back.

  Hours later, with both dogs slumbering at her slippered feet, Honor was still trying to figure out how to interpret his last comment … and whether or not she should believe him.

  6

  Where are the hot peppers, Dad?”

  “You ate ‘em all, dummy.”

  “Did not, stupid-head.”

  “Boys, if I have to warn you again about bickering, you’re going to bed. I’m not kidding.”

  The twins exchanged wide-eyed shock. “But it’s only eight o’clock,” Steve said.

  Warner chimed in with “Yeah, and it’s Friday.”

  “So if you want to stay up and watch that movie, you’d better knock it off.”

  Cheeks bulging like a couple of chipmunks, they put their heads together and whispered. “Mrs. Ruford is way nicer than him,” Warner grumbled around a mouth of pizza. “Yeah,” Steve whispered. “Lots.”

  Grinning, Matt hid behind his newspaper, more than happy to serve as their common enemy. At times like these, he wondered how their mom would have handled the bickering and stinginess so typical of sibling rivalry. No doubt she’d refer to a favorite how-to book and bow to the so-called experts’ advice. Throughout Faith’s pregnancy, she’d brought home dozens of pregnancy and parenting books, and he’d found a hundred excuses not to read them until placenta previa confined her to bed during those last two months. Though his skepticism grew with every page, he’d kept his opinions to himself, and not a day went by that he didn’t second-guess the decision. If he’d played devil’s advocate instead of caving to his overprotective tendencies, maybe he could have talked her out of going the natural childbirth route.

  Steve helped himself to another slice of pizza. “I wish he’d get a girlfriend.”

  “And marry her,” Warner agreed.

  “Yeah. Tommy’s stepmom lets him get away with everything.”

  “Same with Billy’s stepfather.”

  Obviously, they’d given some serious thought to his remarrying, he thought as the boys set up the DVR, turned out all but the lamp beside Matt’s chair, and lay flat on their backs to watch Batman. Again. And he’d watch it with them—again— just as his dad had watched Star Wars a dozen times without a word of complaint. Matt’s dad was one of the few who hadn’t recited the tired old cliché about what a good job he was doing—filling the mother and father roles. He’d also been the only one who never flinched when, as the groundskeepers had lowered Faith’s coffin into the ground, Matt vowed never to mollycoddle his sons; if doing right by them meant they’d dislike him—or worse—so be it.

  “Hey, Dad,” they said in unison.

  Planned? he wondered for the thousandth time, or yet another “twins thing?”

  “Grab a pillow,” Steve said, “and c’mon down.”

  “You can see better,” Warner agreed, patting the carpet, “from here.”

  The movie’s intro music was loud enough to make Cash whimper, so Matt flicked off the table lamp and grabbed the remote. If the boys noticed him turning down the volume, neither said anything. Not Warner, whose twin called him “Dad’s Mini Me,” and not Steve, the smaller, blond, and blue-eyed Faith look-alike.

  Though Matt sat up straight and leaned into the couch cushions, his big white socks lined up with their shorter-legged, sneakered feet. The dog draped his black-and-white speckled body across all three pairs of legs, and, giggling, the boys gently pushed and shoved, pretending they wanted him to leave. They weren’t fooling anybody, least of all, Cash, who tired of the roughhousing long before the boys and trotted to the other side of the room for a peaceful, quiet, hands-off place to flop.

  The boys settled down, too, leaving Matt free to replay their earlier get-a-girlfriend–get-married exchange. The boys were in kindergarten before he started dating. Once or twice, he thought maybe he’d found a woman he could spend more than a couple of hours with. But he’d never mustered enough affection for any of them to inspire an introduction to his sons. Not only had he planned to initiate a meeting between the boys and Honor, he’d invited her right into his home. It would take time, trying to puzzle that one out, and the minute the kids were tucked in for the night, Matt intended to start a serious Google search, see which of the rumors about her could hold water, and which were little more than hot air.

  “Hey, Dad,” Warner said, pointing at the TV, “lookit that!”

  Matt stared at the screen, where cops and firefighters, EMTs, and SAR team members were milling around an accident site as a smooth-voiced female narrator asked viewers if they’d like to attend a college that would help them prepare to be one of those first responders.

  “I think that’s what we should do for our next Scout badge!”

  “What, go to college?” Matt teased, giving him a playful shove.

  He groaned good-nature
dly and smacked a hand to his forehead. “No-o-o, not that. At least, not yet. But remember how Mr. Wilson said at our last meeting that he wanted us to think big? ‘Don’t just do the easy thing,’ he said. ‘Push yourself.’ “

  “Yeah, I remember.” But Matt wasn’t making the connection between the commercial and the troop leader’s challenge, and he said so.

  “We could do that.”

  “I admire your spunk, kiddo,” he said, ruffling his dark hair, “but you’re barely ten. Not nearly old enough to—”

  “No-o-o,” he said again, “not the life-saving stuff, like sticking people with needles and jamming tubes up their noses and—”

  “—and driving fast,” Steve tucked in.

  “Right. And driving fast. What I mean is, like, well, do you remember that kid who got lost on a camping trip someplace out west, and the Eagle Scouts helped look for him?”

  Yeah, Matt did remember that story. And thanks to a sharp-eyed Scout who found the autistic boy’s baseball cap in hip-deep field grasses, SAR dogs tracked the child and found him, huddled and nearly catatonic, in a hollow tree. He made a mental note to see if there had been any follow-up stories, detailing the boy’s progress. “But those kids were fifteen, sixteen years old, son. Some were even older, working on earning Eagle status.”

  Now Steve got involved. On his knees, he faced Matt, too. “You’re not getting it, Dad. What he means is, we could scout out the perimeter. Y’know, make one of those shoulder-to-shoulder lines, and walk along, looking for small clues.”

  “Yeah!” Warner agreed, fist-bumping his brother. “Those are the guys who find rings and watches and things that get trampled on, and hidden by weeds and stuff.”

  “Right. And a lot of the time, that’s what leads grown-up searchers to the missing person.”

  “Or the dead body,” Warner said, looking much older than his ten years.

  “What do you think, Dad? Will Mr. Wilson think it’s a great idea, too?”

  Thankfully, the Scout leader would be the heavy if this idea didn’t fly. “I can talk to him, if you want me to.” He wondered what Honor—who taught SAR classes and trained rescuers and dog handlers—would have to say on the subject of kids getting involved in searches.

  But no matter what the boys’ Scout leader said, Matt would never sign off on their participation, no matter how “perimeter” the search might be. Nightmarish memories of things he’d seen during his own rescue missions still had the power to rouse him from sleep, and one of the grisliest had started out as a routine search for a lost child. No way he’d put his stamp of approval on anything that might expose his innocent kids to anything of the kind.

  Hoots and hollers, high-fives, and stomach-bumps roused Cash from his nap, and he ambled over to see what all the fuss was about. “What’s the matter, boy,” Matt said, laughing as he ruffled the dog’s floppy black ears, “afraid you’re missing something good?”

  The commercial bled into a second, and a third, and by the time the network returned to the movie, the boys and the dog had settled down. Bless their little hearts, he thought, grinning, for presenting him with a perfect excuse to call Honor. Tomorrow, maybe even the day after, lest she get the wrong impression from one-on-one contact so soon after he’d pretty much forced her to use his mechanic and gave a ride home. He’d better tread carefully if he wanted to get to know her better, and Matt definitely wanted that. What better way to accomplish that than by learning everything he could about her?

  “G’night, Dad,” Warner said, hugging him.

  Steve followed suit. “You comin’ upstairs?”

  One more element in their nightly ritual, Matt said, “You bet. Who’s telling the story tonight?”

  Side by side, the boys stretched and yawned, then started up the stairs. Steve said over his shoulder, “Can we skip it tonight? It’s ten o’clock.”

  “Yeah,” Warner said, “and we told Mrs. Ruford we’d help clean out her basement.”

  The woman had a good heart, no doubt about it, and loved his boys almost as much as if they were her own flesh and blood grandkids. Matt honestly didn’t know how he would have made it all these years without her help. But he’d braved the cluttered staircase of hers a time or two and knew firshand that what lay at the bottom of the last step more than qualified her to appear on that hoarders show. “Whoa. Big job. You sure you’re up to it?”

  They wouldn’t finish in one day, the boys admitted; mostly, Harriet wanted companionship as she plowed through the mess. He had a notion to tell them they couldn’t go unless they promised to wear masks and goggles, rubber gloves to protect their hands, and waders in case they stepped on something moist. Or alive. Then he remembered he’d been about their age when he helped clear out his grandpa’s barn. Every mucky inch exposed a new treasure, invited a new adventure. He’d gone home exhausted and filthy, with spider webs in his hair and dirt under his craggy fingernails, but Matt would never forget that day. With no barns to dig out, this might be the closest his sons would ever come to experiencing that kind of full-out, all-boy joy.

  “Be right up,” he called after them. He’d let the dog out one last time, turn out the lights and lock up, and turn in. Tomorrow was soon enough to get online; maybe what he dug up there would take his mind off Steve and Warner, hip deep in fifty years of dusty, grimy junk that sweet old lady hadn’t been able to part with.

  He listened to the boys’ bedtime prayers, then took a shower and said his own. He stared up at the black ceiling for a long time, grappling with issues of conscience: what if his Internet search turned up sordid information that backed up, rather than refuted, the rumors about Honor’s past? Smart and gorgeous, she’d survived some tough stuff. If even 1 percent of what he’d heard about her had happened to him—or any other man he could name—it would have flattened them like a wrecking ball. She put on a good show with her hard-asnails façade, but no one chose search and rescue unless inside them beat a heart that wanted to help others, that cared what happened to those she cared about.

  A weird thought slipped into his head as he dropped off to sleep, and it made him grin:

  If he played his cards right, could he be one of those people?

  7

  Aw, dude … that’s low,” Austin said, leaning over Matt’s shoulder to read the computer screen. “And creepy. Never would-a figured you, of all people, for a stalker.”

  Matt kept staring at the monitor, mostly because it was the best way he knew to hide his caught-red-handed embarrassment. “Hand me the phone, will ya?”

  Austin delivered the device. “Calling Harriet to send the twins home so they can see their Uncle Austin?”

  “Calling the cops. To report a breakin.”

  Laughing, Austin gave Matt a friendly shove. “Funny. Real funny. If you ever get tired of writing for the Sun, maybe you can try your hand at stand-up.”

  The heat in Matt’s cheeks had faded, making it safe to face his pal. “How’d you get in here, anyway?”

  “Through the living room window. From all the heel scrapes on the sill, I figured that’s how everybody gets in.” Chuckling, he added, “Guess you didn’t hear me ringing the bell and pounding on the door, bellowing like a bull moose, engrossed as you were with your, ah, work.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he regarded Matt from the corner of his eye. “Now I’ve got a question for you, pal o’ mine: what’re you searching for, exactly?”

  He could fib, but he and Austin went back way too far for that. “I kinda like her,” he admitted, “but I’ve got the boys to consider, y’know?”

  “Ah-ha. The old ‘poop runs downhill’ theory, eh?” He gave an approving nod. “Can’t have her, um, tainting the twins.” Another nod, this time at the computer. “Admirable … in a sick and twisted, protective parent sort of way.”

  “Bite me,” Matt said. Then he pointed at the screen. “Says here she was all wrapped up in a big scandal some years back.”

  “Yeah,” Austin said, pulling up a chair. He leane
d both elbows on the corner of Matt’s desk. “Some broad at the fire department started the ball rolling. Got it in her head that the only way Honor could’ve climbed the ranks as fast as she did was by trading favors—and you know the kind I mean—for promotions. Very unsavory stuff. She ended up quitting, to put an end to the speculating, but it only stirred things up more.” Frowning, he shook his head. “Frankly, I’m surprised a hotshot investigative reporter like yourself missed it.”

  “I was in New York when this was written.”

  “Flimsy excuse if ever I heard one.” He chuckled again. “Personally, I never believed a word of it.”

  “Seems you’re in the minority, then.”

  “You can say that again. Once the initial story hit the airwaves, it spread like wildfire.”

  One that was helped along with a couple gallons of accelerant … “A cryin’ shame, ruining Honor’s reputation that way.”

  “Very nearly ruined Hoffman’s, too, and his marriage, to boot.”

  Wyatt Hoffman, Matt wondered. “County’s fire chief?”

  “Yep. But you’ll read all about it if you keep this up.” Then, “You ask me, Honor was the only one involved in the whole mess who has any scruples.” The monitor flicked to Matt’s screensaver photo of the twins, inducing a faint smile on Austin’s face. “Stevie is one good-lookin’ kid.”

  “Hard not to be good lookin’ when you’re the spitting image of your beautiful mama.”

  Now Austin’s gaze settled on the framed picture of Faith, hanging on the wall between Matt’s degrees and diplomas, then slid to the dark-haired, dark-eyed twin. “And that could be a picture of you at Warner’s age.”

  “Steve calls him Mini-Matt.”

  “Warner and Steven. What’s up with that, dude? Don’t think I’ve ever heard more un-twin-like names.” He chuckled. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard the name Warner.”

  “Stevens was my father-in-law’s name, and Faith’s name was Warner before she changed it to Phillips.”

  “Seems a little unbalanced. I mean, what’s your family involvement?”