When Love Matters Most

CHAPTER TWO

MADISON HELPED SEAN wheel the gurney on which the sedated dog was lying to the clinic’s recovery area. Once Zeke was settled and she’d given Sean strict instructions for his care, she washed up the best she could. She was a mess; it had taken nearly two hours, but she was optimistic that Zeke would be fine. That was worth anything to her. Fortunately, the injury wasn’t as bad as she’d first suspected. The bullet must have just grazed him, and the damage was limited to the muscle and nerves in his right rear leg. An artery had been nicked, accounting for the significant blood loss, but his handler had been smart and acted quickly to stanch the flow. He’d likely saved the dog’s life.

With some rehab therapy, Zeke would recover, as long as he didn’t develop an infection. That was always a risk in cases like this, and she’d watch for it. She’d have to talk to the dog’s handler, though—Rick, Angela had told her—and strongly urge him to consider retiring Zeke. The dog might only be six years old, but he shouldn’t work again. With any luck, he’d enjoy eight or nine more years of just being a dog. However unpleasant the handler had been, it was clear he cared about his dog, so she figured it would be an easy sell.

Madison stripped off her soiled lab coat and stuffed it in a hamper. She thought about the groundbreaking platelet-rich plasma research she was part of at the San Diego Animal Rehabilitation Center. Zeke could be a candidate for a trial because of his muscle and possible nerve injury. But she was getting ahead of herself in her enthusiasm for the early success of her research. Whether platelet-rich plasma therapy was right for Zeke or not, she’d see to his rehab. If not through PRP, then definitely through aqua therapy.

She washed and dried her hands, then took a deep breath. She didn’t relish facing the truculent cop, but at least she had encouraging news for him. She didn’t want to consider what his reaction might have been otherwise. Was it just her personal experience, or did great-looking guys always have attitudes or tempers that were off the charts? This cop certainly proved her theory.

The cop in question was standing by the window when she entered the reception area. He had one hand jammed in the pocket of his pants and was holding a Styrofoam cup in the other. There were no other clients waiting. Fortunate, she mused, because if the strained look on Angela’s face was any indication, the cop’s disposition hadn’t improved.

Madison had a definite aversion to ill-tempered people, but she accepted that in this case he had a legitimate reason. She would’ve been surly, too, if it was her Alaskan malamute, Owen, who’d been injured. Yes, police dogs had a job to do, but it didn’t mean there wasn’t a very real attachment between a handler and his dog. Perhaps it was even greater, since their very lives could depend on each other.

He was looking outside, and yet with the tension almost visibly rippling off him, she doubted his mind was on the tranquil green space the practice maintained for its patients next to the building. The slope of his shoulders and the fatigue evident on his face told their own story. He was hurting and vulnerable.

He must have been deep in thought, too, since he seemed oblivious to her presence when she approached him. Of course, the comfortable, soft-soled clogs she wore might have had something to do with it.

She took another minute to study him. Tall, with wide shoulders that narrowed to a lean waist, he was obviously fit. She knew K-9 cops had to be. He had thick, jet-black hair, not closely cropped as many cops favored, but more stylish with loose waves. She guessed that, working narcotics, he’d go undercover at times, and a brush cut on a physique like his all but screamed cop.

She took a couple more steps forward. “Excuse me, Officer...”

His head snapped toward her. She must have observed him in a weak moment. Now his shoulders were squared and there was no sign of vulnerability.

“How’s Zeke?” he demanded.

Madison raised an eyebrow at his brusque tone. She tried to rationalize again that it was out of concern for his dog and rushed to give him the good news. “Zeke’s prognosis is positive. I was able to repair most of the internal damage. There might be some sustained muscle and nerve injury, but we’ll have to assess that once he’s recovered from the immediate trauma and the surgery. I’ll watch for infection. Barring that, Zeke should recover well.” She could see the relief on his face, softening the harsh lines, and his whole body appeared to sag. She glimpsed the vulnerability again and warmed to him a little. He must care deeply about his dog, she concluded.

“My expectation is that he’ll require rehab,” she said. “At the appropriate time, once we’ve assessed his needs, I’d like to discuss some experimental work that I’m involved in that might be beneficial for Zeke.”

“Experimental? What are the risks? I don’t want Zeke to be a guinea pig if there are any risks.”

So much for warming to him. Did he really think she’d do anything that wasn’t in the absolute best interest of an animal? “As I said,” she continued in clipped tones, “we can discuss the options at the appropriate time. In the meanwhile, I want to talk to you about his future.”

He frowned. “What about his future?”

She might not intimidate easily, but this cop set her nerves on edge. She thought she heard her own gulp and hoped it wasn’t audible to him. Thinking of Zeke and what he’d been through firmed her resolve. Whether he’d like what she had to say or not, she had a responsibility to her patient. “You should retire Zeke,” she said emphatically.

He paused, and seemed to reflect on it. “Is that a medical opinion?” he asked curtly.

“No. It’s a humane one,” she retorted.

“Well, it’s not up to me. How long will you need to keep Zeke here?”

“Probably a week but, as I said, he’ll likely need rehab. And he should be retired from active duty.”

“Yeah. I heard you the first time.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Unless you need anything else from me, I should get going.”

Need anything from him? How about a personality? Or a little courtesy? A simple thank-you would’ve been nice. He couldn’t fathom how much it took out of her when she feared she might not be able to save a life. With Zeke, it had been touch and go because of the amount of blood he’d lost. “No. We’ve got everything we need.”

He crushed the coffee cup, tossed it in a waste receptacle and started to walk away. Unexpectedly, he paused. “Look, thank you for what you did for Zeke. For saving his life.”

It was almost as if he’d been reading her mind. Without the harsh undertones, she liked the deep timbre of his voice. How strange that goose bumps formed on her arms.

“Just doing my job,” she said, wanting him gone because of the sudden discomfort she felt in his presence. When the front door chime sounded, she glanced toward it, and the tightness in her chest eased. She smiled broadly when she saw her next clients, twelve-year-old Tammy Montpelier, her mother and their miniature Doberman, Gustav. “I’ll be right with you,” she said before shifting her attention back to the cop. In that brief moment, his frown had returned. What was it that made him so moody? It had to be more than concern for his dog, since she’d told him the dog would be fine.

“I’ll be in touch tomorrow to check on Zeke,” he said.

“No problem.” What an odd man, she thought as she watched him walk out the door. Leading Gustav, Tammy and Mrs. Montpelier to an examination room, she tried to block Rick—and the disconcerting sensation he stirred in her—out of her mind.

* * *

RICK’S EMOTIONS WERE a muddle. He felt light-headed with relief over Zeke. At least the dog was going to be fine. He wished the same could be said for Jeff. The last he’d heard, the doctors had restored Jeff’s heart function with a defibrillator, but he was back in the OR. The doctors were concerned, although they said he had a fighting chance. And Jeff was a fighter.

Rick tried to ignore the worry, but that just left the anger and guilt to consume him.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that what had happened to Jeff and Zeke was his fault. Intellectually he rationalized that it was nonsense, but it didn’t negate the feeling. Jeff was a good cop but relatively young. With his own experience and more personal insights into how the cartels operated, Rick wondered again if he would’ve been able to detect that it was a trap. The simple fact that they’d had a tip—from a questionable informant—and that the van was found apparently abandoned should’ve been reason enough to exercise extreme caution. Who’d abandon a vehicle voluntarily if it contained drugs? Why hadn’t the Narcotics Task Force guys see that, if Jeff hadn’t?

Rick had no answers. Second-guessing was futile, but Jeff was part of his team, so Jeff was his responsibility. Rick had decided to go to the San Ysidro border area the night before because the Sinaloa Cartel was rumored to be active there. Then he’d caught that boy trying to smuggle the kilo of marijuana across the border. Although Rick had never run drugs as a kid, it had struck too close to home, and he’d taken pity on the boy. He’d made arrangements to get him to Child Services instead of booking him. And that skirting of the law, even with the best of intentions, had taken considerably more time than arresting him would have. The result was Jeff and the Narcotics cops handling the incident without him.

Was his fixation on the Sinaloa Cartel all these years later—although they were no longer the SDPD’s biggest concern since the Los Zetas Cartel had risen to prominence—a contributing factor? Rick had to admit that, right or wrong, he couldn’t forgive or forget. Had his personal grudge caused him to make the wrong decision, and consequently a good cop, a young father, was fighting for his life?

And if it was an ambush, why? To send a message to the SDPD K-9 Unit because of the significant headway they’d made in shutting down the cartel’s usual smuggling routes? It was plausible.

When he reached his SUV, he let Sniff out to relieve himself and stretch his legs before they headed back to the police division. He watched Sniff favor his left rear leg as he ambled about. Lying down for long stretches wasn’t good for his partner. Watching Sniff, he considered next steps.

The unit needed to debrief, and he planned to have a one-on-one with Logan. He was almost certain that the Los Zetas Cartel was behind the trap. That made sense, since they were the ones who’d been impacted the most. Yet they were still the dominant force. The SDPD needed to take down their operations in San Diego.

Rick checked his watch. Logan should be back from the hospital by the time he got to the division.

Helping Sniff into the vehicle because he couldn’t make the jump on his own reminded him that he wanted to take him to the clinic for a checkup. And that got him thinking of the new veterinarian, Madison Long.

He’d treated her terribly. She hadn’t done anything to deserve it. It was just that he was angry, worried and—if he was rationalizing—he might as well add sleep deprived. He felt rotten about having questioned her competence. She had to be good at what she did. Jane and Don wouldn’t have brought her into the practice and entrusted her with the care of the SDPD canines if she wasn’t.

Rick wasn’t rude or ungrateful. His parents had raised him better than that. All the more reason for him to feel ashamed of the way he’d behaved. He knew he’d made a horrible impression, and couldn’t really blame her for being abrupt with him. He could come up with all the excuses he wanted, but the bottom line was that he’d been a jerk. The vet had saved Zeke, and he should’ve shown her all the gratitude in the world for that alone.

Then she’d voiced his own thoughts about Zeke’s having earned an early retirement. She was clearly a caring person. He wished he could have said yes, but Zeke wasn’t his dog. With Jeff in the hospital, he’d make the recommendation. The decision, however, was Logan’s. Something else he’d have to discuss with the captain. Had it been just that morning that he’d contemplated approaching him about retiring Sniff?

He and Logan had been talking about a renewal of the canines, planning for the future by bringing in some younger dogs. If they were going to be training, they might as well train a few young dogs at the same time. Those dogs would have to be checked over by the vet to ensure that they were physically sound...and that brought his thoughts full circle to the beautiful redhead.

It had been an emotional day, and he needed some sleep. That was all. Nothing more. He had to cancel his drug-awareness counseling session at the school, which he hated to do, but he just couldn’t take the time. That didn’t help his mood. It had turned out to be one of his worst days in recent memory.

He’d stop by the division, talk with Logan, find someone to cover his shift that night, set the wheels in motion for a debrief at oh-seven-hundred hours the next day, then go home, have a beer, get some sleep.

If he could shut his brain down long enough...

CHAPTER THREE

AS IT TURNED OUT, Logan wasn’t back at the division when Rick got there. He’d apparently gone from the hospital straight to the scene of the shooting. Couldn’t blame him. Rick would’ve done that, too, if he hadn’t been with Zeke. In fact, he might just go there now, catch up with Logan at the scene.

“Where’re you going, Pitbull?” Shannon Clemens, the sole female officer in their unit and one of the most recent additions to their team, called out to him as he started to pack up his gear. “You just got here.” She made a sweeping motion around the mostly empty squad room. The few cops who were present had their eyes on him. “Everyone’s asking what we’re going to do about Jeff. About what happened to him.”

Rick ran his fingers through his hair for what must have been the thousandth time that day, something he did when he was frustrated or overtired. “If I knew anything, I’d tell you. But I don’t. Not any more than you already know.” There’d been no updates since Jeff had gone back into the OR. He looked around, scanned the furious faces. They were all aware of what had gone down and praying for Jeff to pull through.

“The good news is Zeke’s going to be okay.” He could at least give them that much. “I’m going to try to catch Logan in the field.”

“You won’t get him there,” Shannon said. “I was just speaking with Dispatch. Jagger’s coming in,” she said. “But he plans to make a couple of stops first.”

She took a long look at Rick, so intense and appraising it made his skin itch. He was just about to ask, “What?” when she continued.

“You might not have been involved in the incident, but you look as though you could use some downtime. Why don’t you go home? Get some rest. We’ve got the debrief tomorrow morning anyway. I’d bet that both you and Logan will be in before it starts. You can see him then.”

Rick felt the need to act. To do something. But what Shannon said was true. He probably looked like hell—and she was just showing her concern. He finished stuffing everything in his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“You’re right, and thanks,” he said to Shannon, giving her shoulder a light pat as he walked by. “See you all tomorrow,” he said.

* * *

DESPITE A RESTLESS NIGHT, Rick couldn’t remember a single dream or nightmare, for which he was thankful. He’d believed the events of the day before would bring the nightmares back to haunt him, but he’d gotten a solid five hours of uninterrupted sleep. That wasn’t bad under the circumstances. He’d woken twenty minutes before his alarm was set to go off. Since then, he’d been lying wide-awake, listening to Sniff snoring softly on his own bed.

Rick folded his arms under his head and stared up at the ceiling. Why his thoughts kept veering back to the new vet he couldn’t say, especially when he had so much else to occupy him. Well, he supposed he did have an idea why. He was intrigued, and it was more than her looks. She’d gone toe-to-toe with him and in a manner of speaking had won. She’d gotten him out of the way, not backing down when he was at his belligerent worst. And she’d done her job. He thought of himself as a nice guy, a gentleman—thanks to the Stewarts and how they’d raised him—but he certainly hadn’t left Madison with that impression.

He knew exactly what his mother, Hillary, would have to say about his behavior. He smiled ruefully. He was twenty-nine years old and just short of six-three, and it was his mother, maybe five-four and a hundred and fifteen pounds, who could put the fear of God into him.

As he climbed out of bed and turned off his alarm, he resolved two things. He’d apologize to the veterinarian. Maybe even surprise her, stopping by the clinic to bring her a bunch of flowers or make some other conciliatory gesture. Second, he was well overdue for a visit with his family. He wasn’t shy about admitting that he missed his parents. He’d set that up today, too. Plan a get-together for the weekend, if Sophie and Daniel were available.

He didn’t accomplish either of those goals over the course of the day. Jeff hadn’t survived the night, and that had cast a pall over the debrief they had that morning.

Everyone was both grieving and fueled up to bring justice to those responsible. Rick had barely had time to take restroom breaks; it was insanely busy at the division. When he’d found a rare moment to check on Zeke’s condition, Heather, the clinic’s regular receptionist, advised him that Madison was unavailable but Zeke was doing well. She also informed him that Logan had already arranged for the unit’s admin, Beth, to stay in touch with her for regular progress reports. Rick’s opportunity to make casual contact with the veterinarian and attempt to redeem himself was lost.

The important thing was that Zeke was recovering, and the risk of infection was diminishing with the passage of time.

The division had set a plan in motion to track down the men responsible for killing Jeff, bring them to justice and, if everything worked out, take down the Los Zetas Cartel’s operations in California. It was a bold plan, not without risk, and would require cooperation from a number of policing entities on both sides of the border. Rick had volunteered to co-lead it with the captain of the SDPD’s Narcotics Task Force. That was the least he could do.

* * *

IT HAD BEEN one emergency after another at the clinic over the past three days since Zeke had arrived. Even her regular appointments had created challenges. Daisy was a perfect example, Madison thought, while she cleaned up after seeing the skittish little bull terrier. Daisy had been in for a routine checkup and her shots, but she’d been so nervous, she’d emptied her stomach and her bladder during the examination. Madison shook her head. She hadn’t managed to get out of the way quickly enough. As a result, she’d had to change, and one of the techs had to do a cleanup in examination room three.

Despite days like this, Madison loved her job, and she loved the groundbreaking research she was doing at the San Diego Animal Rehabilitation Center.

She was very excited and confident about the progress she and the center’s team were making in the area of platelet-rich plasma therapy. The opportunity to participate in the PRP research and what it would mean for tens of thousands of injured animals had been the key reason for her move to San Diego from El Paso, Texas, where she was raised and where her father still lived.

She’d done her homework before making the move, of course. The San Diego rehab center was the best and most advanced in the country in her area of interest. They also had the necessary funding, an essential consideration since the research was costly. In addition, they gave her free rein with her secondary interest—advanced aqua therapy. The opportunity had been compelling enough for her to leave her father, the only family she had.

She took a moment to think of Patrick Long, Supreme Court judge and the best father anyone could hope for. He’d started his career as a crown prosecutor, had gone into private practice and had been ultimately called to the bench. Since her mother had died of ovarian cancer when Madison was a toddler, it was just the two of them. As a kid, she’d shadowed her father and spent many hours with him at his office and even in the courtroom.

She missed him. Much more than she’d expected.

But her career meant a lot to her. A professional drive and a desire to make a difference were values her father had instilled in her from an early age. And those factors had resulted in her move to San Diego and the Mission Bay Veterinary Clinic.

Through her father, she’d gained a tremendous respect for police officers, and the dangerous and often thankless work they did. She’d also had enough exposure to police dogs to know their jobs weren’t any easier and often more dangerous than that of their handlers.