Honor Redeemed

by Loree Lough

  Rowdy whimpered and paced behind her. “That’s Rowdy,” she said.

  “Does he bite?” the littlest one said.

  “Not unless you’re a steak bone,” she said, winking.

  She patted the girl’s sneaker. “My name is Honor. What’s yours, sweetie?”

  “Melissa.”

  “Well, Melissa, I know you’re cold. And I’ve got just the thing for that. Heat packs. Ever used one?”

  All three shook their heads.

  “Oh, you’re gonna love ‘em. They’ll get you all warm and toasty in no time.”

  From the looks of them, it would take a lot more than a couple dozen heat packs to accomplish that, but it was a start.

  She fast-crawled to the pack, crawled back again, dragging it with her. No sense moving them out of the tree, because their combined body heat had raised the temperature by a good twenty degrees. Once the heat packs started working their magic, and she wrapped them in the tarp, it might feel downright balmy in there.

  She focused on the biggest boy. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Timmy.”

  “Okay, Timmy, I’m gonna unwrap these things, and you kids tuck ‘em into your palms,” she said, making eye contact with each, “like this, see, and hold on tight.” If they noticed her checking for cuts and bruises as she passed out the packs, they showed no sign of it.

  Rowdy was still pacing and whining. “Don’t mind him,” she told them. “He’s just worried that I won’t get you taken care of fast enough.”

  “My name is Greg,” the youngest boy said. “And Rowdy is one silly dog.”

  “Yeah, what a nag!” She uncapped a water bottle. “One little sip, okay?” And as it made its way from child to child, Honor ripped into an energy bar and broke off three small chunks. “I’m not stingy, honest,” she teased. “It’s just that after all you guys have been through, you don’t need to get a bellyache from eating too much, too fast.”

  Any minute now, reinforcements would arrive to whisk the kids off to the ER at Howard County General. Or Montgomery. Honor wasn’t sure which was closest. But right now, she needed to take a minute and shower Rowdy with all the love and praise and admiration he’d earned. On her knees in the snow, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Good dog,” she blubbered, kissing his ears, the top of his head, the bridge of his nose. “Good dog! You’re the best dog in the whole wide world. When I get you home, you’re gonna get a full-body massage, and homemade biscuits, and I’ll even let you sleep on the bed tonight.”

  A happy little half-bark that sounded something like “Hooray!” erupted from his chest.

  “You can say that again,” she said, nuzzling his neck. “I can hardly wait to get home and tell Matt and the boys all about our wild and wacky day!”

  What she said didn’t register until she looked into Rowdy’s soft brown eyes, watched him cock his head, watched those little round eyebrows raise—right, left, right again. He gave her his best doggy smile, then planted a paw on her knee and woofed. And she would have sworn it had a question mark behind it.

  “I know, I know,” she said, a hand on either side of his beautiful, soulful face, “it’s weird how Matt is the first person I thought to call.”

  “Is Matt your husband?” Timmy asked.

  She heard the underlying, unasked question: if Matt were her husband, why would wanting to call him first seem weird? Oh, from the mouths of babes …

  She adjusted the tarp that covered his sneakers, buying time to find a word that described Matt’s place in her life. More than a friend, a whole lot more, but not a boyfriend, exactly.

  The whiny roar of snowmobiles, shuttling over the snow, saved her. Nobody—not the stocking-capped, goggled guys driving them or the kids they’d come to take out of here— cared what word she’d find, or if she found one at all.

  But Honor cared.

  And she knew she’d better find that word before she called him because it would describe a whole lot more than their relationship.

  It would define their future—if they had one—too.

  17

  Where did you get that stuff?”

  Shaw tossed the folder onto his desk with enough force that it slid across the slick glass surface. If Matt hadn’t stuck out his hand when he did, its contents would have ended up scattered across the floor.

  He didn’t know which pleased him more, the stark terror glittering in those baby blues, or the tremor in Shaw’s usually velvet voice. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, Brady, because none of it will hold up in court, anyway.”

  He shoved back from his desk. “Then why are you wasting my time?”

  “Because if that stuff got out?” He pointed at the folder. “You’d have to find a new line of work.” Matt chuckled. “That could be a big problem ‘cause the only thing you’re good at is lying.”

  “I could sue you for slander. Libel. Defamation of character.”

  “The first two, maybe.” Matt chuckled again. “But I think the prerequisite for a defamation suit is … the plaintiff has to have some character.”

  “Get out.”

  “Can’t.” He pointed at the file again. “Unfinished business.”

  Shaw grabbed the folder and jammed it into the mouth of the paper shredder beside his desk. When the grinding stopped, he gave a smug nod.

  “Brady, Brady, Brady,” Matt said, shaking his head, “I know you TV news guys think you’re smarter than us beat reporters, but you don’t seriously think I’m dumb enough to bring my only copy down here, do you?”

  His smirk faded, telling Matt that’s exactly what he’d thought.

  “Get out, Phillips, before I call security.”

  Matt snorted. And leaning back in the chair, he propped both feet on the corner of Shaw’s desk. “Call ‘em. It’ll be interesting to see how fast your cronies will line up to watch you self-destruct.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “How much to make this go away?”

  Matt got up and walked around to the other side of the desk. “Who uses a desk blotter these days?” he asked, planting his backside on its leather trim. “No, no,” he said, a hand up to silence the anchorman, “no need to answer. That was a rhetorical question, genius.” He leaned forward slightly to add, “I don’t want your money.”

  “Then what? A job recommendation? The keys to my condo? What!”

  Beads of perspiration glimmered on Shaw’s forehead and the bridge of his nose. Matt plucked a tissue from the leather dispenser, and as the man took it, he said, “I want you to do whatever it takes to clear Honor Mackenzie’s name.”

  He stopped blotting sweat. “Who?”

  “I’ll give you a minute.” He tapped a forefinger against Shaw’s temple. “The name’s in there somewhere, though God knows it won’t be easy to find, bouncing around that big empty chamber you call a brain.”

  “You’re full of it, Phillips. Bluffing.”

  “Think so?”

  “Know so.”

  Standing, Matt tugged at the cuffs of his favorite sweater, the cable knit Honor had made, just for him. “All-righty, then,” he said, doing his best Steve Martin impersonation.

  He was halfway to the elevators, wracking his brain, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. Had he given Shaw too much rope? Not enough? Matt ground his right fist into his left palm and cursed under his breath. “Idiot,” he muttered, thumbing the Down button.

  He was watching the little off-white numbers up above the doors light up … two, three, four … when Shaw walked up beside him. “Just how do you expect me to accomplish that?”

  “You mean, because your whole house-of-cards career was built on that foundation of lies?” The elevator doors opened. “Not my problem, Shaw,” he said, stepping into the car. “What was that our mamas used to say? ‘You made your bed, now you sleep in it’? Well, maybe not your mama, ‘cause if you’re the product of her mothering …”

  Shaw held the door open and said through
clenched teeth. “Give me some time. Let me see what I might be able to do.”

  “Might? Not good enough, pal. You’ll do it.”

  “If you file that story, you’ll go down with me.”

  “I’m a lot more careful with my money than you are, hotshot. If I have to turn in my press badge, well,” he said, shrugging, “it’ll be the perfect opportunity to start that novel I’ve been talking about for years.”

  “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.” He laughed and removed Shaw’s sleeve and hand from the door. “I’ll give you a week. I don’t hear from you by then, I break out the old typewriter.”

  “Typewriter?”

  Matt pecked imaginary keys. “Novel? Remember?”

  Whatever Shaw had opened his mouth to say was blocked by the elevator doors, hissing to a close.

  Matt rubbed his hands together and did a little jig. He didn’t know how Shaw would clean up his mess, but he knew that he would. Matt had hit a nerve, saying he didn’t know what the guy would do for a living if the network moguls jerked the red carpet out from under him. Brady Shaw needed the lights and the cameras every bit as much as the celebrities he interviewed. It would kill him to go back to making up coarse little stories for the local market.

  Yeah, he’d clean up the mess, all right, and he’d do it as fast as he could.

  Two questions remained.

  One, why hadn’t Shaw asked for proof that Matt wouldn’t come back to him in a week, a year, or ten, and make the same threat? Probably because he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. Which meant Matt had to come up with a ready response, when the accusation reared its ugly head.

  And two, how could he guarantee, once Shaw’s “clear the air” story broke, that Honor would never find out what part he’d played in making it happen?

  “Guess you’ll have to take a page from Scarlett O’Hara’s book,” he laughed to himself, “and worry about that tomorrow.”

  For now, the only thing he wanted was to see her gorgeous face.

  18

  It’s not happening, boss,” she said. “Nosireebob. Not now, not a week from now, not ever.”

  Elton shrugged. “I told ‘em that’s what you’d say, but you know how they are.”

  “Do I.”

  “I don’t think they connected this to that Brady Shaw mess.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not taking that chance.”

  “Can’t say as I blame you.”

  Honor stood in the living room window, arms crossed and feet planted shoulder width apart. “They have a lot of nerve,” she said, glaring at the news crew who’d parked their van in front of her house. “There were a dozen people involved in that rescue. Why single me out?”

  “Oh, I dunno,” he droned, “maybe ‘cause it was your dog that found those kids, and you who trained him?”

  As if on cue, Rowdy jumped up, propped his front paws on the windowsill and growled at the news truck. A second later, Rerun joined him.

  “If I was one of their viewers, I’d rather find out why that goofy mother of theirs let three kids that young go out alone, that close to dark, with a blizzard in the forecast.”

  “Aw, now, don’t be too hard on her. She was born to farming. Probably had to learn to drive a tractor and birth a breach calf before she was in high school. You don’t keep a spread like that running all these years without making sure the next generation is as tough and capable as yours. And you can’t do that by hovering and mollycoddling.”

  “I’d think it takes a good measure of common sense to keep a spread like that running, too. Seriously, Kent. You can’t toughen up kids that young by sending them out into a—”

  “Uh-oh. You start calling me by my last name, I know I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

  “Of course you didn’t. I love having you around.”

  The dogs made a few laps around the coffee table, Rowdy going left, Rerun running right, before taking up positions in the window again. Only this time, they’d traded places.

  “You oughta open that front door and let ‘em have at it. By the time those yahoos out there realized these two wouldn’t hurt a fly, they would’ve peed their pants.”

  Honor snorted. “Now that I’d pay to see.”

  Chuckling, Elton donned his Orioles cap. “Much as I hate to eat and run, darlin’ girl,” he said, putting on his Ravens jacket, “I’ve got places to go and people to see.”

  “I hope you’re charging sponsorship fees,” she teased, pointing at his coat and hat. “You look like a walking, talking, human billboard.”

  “Hey, don’t mock team loyalty.” He kissed her cheek. “The way they’ve been playing lately—or not playing, to be more precise—those yokels need all the support they can get.”

  She walked with him into the foyer. “Renewing your season pass this year?”

  “You betcha. And if I can swing a few days off, I’m flying down to Sarasota.” He rubbed his hands together. “Catch me some training camp games.”

  “Will Gladys be able to join you?”

  “Nah. She’s pretty much chained to her mama’s bedside.”

  Honor nodded. The poor woman had been full-time caretaker of her elderly mother for years. “How’s her mom doing these days?”

  “Not good. Not good at all. Every day, there’s a moment when we’re sure that’s it … she’s breathed her last. And every day, she rallies, thanks to Gladys.” He shook his head. “The woman is a better nurse than any I’ve seen in a hospital setting. And you and me both know that’s sayin’ a lot.”

  Honor had to agree. Over the years, he’d likely delivered hundreds of patients to ERs and trauma centers.

  “Got more equipment in her room than you could shake a stick at, I tell you. Don’t know how that wife of mine keeps from losing her mind, listening to that infernal beeping 24/7.”

  Meaning she’d moved into her mother’s room. Poor Elton! “Gladys still won’t consider hospice, huh?”

  “Nope. I’ve talked until I’m hoarse, and she won’t listen to her pastor, or anybody else for that matter. For some cockamamie reason, she’s determined to do this, all on her own.”

  “Earning feathers for her angel wings.”

  “What?”

  “Just something my mom used to say when people did good deeds.” She smiled a little at the sweet memory. Sighing, she shook it off. “Well, take heart, boss,” she said, squeezing his forearm. “If it was you in that bed, instead of her mother, Gladys would be just as dedicated to keeping you comfortable.”

  A slanted smile lit his face. “You’re good people, Mack,” he said, propping both hands on her shoulders. “Makes me wish I’d met your mama.”

  “Why?”

  “So I could ask her if before you were born, she knew, somehow, what kind of woman you’d become …”

  “Boss, you know that kind of talk embarrasses—”

  “… and if that’s why she named you Honor.”

  Snickering, she waved away the compliment. “Knock it off, Kent, or I might be tempted to tell the guys about the time you crawled into a sewer to rescue a—”

  “Any one of ‘em would have done the same.”

  “Really.”

  “Really.”

  “Then why is your face as red as a tomato?”

  Stuttering and stammering, he stepped back. “Because you set your thermostat at 100 degrees, that’s why.”

  “Sixty-eight,” she said, picturing the wily rat that had been hit by a car before disappearing down a storm drain. “Can’t just leave it down there to suffer,” he’d said. “Least I can do is put it out of its misery.”

  If that’s what he’d done, she wouldn’t have this remarkable, unbelievable story to tell. “Whatever became of Corky, the three-legged-rodent, anyway?”

  Honor didn’t think she knew another person who could frown and smirk at the same time.

  “He had his usual supper one night, played on his exercise wheel, and ke
eled over, just like that.”

  She didn’t know anyone who could save a gutter rat’s life, turn it into a house pet, and get misty when remembering how it had died, either. “You’re good people, Elton Kent.” She gave him a playful shove, then opened the front door. “Now get out of here before you’re late for all those people and places you need to see.”

  He was laughing as Rerun and Rowdy raced past him like two golden bullets, shot from a cannon, and headed straight for the news van.

  “Rerun! Rowdy!” she hollered, pointing at the foyer floor. “Get back here this instant, before I—”

  In the time it takes to blink, Honor heard the sound of screeching brakes.

  Inhaled the scent of burning rubber.

  Then, a dull, sickening thud.

  And the sight of Rerun, jumping back with a terrified yelp.

  “Rowdy,” she whispered, “no, not Rowdy …”

  Elton got to him first, and when she approached, he held up a hand. “It’s bad, Mack. You might not want to see this.”

  Want to or not, she had to see it. She owed at least that much to Rowdy, who’d always, always been there for her. The instant she hit her knees, his eyes locked on hers and he tried to raise his head. “Easy,” she soothed, stroking bridge of his nose, “easy …”

  The guys from the news van had gathered around, but Honor was too busy giving Rowdy a quick once-over, hoping against hope that things weren’t really as bad as they looked. She sensed, rather than saw, that not one held a mike or a camera, and said a silent prayer of thanks that Rowdy’s last moments wouldn’t become some sick and twisted YouTube craze.

  “Good boy,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “Good dog.”

  “We cleared a spot for him in the van,” came a voice from behind her. “We’re five minutes from the vet’s …”