Protecting Peyton: The Gold Coast Retrievers, Book 4

by Muth, Becky

  Protecting Peyton

  The Gold Coast Retrievers, Book 4

  Becky Muth

  © 2018, Becky Muth.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Sweet Promise Press

  PO Box 72

  Brighton, MI 48116

  This book is dedicated to the Boys Club - Jimmy, Jarod, and Stephen.

  And to Gingerbelle, the puppy who started it all.

  Contents

  A Letter from the Author

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Afterword

  Sneek Peek

  More from Sweet Promise

  More from this Series

  Acknowledgments

  More from Becky Muth

  About the Author

  A Letter from the Author

  In December 2007, my infant nephew, who was born with a deformed ear and jaw, was murdered by a family acquaintance. I am a pacifist at heart and could not comprehend the idea that anyone could hurt a helpless baby. Depression settled in and our family experienced its worst Christmas season ever.

  Over the next few months, we attended nearly a dozen funerals. Each one rendered another layer of grief that wrapped around me like a cloak meant to suck the joy from my life.

  By the time my birthday rolled around in March, the spring weather raised the temperatures outside, but winter’s bitter chill lingered. I was the human version of Eeyore, going through life with a cloud over my head. Friends and family members’ past attempts to cheer me up failed. One of the only things that calmed my inner demons was artwork—drawing dogs, to be more specific.

  Then Shawn, my lifelong bestie whom I have known since very early childhood, called at the crack of dawn one morning. She invited me to lunch to celebrate my birthday. We had plans to meet up “at some point” because I planned to photograph her golden retriever’s new litter of puppies. I couldn’t draw the puppies while I was there because, as luck would have it, I developed a dog allergy a few years before.

  After we settled into our booth and the waitress took our orders, Shawn turned to me and asked, “Remember how when we were kids, your family always had those pets that were special?”

  How could I forget? Growing up, our family had a 3-legged cat named Tripod, an old bluetick beagle with a grass allergy, and a kitten with neurological issues named Wobbles to name just a few.

  Shawn went on to describe the birth of the youngest puppy, who would have been stillborn if not for mouth-to-snout resuscitation. Then it was discovered that the puppy had a fifth paw growing out of its back, right leg. Now six weeks old, the puppy seemed in every other way completely normal. Did I want to meet her? And maybe I could give her a home?

  Seriously. Who in their right mind would say no to being assaulted by a litter of six-week-old golden retriever puppies? Not this girl! Itchy, watery eyes and fits of sneezing were a small price to pay.

  After we finished lunch, I followed her to her house where I met the golden retriever puppies. Shawn handed me the special one who promptly laid its head on my shoulder and sighed. Our fate was sealed and the dark clouds that hung over me dispersed as golden rays of happiness took their place.

  That night, I talked it over with my family. My husband conceded that if the puppy’s vet and my doctor both okayed it, then it was okay. The boys asked if we could call her Ginger.

  Gingerbelle (Ginger + belle, which was her mother’s middle name) was my constant companion. The vet cautioned that anything after a year would be a gift and we enjoyed five wonderful years together, until kidney disease took her in June 2013.

  It would be two years before I could bear to give my heart over to another golden girl. When it finally happened, I only wondered why I had waited so long.

  So, dear reader, I hope that you have a good friend who can help lift you up when you’re feeling alone at rock bottom.

  And I hope that you’re able to have a pet that steals your heart. As difficult as it was to say goodbye, I wouldn’t have traded my time with Gingerbelle for anything.

  Happy reading,

  Becky Muth

  Chapter One

  Peyton ran along the edge of the Pacific Ocean, her soles slapping at the wet sand. Several feet ahead, Gilda frolicked in the fringes of seafoam. The sound of waves crashing against the shore threatened to drown the dog's playful bark as she chased a colony of seagulls. The birds screamed in protest as the golden retriever interrupted their breakfast of shellfish delivered by the tides.

  The only other human presence Peyton saw was a lone surfer riding the waves. His vibrant surfboard sliced through the breakers like a knife, adding bursts of yellow and violet to the cerulean waters.

  A warm breeze tickled the fronds sprouting atop tall, slender palms, the foliage swaying with the grace of interpretive dancers against the sandstone cliffs. Hues of coral, pink, and lavender displayed the last traces of dawn. The colors maintained a firm grip on the horizon as the sun pushed its way through cumulus clouds that held the threat of an afternoon storm.

  Out in the ocean, a wave knocked the surfer underwater, but he bounced back onto his board. As if falling was a frequent occurrence, he paddled out a bit before regaining his stance on the board moments later. Peyton shook her gaze free from the distraction and continued following her dog.

  This was the kind of day Peyton loved best. It was early enough to avoid both crowds of tourists and the sweltering afternoon heat. Although they ran in a variety of locations, here Gilda could run without restraint to help burn off excess energy. Signs reminded dog owners to keep their pets leashed at all times, but Gilda wasn’t the same as other pets. She was an intelligent animal with a high-risk career. Between the dog’s grasp on the English language and her natural canine intuitiveness, Peyton sometimes thought her golden retriever had a better grasp on communicating than a few humans she knew.

  Besides, keeping up with Gilda when she was off leash helped Peyton stay in top physical condition for the demanding search and rescue work they did. She tried other types
of exercise, including public-access courses at the college and various yoga classes. She even tried a version of doggy yoga with Gilda, but after two classes the instructor said she wasn't sure who was the more higher-strung of the two—Peyton or her golden retriever—and suggested they try something else.

  Running on the beach was the only activity that held Peyton’s interest. Perhaps because each day offered a different view of the ever-changing landscape. Today, for example, the dog's paw prints diverted around an errant piece of driftwood, a gift from the tides left upon the swath of white sand. Earlier that morning, they watched the miracle of a mother sea turtle laying their eggs.

  Keeping her body fit was only part of the reason why Peyton ran along the ocean’s edge. It also relaxed her mind. The seaside ambiance was as calming for her as meditative yoga was for her brother, Owen. The multiple layers of ambiance created the optimal white noise that helped her reach a level of relaxation nothing else could. It was the perfect ritual to start her day.

  Gilda stopped ahead and barked. The sound commanded Peyton’s full attention and she stopped, recognizing an immediate change in the dog’s body language. The fluffy golden canine stiffened, then darted toward her human with precision and control. She turned around and doubled back toward the water’s edge. When Gilda ran back to her a second time, she sat and tilted her head at her human as if asking for permission.

  Peyton gave the order, “Go find!” before she had time to second guess her dog’s instincts.

  Gilda was never trained for water rescue but her sharp instincts saw her picking up new skills in record time. She proved it time and again in the field.

  Peyton watched as Gilda leapt to her feet and charged into the ocean. The dog’s golden head bobbed above churning waters that tossed the yellow and violet surfboard to and fro. Gilda’s golden fur soaked up the water and plastered it to her well-toned form.

  Raising her hand to shield the reflection of the sun radiating off the water, Peyton squinted as she scanned its choppy surface. Wave after wave rose and crested before crashing against the beach with a thunderous roar. She sent up a silent prayer as she craned her neck and stood on her toes, trying to see through the reflection of the sun glinting off the water.

  It wasn’t until she saw Gilda leading the surfer out of the water that Peyton realized she was holding her breath. Exhaling in a whoosh that puffed her cheeks out, she jogged over to the pair. Halfway there, she bent to scoop up a driftwood stick, never breaking her stride.

  Gilda frolicked to meet her owner halfway. She sat and barked twice. I’ve found him! Let’s go see!

  “Okay, girl. Show me,” she urged, following the dog to her rescued target. When she reached him, she asked, “Are you okay?”

  The man rolled from all fours to a sitting position on the sand and spit out a mouthful of water.

  Without waiting for him to answer, Peyton turned her attention to Gilda and scratched her behind the ears while lavishing praise in a high-pitched voice. “Good girl! That was a good girl, Gilda! I’m so proud of you. Want to play stick? Here, go get the stick.” Drawing her arm back, she threw the stick further down the beach, away from the water.

  “Are you freaking serious?” the man coughed out. His spluttering held an annoyed edge as he rose from the sand. “That dog messed up my chance to catch the next wave and here you are praising her. And rewarding her.”

  “Excuse me?” The phrase came out in three distinct syllables. Peyton stared up at the man, trying to ignore the piercing green eyes that bore into her or the way his wetsuit molded across his well-toned chest. “My dog was only doing her job. Why wouldn’t I reward her?”

  “Her job? Lady, you don’t seem to understand.” The man narrowed his brows and ran a hand across his reddish hair—cropped close to his scalp. “I was going to get that next wave. And for the record, this beach doesn’t allow dogs to be off their leashes. It’s not safe. What if she bit someone?” He swatted at a bit of seaweed that clung to his left calf.

  Gilda returned with the stick, dropping it onto the beach and sitting near Peyton. She regarded her owner with a confused expression that asked, Come on, why aren’t you throwing it again?

  “I’m afraid you’re the one who doesn’t understand. My dog is not an untrained family pet. She is a search and rescue dog with more brains in her head than most people have in their little pinkie.” When Peyton paused for breath, she noticed Gilda nudging the stick closer to her feet. She bent, showered more praise on the dog, and threw the stick again. Seeing the man’s livid expression, she continued, “And furthermore, if you had any sense at all, then you’d see that she was trying to save your life, not wreck your little wave thingy.”

  “Now look here, nothing gives you or your dog any right to interfere with anything I'm doing in or out of this ocean,” the man argued. “It’s a public beach.”

  “Seriously? Look around, mister. What if you had an accident and nobody was here? Who would have dragged your ungrateful butt from the water, then? The beach doesn't even have a lifeguard. You’re lucky that Gilda here cared enough to try and help.” The golden retriever returned to Peyton’s side and dropped the stick at her feet again. Pulling a leash from her pocket, Peyton clasped it onto her dog’s harness and looped her hand through the handle at the other end. Without waiting for the ungracious surfer to reply, she gave the leash a tug and urged Gilda, “Come on, girl. Let’s go home.”

  The man called out to her, but Peyton had turned on her heel and was walking at a brisk pace in the opposite direction. The roar of the surf drowned his words. It wasn’t until Peyton and Gilda reached the original paw prints creating a wide berth around the massive driftwood log when she thought to respond. Turning her head, she threw over her shoulder a snarky, “Oh, and you’re very welcome, by the way!”

  Chapter Two

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Kurt watched the woman and her dog retreat. Under different circumstances, he might have found the feisty blonde attractive. She and her dog ruined any chance of that. Not only had he failed to catch the perfect wave, but now his favorite board was missing. He gave the surf an angry kick, but the spray of foam failed to quell his rising temper.

  When Kurt decided to start his day by catching the early morning waves, this wasn’t the outcome he hoped to achieve. I’m not even a morning person, for crying out loud. This was not the way to relax before going into work.

  Voices from beyond the dunes behind him drew his attention away from the events of the morning. He turned in time to see a pair of teenagers cresting the top of the sandy hill. They ran toward him, waving their arms.

  “Hey, mister! Where’s the dog?” the taller of the two youths asked, his expression reflecting his excitement.

  The other one added, “Did you see the sharks?”

  “That dog and its owner are long gone. Why? Wait. Did you say sharks? What sharks?” Kurt peered at the teens. “What are you talking about?”

  “We were taking videos with my drone and saw sharks in the water. They were all around you!” The second boy pulled a cell phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. “I’ll show you.”

  “Yeah, it was intense! Then that dog went into the ocean and pulled you out,” the shorter one continued. “It’s like it didn’t even care that you both could have been eaten.”

  “Wait, what? You’re serious? There were actual sharks.” Kurt looked from one teen to the other.

  The boys nodded and the taller one held out his cell phone. Kurt took the phone and watched in disbelief as the scene replayed from an overhead perspective. The screen, no bigger than the palm of his hand, showed the events in minute detail.

  There in the ocean, pursuing Kurt on his surfboard, he counted six sharks, swimming in a wide half-circle behind him. The moment the savage beasts dared to close the distance, the golden retriever made a beeline for him. Pawing at his board, the dog tipping him off balance. The moment he landed in the water, the canine maneuvered between him and the sharks
, half-herding, half-dragging Kurt towards the shore with each aggressive paw stroke.

  “I had no idea.” Kurt gulped, trying not to imagine the alternate outcomes that might have happened if the lady and her dog hadn’t been there. When he realized the teens were staring at him, he handed the phone back. “Thanks for showing me.”

  “No problem,” the kid replied.

  A fresh wave deposited his board onto the shore several feet away. The shorter kid ran to retrieve it. Before the kid lifted it from the sand, Kurt saw a chunk missing from the side of the fiberglass-covered foam. It wasn’t until the boy returned and Kurt held the board in his hands that the severity of the morning’s events took hold.

  The taller exhaled, the rush of air whistling through his teeth. “Dang. That dog really saved your life, huh?”

  “Yeah, it really did.” Kurt's gaze locked on the jagged edge left by the piece missing from his surfboard. He ran his fingers over it and shuddered to think of how the same teeth that did this would have felt sinking into his thigh. “Hey, you think you can you email me a copy of that video?”

  “Sure,” the teen replied with an eager grin.

  * * *