Rescue Me (24 page)

Declan and Henry had even added a final trick to the routine Mary Hannah hadn't known about. At the end of the act, rather than simply hopping onto the wheelchair, the scruffy little dog had bolted away.

Straight to Callie Roberts.

Barkley barked and barked. When she looked confused and tried to shoo him back to the arena, Barkley tugged on her pants leg. She looked out at her husband and son. Henry nodded. Declan reached into the side pocket of his chair and pulled out a rose. For her. The crowd had gone wild.

The Roberts family still had a long road ahead of them, but they'd clearly bonded again with a deep love that would carry them through. Little Barkley would be right there beside them, completing his training to become a full-fledged service dog.

Mary Hannah scanned the line of other contestants until her eyes finally found AJ standing alongside the massive red doghouse. Holly had won an honorable mention for most moving story, but as expected, she'd been overwhelmed by the crowd and refused to perform even the most basic tricks. AJ hadn't forced her. He'd stood by her side and leaned toward a stagehand, indicating they should cut straight to the video. Holly had visibly relaxed.

Mary Hannah couldn't have been prouder. She hadn't even expected him to show up today and now realized she should have known better. AJ was there for her just as he was there for Holly. He was a man of deep honor. A man who'd been wounded by the past—and the present—and still kept moving forward, doing his best to help those he loved.

Yes, she suspected he loved her in spite of her efforts to keep him at arm's length emotionally for weeks now. She'd been running scared from the truth. Maybe Francesca had known long before she did that AJ was the right man for her. She was learning she didn't need to maintain rigid control to make good decisions. She could relax sometimes and trust her gut to still make a good choice.

She loved him, too.

She felt a tug on her hand and realized Henry was pulling her.

“We're s'posed to go now,” he explained like a little pro.

She winked, walking with him down the steps and back through the huge doghouse door, followed by the rest of the contestants. The sound system blared a recording of Billy Brock's “Second Chances,” the words about healing sinking into her with each step.

Once they were backstage, Henry squealed with excitement and knelt to hug his dog. “We did it! Me and my dad and Barkley, we all won, Mom.”

“Yes, we did, sweetie.” Callie looked over his head at Mary Hannah, her eyes sheened with tears as she mouthed,
Thank you.

Callie had already agreed to check into rehab tomorrow. They didn't know it yet, but Billy Brock was paying for her stay in the same exclusive clinic where Mary Hannah had met Billy's daughter. Life had dealt the Roberts family unimaginable blows, but they were on the road to recovery. They had friends and allies to be sure they came through all the hardships.

Mary Hannah wished her ex-husband could have been as forgiving as Declan. As understanding as Billy Brock. Seeing these broken people come together to hold a hand out to one another filled her with hope for their futures—and hers. For so long, she'd told herself she hadn't deserved her ex-husband's forgiveness or support through her time in rehab. But maybe she had. Despite wishing he'd forgiven her, she knew he wasn't the right man for her.

What's more, maybe it was time to forgive herself. AJ had been quietly encouraging her to do just that for weeks now. But she'd been too stubborn to see it.

It was time to accept her second chance at life with a man she loved more than she'd ever imagined possible.

*   *   *

AJ PULLED UP
to his cabin, the headlights shining on Mary Hannah sitting on his front steps, despite the cold and the snow. Their time had finally come to talk. He just hoped she didn't plan to say good-bye.

But even if she did, he intended to fight for her the way her ex hadn't. AJ wasn't going to let this amazing woman slip through his fingers.

He loved her. It was just that simple and that complicated. Perfectly Mary Hannah. He just had to find the right words. He stepped out of his vehicle, Holly following him with her honorable mention medal still attached to her collar.

His boots crunched in the snow as he closed the space between them. “Congratulations on your big win for the Roberts family and the rescue.”

The Second Chance Ranch had raked in big winnings and well-deserved recognition. There would be enough money and support for the free-roaming cat shelter and expanded office space. The other animals they'd taken to the event all had adoption applications pending, with more people interested in adding a Second Chance pet to their family.

And Mary Hannah had played a huge role in making that happen. He was so damn proud of her.

“It was a team effort,” she said simply. “Let's stay outside and give Holly some time to run.”

“I'd like that and so would she.” He unclipped the leash and freed the dog to race around the fenced area, her galloping paws sending chunks of snow flying behind her. Finally, he had Mary Hannah to himself, and he didn't have a clue what to say.

She walked alongside him, her hands stuffed in her coat pockets. “I've done the most unexpected, illogical thing, so prepare yourself.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Okay, I'm ready.”

She stepped in front of him, stopping so they stood face-to-face in the moonlight. “I've fallen absolutely in love with you.”

He blinked in shock. She had surprised him. Utterly. But happily. His hands cupped her shoulders. “Mary Hannah, I—”

She kissed him quiet then eased back a whisper. “I have more that I need to say. I'm not sure exactly how or why, and I always know the ‘why' of everything. I don't even have your birthday in my planner. But I am absolutely certain I want to write it there with five stars alongside the date.”

“Five stars?” he asked, looping his arms around her waist, hardly daring to believe his luck. He'd been so certain she wouldn't be able to see beyond the pain of her past, the mess of his life in general. He'd underestimated her.

Something he would never do again.

“Five stars,” she explained, “means that's the most important birthday.”

He pulled her closer, a laugh sweeping aside the shards of pain that had lingered inside him from his day at the station. “You rate birthdays by the level of importance in your life?”

“Acquaintance, one star. Friend, two. Close friend, three. Family, four. And you”—she nipped his bottom lip—“are in a class all of your own.”

He slid one hand up to cradle the back of her head, her long hair tangling around his gloved fingers. “I am so very glad to hear that because I love you, too. So much more than I ever imagined possible. Which is strange as hell, because I thought I was in love in the past. Now I know all my life was just building up to this moment where I was worthy of you.”

Her brown eyes glistened with starlight and maybe a hint of tears. “Don't put me on a pedestal. It hurts so damn much when I fall off.” She cupped his face in her mittened hands. “And I will. I have my flaws like anyone else.”

“And I love you all the more for them, as I hope you'll keep right on loving me in spite of mine.”

“Absolutely, for the rest of my life.”

She arched up to press her mouth to his, kissing him, and God how he enjoyed kissing her back without fearing each time would be the last. She was his, and he was hers. Forever.

He pulled her closer, the feel of her rocking the ground under his feet. The heat between them protected them from the winter chill.

Holly barked, jolting him back to the present a second before she plowed right into them, knocking them onto a snowbank. Then the boxer rolled onto her back in a way AJ had come to realize was her own happy dance.

He rubbed Holly's belly. “Good girl, Holly, good girl.”

“We owe her extra treats for life for bringing us together.” Mary Hannah rubbed the boxer's ears. “Do you think she knew what she was doing?”

AJ looked into Holly's brown eyes, then up to Mary Hannah's. “I'm absolutely certain.”

Saying yes to the dress is easy once you've found the right guy.

—HOLLY

A
YEAR AND A
half has passed since the My Furry Valentine Mutt Makeover, and a lot has happened to me and the Second Chance Ranch crowd. But one of the most life-changing events of all?

I sleep on a real bed now.

Absolute bliss.

AJ and Mary Hannah's bed is nothing like the stinky mattresses on the floor in my old home in the meth house. They have something called a pillow top. It's so high up off the floor I have to jump.

Well, eventually, I jumped, thanks to the tutoring I received from Mary Hannah's cat, Siggy. But the first few times when they patted the foot of the bed for me to join them, I just turned and went back to my big paisley dog cushion under the window and chewed on a remote control.

AJ likes to think he tricks me by buying new remotes without batteries so I won't gnaw on the one that works with the television again. The truth of the matter is that I let him win. I've learned from watching AJ and Mary Hannah that a good relationship involves compromise.

For example, AJ is messy. That hasn't changed. He still leaves his fragrant shoes all over the floor. Hiking boots. Work shoes. Sneakers. But Mary Hannah says that's okay as long as they stay on his side of the room. Her side is as neat as a pin and happens to be the part folks see if they walk past the open door on their way down the hall of this fabulous new house.

The summer after the Mutt Makeover, Mary Hannah and AJ got married, bought land near the Second Chance Ranch and built a home of their own to start a family. A big brick two-story with lots of rooms for children. One of those rooms already smells like fresh paint. Pink paint, with puppies and kittens and paw prints stenciled along the border.

The baby is only six weeks old, though, so she sleeps in a bassinet in our room for now.

Mary Hannah is rocking her little girl to sleep, nursing her and singing songs while I watch over them from the foot of the bed. I keep them safe. They're my family.

And our extended family is huge with all the Second Chance Ranch people and critters. I never knew there were so many good people in the world until AJ and Mary Hannah rescued me from that meth house. They say I rescued them, too. I like to think so.

AJ walks into the room and kisses Mary Hannah before kneeling beside the rocker to kiss his daughter on the top of her head. “How are my three girls?”

Isn't that awesome how he always includes me in everything?

Mary Hannah strokes the back of his neck. “We missed you today while you were at work.”

“Missed you, too.” He kisses his wife again.

They do that a lot.

The baby just sleeps on. And by the way, her name is Abby. Named for her dad. Yes, believe it or not, the A in AJ stands for Abner. Even Mary Hannah didn't know until they applied for a marriage license. Abner Zachary Parker Jr.

She laughed hard when she learned that, then kissed him again. Like I told you, they do that. A lot.

Mary Hannah eases her sleeping daughter from her breast and adjusts her nightgown. “How
was
work today?”

“Good, even better than good since I have you to come home to.” He'd weathered the storm of controversy at the station when his cousin went to prison. AJ is more focused than ever on the job. There is even talk of him being sheriff one day.

AJ holds out his arms for Abby, and Mary Hannah passes over the swaddled infant. He cradles his daughter with a devotion I understand well. Babies are a gift to be treasured. He walks with her to the bed and sits beside me on the pillow-top mattress made all the softer with a fat comforter. He lets me sniff the top of her head covered in fine dark hair. Abigail Mary Parker smells like baby shampoo and innocence.

My new favorite scent.

I even stole one of Abby's tiny blankets out of the laundry and hid it under the bed for comfort during thunderstorms.

Mary Hannah stands, arching her arms over her head in a languorous stretch. The scents change in the room. And I realize AJ is staring at his wife with
that
look.

“God, you're beautiful,” he says softly, reverently even.

He's a smart man, that AJ.

Mary Hannah's arms swing down again. “All day long I've been fantasizing about us pulling out the massage oils and pampering each other. If you're interested.”

“I am most definitely interested,” he says without hesitation. “I'll settle Abby in her bassinet while you find the oils.”

That's my cue to jump down and hang out on my old dog bed for a little while. They'll let me back on the bed eventually.

I turn in a circle three times, then shove my nose underneath the cushion to grab the remote in my mouth before lying down. I rest my head on my paws, close my eyes and savor the sweet smell of peppermint.

Read on for an excerpt from another Second Chance Ranch novel by Catherine Mann

SHELTER ME

Available now from Berkley Sensation!

S
IERRA MCDANIEL HAD
ordered a drug test for a whacked-out Pomeranian, then milked a nanny goat to bottle-feed a litter of motherless pit bull pups. And it wasn't even noon yet.

The Tennessee summer sun baked her hair faster than the professional highlights she couldn't afford anyway. She checked the latches of each kennel run attached to her mom's converted barn/animal rescue, complete with doggie doors and an air conditioner. Someone had tampered with the locks and let all the dogs out last week, torquing off their cranky neighbors even more.

But then who wanted an animal rescue next door? Even if next door was an acre away on either side.

She double-checked the detoxing Pomeranian sprawled on a puppy bed, looking loopy. The fur ball had bitten a teenager, and the cops had soon deduced the dog discovered a hidden bag of pot, started chowing down on the weed and objected when the outraged teen tried to recover his stash. Animal Control had called her mom's rescue for the pup that Sierra now called Doobie even though his real name was Lucky.

God, what she wouldn't give to be a
regular
English Lit grad student at Vanderbilt, living in a crappy apartment with flea-market furniture. Rather than going to the local college and living in her childhood bedroom of pink ruffles and faded boy-band posters. What she wouldn't give to have her dad come home today with his unit.

But he wasn't, and no amount of wishing could change that.

She could, however, honor his memory by doing what he would want. So she spent every spare moment between summer classes and her grad assistantship duties pitching in at her mother's Second Chance Ranch Animal Rescue. Not that her mom would ask for help with the rescue or her own job teaching online classes year-round. Even though Sierra saw the pain and struggle in her mother's eyes, to the rest of the world Lacey was the ultimate independent military wife, giving all for her man. Holding down the home front. Raising Sierra and Nathan to be the perfect military brats.

Oh, hey, and caring for Grandpa McDaniel while Alzheimer's sucked him deeper into the quicksand of dementia.

As if that wasn't enough, Mom decided to save homeless and abused animals in all her free time, starting up a nonprofit rescue organization that didn't pay a dime. The nanny goat—freshly milked—bleated in agreement from across the yard, bell clanking around her neck before she went back to chomping grass.

Seriously, weren't goats supposed to be gifts for third-world villages?

Huffing her sweaty bangs off her brow, Sierra yanked open the door to the mudroom on their rambling white farmhouse and quickly slammed it closed behind her, muffling the din of barking to a dull roar. Checkered curtains on the door fluttered. Through the window, Tennessee fields stretched out as far as she could see, dotted with other homesteads. Her family only owned a couple of acres total, fenced in, but even still, half the neighbors complained.

Some more vocally than others, threatening to file an injunction to shut the whole operation down at a county council meeting scheduled for next month. Another problem for another day.

She scuffed the poop off her gym shoes once, twice, then gave up and ditched her sneakers in the sink. They landed on top of the black galoshes Lacey used for kennel work, sending their old calico kitty soaring away. Sierra eyed her own purple monkey rain boots with a stab of regret that she hadn't tugged them on this morning.

She padded into the kitchen to wash her hands and grab another cup of coffee before they had to leave for Fort Campbell. Not that an IV dose of straight caffeine would help her face what waited for them at the Army post when that planeload of returning troops landed. When
Mike Kowalski
landed with a living, breathing reminder of the father that hadn't returned.

Her chest went tight and she mentally recited William Butler Yeats to soothe herself.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made—

Footsteps thundered down the stairs, followed by the reverberation of General Gramps's Army cadence marching across her ears seconds ahead of him entering the kitchen, overpowering her literary ramble.

“They say that in the Army the coffee's mighty fine . . .” Her silver-haired grandfather wore a smile and his old uniform, high-stepping his way to the gurgling java maker.

He didn't so much as shoot a look her way, but she knew the drill. Yeats was done for now. Gramps had his own “poems.” At least it was a clean one today.

She repeated his chant like a good soldier. “They say that in the Army the coffee's mighty fine.”

They'd played this game for decades. Her life had been military issue from the cradle.

“Looks like muddy water and tastes like turpentine.” He snagged a chipped mug from a mismatched set of crockery as he continued chanting his current Jody of choice.

“Looks like muddy water and tastes like turpentine.”

“They say that in the Army the chow is mighty fine.”

“They say that in the Army the chow is mighty fine,” she echoed, childhood memories curling through her like the scent of Kona blend wafting from the pot as he poured.

He lifted his mug in toast. “A chicken jumped off the table and started marking time.”

“A chicken jumped off the table and started marking time.”

“Hoo-ah!” her grandpa grunted.

“Hoo-ah.” Happy times with Gramps were few and far between lately. Even if this moment ached as it reminded her of her dad, she could hang tough and enjoy a ritual of semi normalcy in the crazy house. “We need to leave in about fifteen minutes. I have to shower fast and change.”

Preferably into something that didn't smell of dog poop and goat's milk. She washed her hands, double-pumping the antibacterial soap.

Gramps opened a Tupperware container and scowled, the light mood fading fast. “Croissants? What is this? A fancy-ass French bakery or a real kitchen? I need a soldier's breakfast.”

So much for normalcy. He'd eaten breakfast three hours ago. Eggs, bacon
and
pancakes, with their family Labrador snoozing on his feet. Except reminding Gramps of that wouldn't accomplish anything. Her grandfather, Joshua McDaniel, a two-star general and veteran of three wars, remembered less and less every day.

“How about a muffin on the run, Gramps?” She patted the pan of apple nut muffins still warm from the oven. “We have to get to Fort Campbell.”

He glanced down at his open uniform jacket her mom had aired out for him. Probably at about four in the morning since her supermom insisted she never needed anything so mundane as sleep. But Sierra could see her mother fraying around the edges, the little weaknesses slipping through, such as lost files and forgotten errands.

And God, that thought sounded petty to nitpick, but this was a crummy day, going to pick up a dog her father had found overseas—as if there weren't already enough animals here at her mother's rescue. As if there weren't already enough reminders of her dead dad. She blinked back tears. Was it so wrong to want some part of her life that wasn't military issued and full of good-byes?

Sierra pushed aside dreams of Innisfree and patted her grandfather's shoulder, right over the two shiny stars. “General, you
are
looking mighty fine today.”

“A good soldier never forgets how to polish his shoes or shine his brass.” He grimaced at the rare second's understanding at how much of himself he'd lost.

“Mighty fine shiny shoes and brass they are, General.”

“I taught your dad, too.” He looked up at her quickly with eyes as blue as her own. “Maybe he can show you when he gets back today. It's not too late for you to get a commission, you know. They let women in the Army now.”

“Sure, Gramps.” She didn't even wince anymore at references to her dad coming home. Alzheimer's had its perks for some. Like not knowing your son got blown up by a roadside bomb.

Gramps straightened the uniform tie, shirt buttons perfect even though he couldn't zip his own jeans anymore. General Joshua McDaniel had drawers full of track suits and T-shirts he wore with his American Legion ball cap. All easy to tug on. Yet, his fingers worked the buttons of his uniform jacket now with a muscle memory of long-ago tasks, a mystery of Alzheimer's that she'd learned not to question.

At least her mom would be happy about the uniform, and Lacey could use some happiness in her life. If getting this dog made her smile, then so be it. Sierra would suck it up and pretend seeing the mutt didn't make her want to stand in a Tennessee cornfield and scream Emily Dickinson dirge poems at the top of her lungs.

Knowing who brought the dog made it tougher. If things had been different . . . well . . . Hell. She still wouldn't have been here waiting for Mike Kowalski.

But she would have thought about him returning home today, would have lifted up a prayer of relief that he'd made it back safely, then moved on with her life. Instead, she could only think about her father. His funeral. The twenty-one gun salute still echoed in her ears louder than the pack of barking dogs outside.

Sierra willed away tears with a couple of lines from a bawdy Shakespearean sonnet and grabbed a muffin for herself. The family just needed her to hang on here a little while longer until she could move out in a guilt-free way only her multitasking mother could have devised.

Lacey had used some of the insurance money to renovate the barn loft into a studio apartment. Noisy. But with total solitude for Sierra. She could live there while she finished graduate school next year. She would have some independence, and Mom would still have an emergency backup for when General Gramps wandered off to get eggs, milk and Diet Cokes for his wife who'd been dead for ten years.

Or called out for a son who'd been blown up in Iraq.

Ever the soldier, General Joshua McDaniel marched one foot, then two, then started up again with his coffee on the way out of the kitchen. “They say that in the Army the training's mighty fine . . . Last night there were ten of us, now there's only nine . . .”

Her stomach knotted with the realization.

Gramps knew on some level that his son was gone.

She had about three seconds to grieve over that before she also realized—damn—Grandpa was tugging the car keys off the hook by the door. What had her mom been thinking leaving them there? They couldn't do that anymore.

“Uhm, General, the motor pool is sending over a car,” she improvised.

He looked back, blue eyes confused, keys dangling.

She plucked the chain from his hand and passed him the muffin while hiding the keys in her jeans pocket. “Don't forget to eat.”

“I'm not hungry,” he grumbled, “and I don't forget jack shit.”

“Of course not.”

“Where are my keys?”

“Haven't seen them.” Easier to lie sometimes. Safer, too. Gramps may have muscle memory for uniforms, but not so much when it came to driving a car.

“Allen must have taken the Chevy to go out on a date with that girl Lacey. Now Millie”—he stared straight into Sierra's eyes and called her by his dead wife's name—“make sure that freeloading son of ours doesn't leave the car with an empty tank.”

“Sure . . .” She patted him on his stars, something tangible left of the indomitable man she remembered.

Pivoting away, she raced up the back stairs, leaving her grandfather in the kitchen where he was stuck somewhere in the twentieth century. She wouldn't have minded escaping back a decade or two herself. Or maybe more.

But Innisfree was clearly out of reach today.

*   *   *

STAFF SERGEANT MIKE
Kowalski never had anyone waiting for him when he returned from overseas deployments. And yeah, both times, he'd wondered what it would feel like to be the focus of one of those star-spangled reunions with family all around.

But not this way.

He just wanted to hand over the dog to the McDaniel family. Keep his cool around Sierra. Then dive into bed for a decent night's sleep on clean sheets.

Well, after he dived into a six-pack of cold beers.

He hitched his hand around Trooper's leash. Thank God, the short-haired tan and brown mutt looked enough like a Belgian Malinois that most folks assumed Trooper was a military working dog. Shit would hit the fan eventually over how he'd circumvented official channels, but he would deal with that later. He'd spent his life getting out of trouble. Even joining the Army had been a part of a plea bargain with a high school mentor.

Bluffing and bravado came easy to him. After all, he'd learned from the best growing up with a con artist grandmother who'd scammed Social Security checks in the name of three dead relatives.

A hand clapped him on the back just as his battle buddy Calvin “Pinstripe” Franklin hefted his rucksack over his shoulder. “Sergeant Major's gonna chew your ass over bringing this dog back.”

“Won't be the first or last time that happens.” Mike adjusted his hold on the leash and his duffel, his guitar case slung over his back. He'd come by the nickname “Tazz” honestly. Wherever he went, a whirlwind of trouble followed.

“For what it's worth, Tazz, I think what you're doing for the Colonel's memory is cool.” Their boots clanged against the cargo hold's metal floor one step at a time as they filed toward the open load ramp. A marching band played patriotic tunes with a brassy gusto. A John Philip Sousa marching song segued into “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“A lecture and a write-up aren't all that intimidating after what we've seen.” Most folks had flashbacks of sounds, gunfire, explosions. For him? It was the smells that sent him reeling. The acrid stench of explosives. Jet fuel. Singed hair.

Blood.

Focus on the scent of clean sheets, damn it. “Quit sweating, Pinstripe. You'll draw attention to us.”