There was Ryder! She had asked him to wear his uniform instead of a tuxedo and he was so handsome he took her breath away.
Each step brought her closer to him, closer to the happiness she had long believed to be out of her reach, closer to a real home. A home she had almost lost before she’d had a chance to discover the possibility.
She passed her bouquet and the end of Phoenix’s leash to Gina as she took Ryder’s hand.
“Dearly Beloved,” the pastor began.
Too soon it was over. Sophie knew she’d participated in the entire ceremony but her brain had yet to process the details. Everything was too wonderful. Too amazing. Too extraordinary to be real.
Lily tugged on her arm. “Can I hold your flowers?”
“All right. But you have to give them back later so take really good care of them, okay?”
“Okay.” Her wide blue eyes looked up at her father. “Now?” she asked.
Ryder nodded. “Yes, now.”
The child pulled to urge Sophie to bend down, wrapped her arms around her neck and said, “I love you...Mommy,” then skipped off carrying the bridal bouquet.
Sophie was blinking back happy tears. When she looked at her new husband, his eyes were suspiciously sparkling, too. “You rehearsed that?”
“Not exactly. She kept pestering me about calling you Mommy and I told her to wait until it was official.”
“She wanted to do it before? When?”
Ryder shrugged. “I don’t remember. Probably around the time when the two of you Magi were leading dogs dressed as camels to Bethlehem in the Christmas pageant.”
“And all this time I thought she was having trouble accepting me as her mother.” Sophie made a silly face. “If I still had my flowers I’d be tempted to smack you with them for making us wait.”
Laughing, he pulled his bride into his arms and kissed her again. And again.
Whoops and catcalls echoed in the balmy afternoon air. Someone hollered, “Hey, you gonna serve this or should we let the dogs loose?”
“I told you that second cake would be a problem,” Ryder said. “Some of our rowdiest guests are animals. Real ones.”
Sophie agreed. “Normal wedding cake is bad for them. I was just trying to make everybody feel welcome.”
She kept hold of Ryder’s hand as they approached the refreshment table. A three tiered wedding cake with white frosting and piped floral decorations stood at one end of the display, as expected.
At the other end was Sophie’s answer to their canine guests. It was by far the most popular offering, particularly to the four-legged attendees. Liver paste was the glue that held row after row of crunchy, colored, dog treats to the sides of a pyramid almost as high as the real wedding cake.
Ryder laughed and looked at his team—all of whom had decided to stay on in Desert Valley. With six months under their belt on a twisty murder investigation, they were well on their way to moving from rookies to seasoned police officers.
And through it all, each one of them had found love. Shane and Gina. Whitney and David. Ellen and Lee. James and Madison. Tristan and Ariel.
Himself and Sophie. Six months ago, he and Sophie had barely been on speaking terms. Now they were husband and wife.
He thought—for just a moment—of the insane woman who’d started them all down these unexpected paths. Former Desert Valley Police Department secretary Carrie Dunleavy had been quickly convicted of the murders of his late wife, Melanie Hayes, rookies Brian Miller and Mike Riverton, and lead dog trainer Veronica Earnshaw—and attempted murder of Marian Foxcroft. All thanks to her confession and guilty plea. She would be in prison for the rest of her life.
Ryder took his mind off the past and focused on the present—and his future. He took his new bride’s hand and they stepped behind the dog-treat cake. Cameras and cell phones flashed.
“Together?” she asked.
“Absolutely. But if you make me taste that stuff I won’t be happy.”
“I’d never waste good liver on a man,” Sophie teased. She plucked several treats from the top of the “cake” and Ryder did the same.
Before throwing them to the waiting dogs she called out, “Sit.”
Every dog and half the guests obeyed as if the move had been rehearsed. One look at Ryder’s smug expression told her it had.
“Are you going to keep surprising me for the rest of my life?” she joked, trying to make herself understood while laughing so hard that tears were streaming down her face.
“That’s the plan,” he said through his own laughter. “Are you ready?”
“Oh, yes.”
Sophie proved it by wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly—before leaning back to dab a tiny spot of pâté on the tip of his nose.
Cameras flashed again. That was going to make a great picture to show their grandchildren someday.
* * * * *
If you liked the ROOKIE K-9 UNIT series,
keep an eye out for ROOKIE K-9 UNIT CHRISTMAS
by Lenora Worth and Valerie Hansen
releasing November 2016.
Keep reading for an excerpt from AGAINST THE TIDE by Melody Carlson
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Dear Reader,
I am in love with these K-9 cops and their handlers. Every one is special, just as every real dog and person is unique. I think we make a mistake when we expect the same from each individual, as with Ryder wanting Phoenix to be just like Titus.
When we experience a catastrophic loss the way Ryder Hayes did in this ongoing story, we need to come to terms with the fact that nothing will ever be the same. Trying to force another person into the same role will fail because no two people are alike. We change, too, as time passes. We can’t go back. But we can go forward, knowing that God is with us and Jesus loves us. It’s simple and complicated at the same time. Just trust in the newness of tomorrow.
Blessings,
Valerie Hansen
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Against the Tide
by Melody Carlson
ONE
Megan McCallister thought her emotions were under control by the time she reached Cape Perpetua on the Central Oregon Coast, but seeing the familiar newspaper office produced a dark well of sadness within her. Dad was gone. She slowed her car
as she drove past the old shake-sided building, taking in a quick breath as she glimpsed the faded sign above the front door. The Perpetual Press. The building looked sad, almost like it, too, was grieving the loss of its owner.
This family-owned newspaper had survived the Great Depression, the recent recession and even the news-source domination of the internet. The weekly paper’s old press machines would soon grind to a complete halt. Just like her father’s life. She sighed, trying to grasp this. Was it only yesterday that Dad’s fishing boat had gone down in the Pacific?
The sound of a blaring horn reminded her that, thanks to Memorial Day weekend, Main Street was crawling with traffic. She needed to keep moving.
When had Cape Perpetua gone from being a sleepy fishing town to this bustling place? Parking her Prius about a block from the newspaper office, she blinked back tears and attempted to steady herself. Just get through this. Do what needs to be done and move on. Buck up! That was what her no-nonsense dad would tell her.
As Megan got out of the car, she could hear strains of music mixed with the sounds of jovial voices, happy folks out enjoying this unusually warm evening. Of course, she realized as she locked her car, the busyness of town was due to the holiday. These oblivious tourists had no idea that one of Cape Perpetua’s heroes had died yesterday. Why should they?
Feeling conspicuously lonely, Megan averted her eyes from the out-of-towners as she hurried toward the office. She knew it was closed and locked up. But she still wanted to go inside, to look around and maybe, she hoped, to feel her dad’s presence again. She unzipped her oversize purse, feeling around for the key.
The sound of a car’s backfire made her jump, and that was when she noticed the sunset. Rose-colored light reflected on the river that flowed alongside the town, past the jetties, and into the ocean. Red sky at night, sailors’ delight... The pretty image was blurred by her unshed tears as she dug for the key. It had to be there—she always kept it with her. To her relief, she felt the rounded oblong shape of the wooden fishing lure. Extracting it, she saw that it was still attached to the old-fashioned brass key. Unless Dad had changed the locks, and she felt certain he hadn’t, this key should get her inside.
She paused for a moment in front of the office, staring up at the unimpressive single-story building. It all looked the same. The big front window and glass door, the grayed cedar shakes and white trim, which as usual needed painting, had not changed. In fact, little had changed since her great-grandfather built the humble structure almost a hundred years ago. Dad had been planning a centennial celebration for the upcoming spring. That probably wouldn’t happen now. Or if it did, it would be in the hands of a new owner.
She fumbled to get her key into the keyhole. She knew it was the right key, but it refused to slide inside the lock. She bent down to see better in the dimming light, making sure that the dead bolt lock hadn’t been changed. But it looked the same. So, once again, she shoved the key in, but it only went partway before it stuck. In complete frustration, she kicked the door with her foot. “Come on!”
“Excuse me?” A deep voice gave her a start.
Megan turned to see a dark-haired man standing behind her. Several inches taller and dressed casually in faded jeans and a dark blue jacket, he was peering at her with what seemed a suspicious expression.
“What?” She stepped back from the stranger, bumping into the glass door as she held up her key like a defensive weapon—a trick she’d picked up while living in the big city these past seven years. But the yellow wooden fish lure with its buggy eyes swung back and forth as if to mock her. As if to say she was really a wimp.
“Excuse me.” His voice grew warmer. “But the newspaper office is closed in the evenings.”
“I know it’s closed,” she said in a slightly terse tone.
“But you’re kicking the door?” His brow creased.
She waved her key under his nose as if to make a point. “This is my family’s newspaper,” she declared. “The stupid key isn’t working.”
He leaned forward, peering curiously at her in the light coming from the nearby streetlamp. “Hey, are you Rory’s daughter?”
“Did you know my father?”
“I did.” He slowly nodded as he looked at her with what now seemed compassionate eyes. “And I knew you, too.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Garret Larsson. And you’re Megan. Megan McCallister.”
“Garret Larsson?” She gingerly shook his hand, trying to remember why the name rang a bell.
“I was a couple years ahead of you in school. I doubt you’d even remember me.” He grinned. And she had to admit it was a handsome grin. “Maybe you recall my grandparents, though. They owned Larsson’s Marina.”
“Oh, yeah.” She nodded. “I remember now.” The truth was she only vaguely remembered this guy. But she did remember Dad had kept his boat at that marina.
“I’m so sorry about your dad,” Garret told her. “Such a huge loss for everyone. But especially you.”
“Thanks.” She held up her key again. “I just wanted to go inside—to, you know—just to, well...you know.” She felt the lump returning to her throat. Don’t cry, don’t cry, she told herself.
“Yeah.” He nodded sadly. “I know.”
“I guess I’m still trying to absorb the news,” she confessed. “I mean, it’s so hard to believe. How could my dad, the indomitable Rory McCallister, have drowned while fishing? It just doesn’t make sense.”
Garret nodded. He didn’t speak, but his eyes seemed understanding. She felt his empathy, probably the reason she continued talking.
“I checked the weather on the internet last night,” she blurted, “and it sounded like it had been a beautiful day here—calm seas, no wind, no fog. No hazards or warnings of any kind.”
Garret rubbed his chin with a thoughtful expression. “A perfect Fisherman’s Thursday.”
“You know about Fisherman’s Thursday?”
“Sure. The paper comes out on Wednesdays, and Rory celebrates by going fishing on Thursdays. Rather, he used to.” He cleared his throat.
Megan blinked. “Yeah. That’s right.” Garret really did seem to know a lot about her dad. And although that seemed slightly odd, it was also a relief. She’d been so eager to talk to someone—anyone—who knew her dad. Someone who knew about what had happened yesterday. Who could commiserate with her and perhaps answer some questions. She had many.
And so, like liquid from an uncorked bottle, they poured out. “I just don’t understand,” she began. “How could his boat have gone down? And on such a nice clear day? It makes no sense. Even if his boat had developed a mechanical problem out there, which seems unlikely. I mean, my dad was meticulous about his boat engines. And safety, too. So why would his boat go down? Even if he did have a problem, why wouldn’t he have radioed someone? Or sent out a distress signal? And why didn’t someone go out there and rescue him?”
“Maybe he didn’t have time to send a signal.”
“Yeah, that’s what Lieutenant Conrad suggested.” She pulled out a tissue to dab a straying tear. “He’s the one who called last night with the bad news. He suggested that while Dad was out fishing by himself he might’ve suffered a heart attack. He said the coroner is doing an autopsy, but they don’t expect to find anything beyond natural causes. But that still doesn’t explain his boat going down, does it?” She shoved the tissue back into her purse. “I mean, on a clear, calm day how does a boat just sink?”
“It can happen.” He pursed his lips as if weighing his words. “For instance, if your dad did suffer a heart attack or stroke or was somehow incapacitated, there’d be no one at the helm. The boat would start drifting. Even on a calm sea, there’s a tide. There are waves. Even what’s known as a rogue wave, although I hadn’t heard of any yesterday. But with no one steering, a boat can get rocked and tossed. It might even be rolled and then
it would take on water, capsize and sink.” He frowned. “It happens. Even in good weather the ocean is the ocean—it can be unmerciful on a disabled boat.”
“Oh...” She honestly hadn’t considered any of that.
“I heard from a friend in the coast guard that they spotted the debris while doing a routine flyover in the helicopter yesterday. From the air, the scene had all the earmarks of a sunken vessel. Swirling gas and oil, miscellaneous items from the boat—ice chests, flotation devices, that remained on the surface while the boat went down.” His brow creased. “And they discovered your dad only a mile or two away—thanks to his orange life vest.”
Megan felt fresh tears filling her eyes as she envisioned this scene. “Well, thanks for telling me. I—I still can’t quite believe it.”
He nodded with a troubled brow. “I’ve had a hard time accepting it, too. The only reasonable theory seems to be heart attack or stroke. Something instant. That makes sense.”
“Maybe it makes sense to you,” she declared hotly. “But Dad grew up fishing this ocean. Just like his father and grandfather before him. People always said the McCallister men had seawater in their veins. But they were never careless. They respected the changeable weather. They took red flag warnings seriously, always kept their radios tuned, knew the tide schedules almost intuitively and, until yesterday, none had been lost at sea.”
He simply pointed to the key still dangling from her hand. “How about I help you with that?”
She shrugged as she handed it over. “If you think you can.”
To her surprise, he spit on it. “Sorry about that,” he said as he worked it into the keyhole. “But it usually works. Not as good as WD-40 or even a chalk stick, but these old locks can get cranky. You know how the salt air can corrode.” And just like that, he turned the key and the door creaked open. He removed the key, wiped it on the back of his jeans and handed it back with a sheepish smile.
“Thanks.” She dropped it into her purse. “And thanks for listening to me.” She sighed. “I didn’t mean to go on like that.”
Search and Rescue Page 20
