by Loree Lough
It had been a good decision, keeping her from his sons. If losing her hurt him this much, how much more would they have suffered, after putting their trust in her hands, only to watch her walk away. That box of chocolates, paid to Esther in exchange for information about her patient would have been a steal at a thousand times the price because the awareness it bought had all but erased his anger and gave him hope.
They’d stay in touch. He’d see to it. Maybe in a month, or six months or a year, they’d figure things out. Yeah, she was a mess, but so was he. If he hadn’t been such a proud and idiotic fool, Matt would have told her how he felt, instead of writing it down and hiding it in the pages of a book.
That, at least, would have given them both a shot at love … and honor redeemed.
Discussion Questions
1. What do you see as Honor’s strongest character trait (and her weakest)? Why?
2. In what ways do you identify with these traits?
3. What would you say is Matt’s most endearing personality quirk (and what makes it endearing, as opposed to annoying)?
4. Name two people in your circle of family and friends who most remind you of Honor and Matt. Why do these “real, live” people seem so similar to the characters in Honor Redeemed?
5. If you’ve been the victim of a rumor (vicious or otherwise), how did you cope with the fallout? What advice would you give someone whose life has been affected by gossip or innuendo?
6. How do you react when others gossip in your presence?
7. Have you ever participated in spreading a rumor? If so, how did it make you feel, afterward?
8. Can you refer to Bible verses or life principles that explain why gossip and rumors are harmful … and wrong?
9. Have you (or a loved one) survived a life-threatening situation? If so, what kept hope alive until the situation was resolved? (If not, how do suppose you’d behave in life-or-death circumstances?)
10. Like Matt, we’ve all lost treasured loved ones. What’s your opinion of how he coped with the loss of his wife, Faith?
11. What would you say is the biggest difference between “ordinary people” and those who voluntarily put themselves at risk to save others?
12. When was the last time you thanked a first responder or soldier for his/her service to the country?
13. How do you feel about Austin and Mercy finally getting together?
We hope you enjoyed Loree Lough’s Honor Redeemed, the second book in her First Responders series. Here’s a sample of her third book of the series, A Man of Honor, which will be out in Fall 2012.
A Man of Honor
Loree Lough
1
05:30
May
Gunpowder State Park, near Baltimore, Maryland
A light rain painted the blacktopped path with a silvery glow, and overhead, newly unfurled leaves fluttered on the soft spring breeze. The occasional whoop of police sirens drowned out the croak of frogs and cricket chirps, and the steady flash of emergency vehicle strobes sliced through the early-morning darkness.
Dusty pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt and gave the thumbs-up sign as he passed two cops, interviewing a runner in a skin-tight running suit. “He’s the best-behaved dog I’ve ever owned,” the guy was saying, “but all of a sudden, he went completely off his nut, right about there.” Pointing, he indicated a break in the tree line, twenty or so yards ahead.
Slowing his pace, Dusty took note of the golden’s stance— ears pricked forward and tail straight out as it stared at the spot. “It’s probably nothing,” the owner said. “Dead squirrel or rabbit, maybe, but with that young girl still missing … couldn’t have lived with myself if I didn’t make that call.”
The tallest cop tucked a tablet into his shirt pocket. “We appreciate the help. If we need anything more,” he said, patting the pocket, “we know how to get in touch.”
In other words, go home, get out of our way, and let us do our jobs. Marathon Man took the hint and led his dog away as Dusty joined the circle of search and rescue workers. Jones, this mission’s operation leader, quickly brought them up to speed: the high school girl who’d gone missing on the night of her prom had last been seen miles from the area, but when the golden started acting spooky, it made sense to start another search, here.
“It’s been five days,” the Operations Leader said, “so prepare yourself for the worst.”
Meaning it wasn’t likely they’d find her alive. They all knew the drill, but Jones went over it anyway. “Try not to make too big a mess, stomping through the underbrush.”
Because the cops will need every scrap of evidence we find, Dusty told himself, to catch the animal who did this.
Now the OL reminded them to double-check their field packs, to ensure they contained standard first aid: compass, knife, matches and rope, snakebite kit, sterile dressing and bandages, space blanket, and metal mirror. Dusty thanked God that he’d never needed that last item to find out whether or not a victim is breathing.
They slid into surgical gloves and field-tested their radios, then counted off, starting with Honor Mackenzie, a seasoned dog handler, and ending with Dusty, who said, “Eleven.” Later, he’d ask why she’d brought Rerun along this time, instead of Rowdy. He said a little prayer that nothing had happened to the amazing golden retriever that had earned the respect and admiration of anyone who’d ever worked with him.
“You volunteers,” Jones said, interrupting his thoughts, “pair up with somebody who’s wearing a pack.”
Technically, they were all volunteers, but SAR personnel were required to earn wilderness certifications, while the rest, friends and family of the girl, mostly, had probably never undertaken anything like this before.
“And you with packs, make sure your partners are wearing gloves, too.”
Nodding and mumbling, they marched forward.
“Mind if I follow you?” said a quiet voice near his elbow.
If you think you can, he thought, grinning as he waved her on. To her credit, she stayed with him, every slow and methodical step of the way. He said a silent prayer of thanks that she wasn’t the chatty type, though cute as she was, putting up with the noise wouldn’t have taken much effort. If she passed muster—and wasn’t married or engaged or whatever—maybe she’d let him buy her a cup of coffee afterward, to find out what else they had in common. Dusty started to ask about her connection to the missing girl when the toe of his left boot brushed against something. Instantly, he froze in place and, squatting, gently combed his fingertips through the grass. What he’d bumped, he realized, was a sparkly shoe. He automatically scanned the area, and six inches farther left, Dusty saw its mate. Then, a few yards ahead of that, the girl who’d worn the sparkly high heels to her prom.
Standing, he radioed his position as his cute little shadow sidled up beside him. “Lord, Lord, Lord,” she chanted. “It can’t be.”
“Can’t be what?”
“Melissa.” She ran a trembling hand through her hair. “She’s
…” Tilting her face to the heavens, she exhaled a groaning sigh.
He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time. “You know her?”
“She’s one of my students.”
He heard her gulp and swallow. Hard. And then Jones and a couple of the others jogged up. The OL stopped short, jerking his head back and muttering under his breath.
Another joined him, wrinkling his nose and blinking rapidly as his eyes started to water.
Dusty drew their attention to the teacher. “This young lady,” he said, “tells me that she knows the, ah …” The accurate term was victim, but he didn’t feel right, using it with the girl’s distraught teacher standing right there, doing her best to look at anything other than the body. “She’s a teacher. The girl is one of her students.”
“Was you mean,” said a voice Dusty didn’t recognize. He turned, intent on asking the guy if he knew the meaning of the word tact, when Jones started barking into his radio.
Minutes later, the area was crawling with cops. SAR personnel and the rest of the volunteers recited name, rank, and contact info, then disbanded.
Half an hour later, Dusty ran into his shadow again on the path. She’d peeled off her gloves and stood clutching them in one hand while the fingers of the other seemed to have been permanently tangled in her dark wavy bangs. She’d earned a few points back there, for keeping up with him, for not falling apart when she got an eyeful of the grisly sight. Dusty thought it only fair to give her a few more because she was holding it together now, too, despite the onslaught of rapid-fire cop questions: to the best of her knowledge, what was the girl’s full name and age? Which school had hosted the prom? Had she been the date of some boy who attended classes there, or was she a student, herself?
“Do you know how we might get in touch with her parents?”
For the first time since the interrogation began, her voice wavered slightly. “Her mother is a widow. It hasn’t even been a year since Melissa’s father …” She bit her lower lip and squared her shoulders. “As far as I know, her mom doesn’t have family in town. I can sit with her, if you like, when you … when …”
When you tell her that her little girl was slaughtered. Dusty ground his molars together. If he ever got his hands on the animal who—
“… when you break the bad news,” she finished.
Dusty’s cell phone rang. Turning, he took a few steps away to answer it. It was Blake Carlisle, his assistant pastor at the halfway house, checking to see if Dusty would be back before dark, or if he should arrange to stay overnight.
Dusty glanced over his shoulder, thinking to get a read on the pretty little teacher; if it looked like she could use some moral support, he’d volunteer to go with her to the police station. But she was gone. “Hold on a second, Blake,” he said, then took the phone from his ear. “Where’d she go?” he asked the nearest cop.
“Home. Somethin’ about a cat or some such,” he said, then turned back to his partner.
He could’ve kicked himself for not asking her name earlier. Oh, he could get the information, but it would be like pulling teeth without benefit of anesthetic, trying to pry the information from the cops.
His grandpa’s favorite adage pinged in his head: “He who hesitates is lost.”
He pressed the phone to his head again. “Back,” he said.
“So did you guys find the missing girl?”
Dusty heard concern in Blake’s voice. “Yeah, ‘fraid so.”
“Dead?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Exposure?”
The image of her battered body flashed in his mind. ” ‘Fraid not.”
“Lord. Any idea who did it?”
“Not a hint. At least, not yet.”
“I’ll pray for her.”
“Good idea.”
“For her family, too, and that the cops find something that leads to her killer.”
Butcher was more like it, but Dusty didn’t say it. “Say one for the girl’s teacher, too. She was practically in my lap when I found the body.”
“You got it.”
And while you’re at it, say one for me. Because he wanted to call her, see how she had weathered the ordeal, but to do that, he’d have to find her first. Gut instinct told him it would happen. Soon. When it did, he hoped she’d let him buy her that cup of coffee because he really did want to find out what else they had in common.
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