by Liliana Hart
Shaking regrets and memories aside, she bent to pick up the shovel. When she straightened and started walking again, she followed the tree line, rather than cutting through the forest. It would take longer to get to Max’s grave, but it was better to play it safe and avoid running into something more dangerous than childhood memories.
By the time she was within reach of Max’s grave, she’d fallen into a sense of fatalism. Things generally turned out the way they were intended. So if she hadn’t hooked up with Logan back in college, she hadn’t been meant to.
She’d obviously been too young and immature to sustain a relationship.
About ten feet from the pine tree that served as Max’s headstone, she paused to study the acreage that had once been her playground. Time hadn’t put its stamp on the meadow, or even the house—at least from what she could see across the field, which was mostly the second floor windows and steep roofline.
She hadn’t been back out to the property since that awful night all those years ago, but everything looked exactly as she remembered it, as though it had been replicated from one of her childhood memories. With one last glance at the house she’d grown up in, she braced herself and turned to the pine tree they’d buried Max beneath.
Max seemed to recognize the tree, and pulled hard at the leash, whining urgently, his head up, eyes scanning the branches. He was looking for squirrels, just like he’d done every day right up until the night he died.
Just one more sign to prove that he really was the hero of her childhood.
Since Max loved to chase rabbits as much as squirrels, Kaylea tied his leash to a sapling growing next to the massive pine tree with the faded, but still visible heart carved into its bark. Ignoring the dog’s frantic whining; she stepped up to the tree and gently traced the words carved into the trunk. They were shallow now, almost faded away. But she knew what they said. They’d carved themselves in her heart, at the same time she carved them in the tree.
Max Midnight
Avenger of Injustice
My hero
The sudden shift of Max’s whine to a deep throated, rumbling growl startled Kaylea into turning around. By the time she’d completed her turn, his growling had erupted into violent, aggressive barking. Sheer rage vibrated in the baying, and locked the muscles of his golden body. His brown eyes burned with hatred.
The rage he displayed and the hate in his eyes she’d only seen once before, but the warning came too late. Something slammed into the side of her head. She heard a hollow crack and numbness fell over her, sheeting her in a blanket of ice.
As she fell, she caught a glimpse of Max’s thick body lunging against the leash tethering him to the tree. And his deep, throaty screams of rage echoed in her ears, following her into darkness.
Chapter Seven
Logan waited impatiently for Francis Bernard to finish recording the damage to the house. Jamesville was such a small precinct they didn’t have their own crime scene unit. For the big stuff, like biological evidence, they called in the state. If the state was backed up they’d contract with a sheriff’s department. But the small stuff—like crime scene recording, lifting prints, or casting impressions—they took care of themselves. Every officer in the department had some type of specialized training. Bernard’s was photographing the crime scene.
By the time Bernard finally packed up his camera and climbed into his cruiser, the rest of the officers who’d responded to Logan’s 911 call were either canvassing the forest or back out on rotation. Logan would have given anything to join them. Sitting around waiting for the home improvement guy to show up hung over him like a wet, itchy blanket. He should have been out there looking for the asshole. It had been his house that had been vandalized, after all.
But orders were orders, so to keep busy he went to work straightening the place up, his irritation level skyrocketing with each fresh piece of damage he found.
What-the-fuck had been the bastard’s problem, anyway? It would take weeks to get the holes in the walls and floor patched. Maybe he should look into buying his own place. He could probably close on something before this house was back up to code.
Somewhere close by a dog started barking. Logan straightened, and cocked his head, listening. The dog’s baying was frenzied, aggressive, and violent; the sort of urgent warning a dog gave when something was wrong. Or when a stranger was near. Dropping a piece of flooring, he headed to the back door and stepped out on the porch. The barking was even louder, more frenzied without the door muffling it. And it was coming from across the field towards the mouth of Spirit Woods.
He scanned what he could see of the woods from his vantage point on the porch—which wasn’t much—but there was no sign of a dog, unwelcome company, or those eerie bright lights. The fact he’d even spent time looking for the damn lights made him question his sanity.
While there were plenty of cops out there canvassing the woods, Logan had no idea how deep they’d penetrated into the forest. Maybe his perp had circled back around and was watching the house. Maybe the dog had treed him. Either way, it was worth investigating. Besides, it gave him an excellent excuse for heading outside and getting some air. If Tim the Tool Man arrived while he was gone, he’d just have to sit on his ass and wait for Logan. Or he could swing by again later. Logan had the next three days off, plenty of time to set up a meet and greet.
He unsnapped the holster of his Glock and grabbed the portable radio before he jogged down the stairs. Rather than fading into silence, the dog shifted from violent barking to a howl. Howl after howl pierced the distance between them.
Yeah, something was definitely wrong.
Increasing his pace, he covered the distance between his driveway and the field fast enough to bring his heart to full throttle and send his blood crashing through his veins. But when he reached the waist high grass, he slowed to a walk and proceeded with caution. There was no sense in charging forward when visibility was practically non-existent. Anyone could be lurking in front of him, hunched down and intent on ambush.
He expected the dog’s cries to weaken; instead, they gained strength the closer he drew, piercing the distance like clockwork and guiding him forward.
When the animal’s howls were directly in front of him Logan drew his Glock. With his weapon extended, he eased through the final veil of grass slowly. The last thing he wanted was to startle the animal into charging and have to shoot it in self-defense.
A quick sweep of the area proved the dog still wasn’t visible. There were too many hiding places amid the shrubs and trees. But the howls snapped off and a low, menacing growl took their place.
It obviously knew he was there.
“Hey boy,” he called softly, hoping a calm, non-threatening response would diffuse the animal’s aggression.
He had no clue whether the beast was male or female, but its sex didn’t matter. What mattered was tone of voice and physical carriage. He crouched slightly so he’d look smaller and less threatening.
“What’s the problem, big guy?”
A sharp, anxious whine responded, and a pale gold head and furry shoulders poked through the shrubbery. A tattered leash hung from its neck.
He recognized the broad head and floppy ears immediately.
What the hell? Max? Hadn’t Kaylea called the retriever Max?
As the name popped into his head, the animal let loose with a combo bark and howl that lifted the hair on the back of Logan’s neck. He could have sworn the animal regarded him with pure desperation. Anxiety creased its heavy brow.
What the hell?
“Max,” he called, testing the name.
The dog barked again, a throaty, urgent demand, and disappeared behind the shrubbery.
The retriever hadn’t showed any aggression the day before. Nor had it barked or howled while it had been camped out on Logan’s porch. This current behavior appeared atypical. Something was wrong.
His gun still extended, Logan pushed his way through the vegetation the dog had van
ished behind. At first he didn’t see anything unusual. The animal was just standing there directly in front of a huge tree trunk. Rather than greeting Logan’s arrival with aggression, his tail started whipping back and forth hard enough to stir the pine needles blanketing the forest floor. Logan got a fleeting glimpse of a shovel, and then the dog pivoted and dropped his head, licking at something lying on the ground.
Logan caught the metallic scent of fresh blood, and his chest tightened.
Had one of his fellow officers been attacked? Had Max fought the attacker off? What the hell was he doing out here, anyway? Kaylea had said she’d return him to his owners.
Easing forward, he scanned the trees and shrubs. Nothing threatening presented itself, but that didn’t mean much. The asshole could be ten feet in front of him and he wouldn’t know it.
Of course, the dog would know, and the fact it didn’t seem particularly worried about its surroundings indicated the danger was gone. But Logan didn’t relax his vigilance. He’d learned years ago to trust his instincts and keep his guard up.
He caught sight of a sneaker first, which meant the victim wasn’t a cop, since his brethren were decked out in regulation boots. And then the size of the tennis shoe registered. It was small—downright dainty. His gaze traveled up long legs encased in denim. The cut of the jeans was feminine. So was the still body crumpled on the ground.
When he recognized the dark swath of hair spread across the pine needles and the heart shaped face, his heart stopped cold.
Kaylea!
He didn’t remember moving. One moment he was several feet away, and the next he was kneeling beside her. He’d already reached for her, ready to cradle her close and haul ass to his truck and the hospital, when his training kicked in.
His hands stilled a hairsbreadth from her body. Don’t move her. Head, neck, or spinal injuries could prove fatal if you move her. Check for a pulse. Call for an ambulance.
His fingers shook as he pressed them against the unbearable stillness of her throat. The strong, steady throb of her pulse against his skin was the sweetest thing he’d ever felt. His breath gusted out in a huge relieved rush and his heart started beating again.
Without moving her he checked her over, and carefully ran his hands down her legs and arms. Nothing looked or felt broken. Her breathing was clear and unobstructed. She lay twisted on the ground, partially on her left shoulder and partially on her back, with the right side of her head facing up. Just behind her ear, her dusky hair darkened even further and gleamed wetly in the filtered light.
Blood.
Logan’s jaw set grimly, the fact the wound was facing up was a glaring sign she hadn’t come by the injury accidently. Cold rage filled him. He shook it aside and scanned the ground for signs of a weapon. Nothing.
After a closer look at Max, he realized blood smeared the dog’s muzzle and chest. Had he been injured protecting Kaylea? When the dog leaned over and gently licked Kaylea’s head, the question was answered. The blood was Kaylea’s.
“Max.” He caught the tattered remains of the dog’s leash and pulled him away.
With another anxious whine, the retriever walked around Kaylea’s body until he was opposite Logan. His gaze locked on Kaylea’s still face, and he whined again.
Unclipping the portable radio from his belt, Logan radioed the dispatcher, gave his location, and requested an ambulance. He answered Mother’s endless questions, juggling the radio and dragging his shirt over his head. His uniform shirt was too harsh and scratchy, so he pulled his undershirt off, too, folded it into a compression pad, and pressed it firmly against Kaylea’s head.
After checking her pulse again and finding it beating as strong and steadily as ever, he draped his uniform shirt over her shoulders and chest. Then he knelt beside her to keep the compression pad in place.
She looked almost serene lying there—her face tranquil, her forehead smooth, her lips slightly parted. If she’d been lying on her back instead of her side the similarity to Snow White would have been startling.
Snow White, just waiting for her kiss—like he’d used to tease her.
The impulse to lean forward and press his lips gently against hers tickled at him, but he shook it away.
Talk about inappropriate.
Max turned in a careful circle and settled himself as close to Kaylea as he could get. Pressing his shaggy body against Kaylea from thigh to chest, he rested his chin on her breast and whined softly. Since the dog’s body would provide some degree of heat and prevent her from getting chilled, Logan let him be.
How long had she lain there?
The wound to her scalp looked fresh, and the blood hadn’t started clotting yet. His t-shirt was already turning soggy and pink beneath his hand.
Where the fuck was the ambulance?
To distract himself he studied the scene. The shovel laid off to the side, so close to the pine tree it touched the trunk. He squinted in the dim light, looking for signs of blood clinging to the steel. Had the shovel been the weapon? He couldn’t tell, but it looked like something had been carved into the bark of the tree trunk. Since the carving looked old and faded, he dismissed it and turned his attention back to the woman lying so still before him.
She still hadn’t moved. Nor had she awakened. While her pulse beat strong and sure beneath his fingers and her breathing was easy, shouldn’t she be awake by now? If he used the growling and howling as a reference point, she’d been unconscious for around fifteen minutes.
Where was the damned ambulance?
At least the bleeding had finally slowed. His shirt wasn’t getting any soggier or pinker.
He keyed dispatch again on his radio. “Dispatch, this is Logan, what’s the ETA on that ambulance?”
Mother’s voice immediately burst across the line. “Five minutes, Logan. How’s she doing?”
Before Logan had a chance to respond, Kaylea’s head rolled and the compression bandage slipped. A muffled groan sounded below him. He dropped the radio, to cradle her head in his hands.
“Easy, easy,” he crooned, keeping his voice low and soothing. “Don’t move. The ambulance is on its way.”
Her breathing sounded a little louder. “Logan?”
“Yeah. I’m right here.”
“My head hurts,” she said, her voice quarrelsome and annoyed.
The irritation in her tone brought a smile although he wasn’t quite sure why. It was probably simply a symptom of his relief.
“I’m not surprised. You took a pretty good knock to the noggin.”
A moment of silence followed that revelation.
“Someone hit me?” she asked, her voice small, the annoyance from earlier gone.
“Looks like it.” He didn’t want her focusing on the fact she’d been attacked, or what might have happened to her if the dog hadn’t intervened to protect her and attract help. There was no doubt that was exactly what the retriever had done. The dog could very well have saved her life.
“What were you doing out here anyway?” he asked.
Slowly an arm came up, and she rested her hand on the broad, golden head lying on her chest. The retriever licked her hand. Logan could see pure adoration in the dark brown eyes latched on Kaylea’s face.
“I wanted to see if it was true,” she said softly.
Logan frowned. “What?”
She sighed and gently stroked the dog’s broad skull. “If he really was Max. If Max had truly come back to me.”
Meechum had mentioned something about a pet she’d had back when her mother had been murdered—a golden retriever she’d named Max. But there was no way her childhood pet could be the same dog currently pressed against her chest. She’d lost her Max seventeen years ago. This guy was still young, not a fleck of gray on him anywhere.
The last thing she needed was his disbelief, so he locked his expression down tight. There would be time to encourage her to see reason later, after she’d been checked out, and after her head stopped hurting.
To keep h
er talking, so she wouldn’t lapse back into unconsciousness and scare the living bejesus out of him, he asked the first question that popped into his mind.
“How is being out here going to prove he’s your Max?”
She coughed out a small laugh that turned into a groan. “I was going to dig up Max’s grave.”
He winced. That couldn’t have been an easy decision. His gaze drifted to the shovel and the carving embedded in the tree trunk.
“You buried him around here?”
“Yeah,” there was an echo of ancient grief in her voice. She wrapped her arm around the retriever’s broad head and hugged him close.
“I’m lying on his grave.”
Chapter Eight
Eight hours later, Logan stirred in the arm chair he’d pulled up next to Kaylea’s hospital bed. After a medical exam and CAT scan, the emergency room doctor had admitted her for twenty-four hours of observation—just to be on the safe side, as he’d put it. Apparently she’d survived the attack in the woods with nothing worse than a concussion to show for her daring.
Because of the dog.
God only knew how much worse it would have been if the retriever hadn’t been out there with her. On the flip side, she wouldn’t have been in those woods if he hadn’t brought the dog to her clinic. It had been the dog’s likeness to her childhood pet, combined with Spirit Wood’s mythical reputation, that had sent her into the forest.
To dig up a grave, of all things.
He frowned, rubbing a hand down his face, remembering a swarm of brightly colored lights zipping across the tree line. Admittedly, there had been something eerie about those lights. They’d moved in unison, as though they were communicating, which would indicate some degree of intelligence. But still…
Kaylea’s slender body stirred beneath the white sheet, and her head slowly turned toward him. He’d worried about her napping most of the day until it became clear the nurses had no trouble waking her up.
“You should go home and get some sleep. Doesn’t your shift start in a few hours?” Her voice was faintly raspy, sleep still clinging to the edges of it.