The Road To Echo Point

Ian’s gaze was fixed on the wall behind her left ear. As if he was there, but wasn’t there. He continued, “Asked if I’d noticed Daisy was getting forgetful. He’d found her car, still idling, stuck in a desert wash ten miles outside of town.” He shifted, cleared his throat. “I hadn’t seen her for a while. I should have figured it out, not Vince.”

A twinge of remorse nagged at her. She’d done this. She’d made this guy worry more than he already did. He didn’t deserve it, any more than she did.

But the touchy-feely confidences had to stop. Because if they didn’t, then she’d have to reciprocate, tell him something deep, dark, revealing. And if she started, where would she end?

“Okay, I get the gist. Prodigal son is racked with guilt, throws away a promising career to care for his mother. Very commendable. More than I’d do in the same situation.”

“I don’t want sympathy. You asked what happened—I told you.”

“Good. I’m not the sympathetic type.”

He crossed his arms. “That’s probably what makes you so successful, Ms. Davis. Personally, I’d hate to make a living off other people’s misfortunes.”

“Yeah? Well, I didn’t create the system. I’m just damn good at what I do.”

Dear Reader,

The imagination is a weird and wonderful thing. Ian and Vi’s story began with a small article I read in a newsmagazine about Alzheimer’s service dogs. Soon my daydreams produced Annabelle, a dedicated, loving service dog. My mind wouldn’t rest until I gave Annabelle a challenging assignment and a family to go with it.

Annabelle’s people aren’t perfect. Ian, Vi and Daisy struggle and make mistakes. They laugh, they cry, they love. They are the family of my nightmares or my fondest dreams, depending on the day.

I feel very fortunate to share their story with you, especially as my first Harlequin Superromance novel. The Road to Echo Point will always have a special place in my heart. I hope it touches your heart, as well.

Yours truly,

Carrie Weaver

P.S. Echo Point exists only in my mind. Please excuse any liberties I took with the geography of Arizona and the Superstition Mountains.

The Road to Echo Point

Carrie Weaver

ACKNOWLEDGMENT:

I would like to thank Pat Putnam of Okada Specialty Guide Dogs for speaking with me about Alzheimer’s service dogs. Pat was gracious in sharing her extensive knowledge and enthusiasm with me.

For more information on Alzheimer’s service dogs:

Okada Specialty Guide Dogs

7509 E. Saviors Path

Floral City, FL 34436

www.okadadogs.com

DEDICATION:

For Luke and Michael, who have always believed

in my dreams. I love you bunches.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

IT WAS A SHOCK, the effect of gravel on rubber. One minute tires gripped the road, bouncing over raised ribs of clay, the next they slid sideways.

Dust billowed, Vi’s pulse pounded, short puffs of air kept her going. It was like a scene investigation gone bad. The result of excessive speed on a dirt road. What a laugh. Except it was anything but funny.

She made it around the corner, somehow keeping the car on the road.

No trees. Thank God.

Her pulse rate dropped, her breathing eased. The company car wouldn’t end up a twisted wreck, along with her career.

“Good going, Davis,” she muttered under her breath. Instinct had her foot pumping the brake. The car started to obey.

A brown blur appeared near her right front fender.

The sound was sickening. It was dense and dull, the thud of live flesh meeting unforgiving metal.

Her ankle ached as she jammed on the brake. The car listed to a stop.

More dust. Everywhere tan plumes of the stuff rose around the car, like a dirty version of dry ice.

That was when the shaking started, from the throb in her ankle, snaking its way up her thighs. In seconds, her hands contracted on the steering wheel.

What had she done?

She had to get out. Had to go look.

Somehow Vi managed to make her hands cooperate and grasp the door handle. Her knees buckled as she got out.

This wasn’t like her. Not anymore. She was strong and in charge. But she had never been on the wrong side of a loaded shotgun, until today.

She hadn’t believed old Mr. Johnson would really shoot her. But one niggling doubt was enough to make her relive another place and time. A time when the threat was more real, though fists were the weapon of choice. A time when safety was a gift to be treasured. And survival was the name of the game.

Mr. Johnson and his rusty old shotgun had been enough to rattle her, big time. Enough to send her speeding down a dirt road, trying to outrun her past.

And now this.

Grasping the door for support, she squinted to block out the late afternoon rays. She didn’t see anything unusual past the expanse of white hood. Nothing.

Her chest stung as she sucked in more air. She willed the trembling to stop.

One step at a time. That’s all it would take. Like one day at a time.

How ironic that the twelve-step mantra came back to haunt her now. Wouldn’t her dad be proud? The way he was still able to control her life, so many years and miles away.

Anger stiffened her spine. She’d use it, just like so many times before. Just like when she’d left home and never looked back.

Placing one foot in front of the other, Vi refused to lean on the car. She didn’t need to lean on anything or anyone.

She rounded the fender and stared at the lump. It was bad. Brown eyes glazed in pain, begging her, blaming her.

But it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It could have been the first catastrophic injury claim she’d handled all over again. Where a toddler darted out in front of a car and ended up a quadriplegic.

Vi shook her head to erase the images of the file photographs she carried around in her head. She was on edge and she knew it. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she assessed the situation.

“Only a dog,” she whispered. But she couldn’t dismiss it that easily.

She’d had a dog once. Chubby and playful and a bundle of energy. Until he came home…

This wounded animal whined, snapping her back to the here and now. She crouched next to it. Her hand shook as she reached out to stroke the silky head. The other one had been beyond her help…maybe this one would be different.

Her hand hovered just inches away from the fur. Her fingers itched to caress, to comfort.

But the memories wouldn’t let her. She tried to push them away, back to that little corner of her mind where the unspeakable stuff lived.

The animal whimpered. She let her fingertips graze its forehead. The whimpers stopped, the grip on her stomach relaxed.

Blinking away tears, she whispered, “Sorry, fella.”

A loud crash of underbrush came from the opposite side of the road. Her heart hammered. Stupid, stupid Vi. She’d let down her guard. But not for long.

She turned to face the loud, crashing beast.

A man broke through the scrub brush, legs pumping, Arizona Cardinals football shirt stretched tight across his heaving chest. Meaty arms swung in time with his sprint. And his eyes. There was a desperation to him—a man with nothing left to lose.

She’d seen that look. So many years ago, right before—

“What the hell have you done?”

Run.

Vi turned toward the dog, hesitated. The animal struggled to its feet. Three legs supported it. This dog would live, unlike the one in her memory. The one her father had killed in a fit of rage.

Stones skittered behind her.

Vi spun around. The man was almost on her.

Instinct had her muscles moving before any conscious thought. Blood hummed in her ears as she jumped to her feet. Her pumps slid on the gravel for a terrifying second before she dug in her toes for traction. Panic propelled her toward the car.

Door locks, ignition, reverse, gas. This time, she used the gravel to her advantage, sliding into a tight U-turn.

A look in the rearview mirror didn’t show her a thing. Just a big cloud of dust and her wide brown eyes, pupils the size of nickels.

CHAPTER ONE

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING,” Vi sputtered.

Surely the man wasn’t serious? He looked more like a cowboy than an officer of the court. All western, what she could see of him, from the cotton shirt with the mother-of-pearl snaps to the bola tie at his scrawny, weathered neck.

Trying to regain her composure, Vi glanced around the Echo Point courtroom. The imitation-wood paneled walls were decorated with the usual framed copies of the Arizona and U.S. constitutions. Old black-and-white photos of copper mines and cattle ranches reflected the history of the small town.

Scattered through the photos were color lithographs of dogs. Sporting dogs. Dogs with limp birds in their mouths, dogs pointing at unseen prey. And one color, eight-by-ten of a muscular yellow dog at the side of a man clutching a rifle. Thick black plastic framed the man’s glasses, a turquoise ’68 Ford Camper Special stood proudly in the background. All clues that this was one of Judge Tanner’s favorite photos from his younger days.

Vi swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d heard horror stories about skewed rural justice.

Judge Tanner looked over the rims of his reading glasses. “I don’t kid when it comes to adjudicating a case. Just because my robe’s at the cleaners, doesn’t mean this is a bunch of funny business. I take my rulings very seriously. Says here, you left the scene of an accident. Hit-’n-run.”

“I didn’t mean to imply I take the proceedings lightly. It’s just that…well, I did stop.”

“You didn’t stay to render aid or give insurance information. Hit-and-run. I can revoke your license.”

Vi bit her lip before a succinct curse could slip out. He had every right, and she had nobody to blame but herself. A hit-and-run violation, combined with a few past speeding infractions, could mean a suspended license.

Dread turned her into a one-woman perspiration factory. The lining of her blazer stuck to her back, moisture trickled in places she’d rather not think about.

She gulped. “I could lose my job….”

“Should have thought of that before.”

“I wasn’t thinking—”

“No. You weren’t. You weren’t considering that a child could just as easily have been in that road.”

The thought of maiming a child scared her as much now as at the scene. Maybe more. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It was an accident. Just a dog…”

Vi glanced at the photos on the wall. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”

“I certainly hope not.”

Stepping closer, she murmured, “I—I’m not sure what happened to me. I’ve been under a lot of stress, my appointment was, uh, unusual. And when the guy with the dog charged at me, I guess I snapped.”

That was as much of the truth as she intended to reveal. There was no way she would describe the flashback, or the man she’d really thought was charging at her. The judge would have her in a straitjacket and pronto.

“I admit I made a mistake. I take full responsibility. The dog is recovering. I’ve offered to pay the vet bill…make things right.”

The judge addressed the dog’s owner, slumped in the front row. “Ian, will paying the vet bill make things right?”

“No. Not even close.”

Vi could feel her cheeks flush. “That’s not being reasonable.”

“Life isn’t reasonable,” the man named Ian commented.

She turned to get a better look at him. What she saw confused her. He could have been a WWF wrestler on a downhill slide. Stubble covered his chin, dark circles ringed his eyes. Exhaustion was etched in the lines around his mouth. And yet, the judge seemed to value his opinion. Maybe her knee-jerk reaction on that dirt road had been rash, but the man still intended to ruin her life.

She swiped her tongue across her dry, cracked lips. “Look, I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. But you can’t hold me responsible for the fact that the dog wasn’t leashed. And you’ve got to understand. I was afraid for my life.”

Judge Tanner leaned forward. “A. There’s no leash law in the county area outside Echo Point. B. It’s your responsibility as a driver to be prepared for the unexpected. C. While Arizona is a comparative negligence state, that applies only to civil litigation, not criminal. You can’t parcel out the blame. And finally D. Ian wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

Vi gulped. The judge might not look like the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he apparently was no slouch in the law department. Appealing to his sympathy was her best bet. “I didn’t know that…um…Ian was harmless. He looked dangerous. Put yourself in my place. A woman, alone, out in the middle of nowhere…suddenly a large, angry man comes running at me, yelling.”

The judge opened a slim manila folder and adjusted his glasses. “Ah, yes. Claims Manager it says here. Don’t imagine you intimidate too easily. Tell me about this ‘unusual’ appointment of yours. Who’d you meet? For what purpose?”

He was right. She normally didn’t intimidate easily. At least not anymore. She prayed that it had been the unique set of circumstances and not an indication she was losing all the ground she’d gained in the past ten years. She couldn’t go back to being that scared girl who jumped at her own shadow. The girl who thought black eyes and bruises were an everyday event. That all daddies drank themselves into a rage.

Drawing on her strength, her training, she tried to appeal to the judge’s professionalism. “Sir, I drove up from Phoenix to settle an auto injury claim with an elderly gentleman named Bob Johnson. He’s going in for surgery next week, and we wanted to get his accident claim settled first.” She leaned forward. “As I’m sure you are aware, if he dies before settling his claim, his relatives will no longer be entitled to compensation for pain and suffering.”

“So, out of the goodness of your heart, you came all the way up here to make sure old Bob’s grandchildren get a chunk of change, even if he croaks on the operating table?”

“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking.”

It sounded so cold. In her circle, it was considered more a mission of mercy. Besides, she liked old Mr. Johnson. That’s why she’d hung on to his file after her promotion from adjuster to unit supervisor.

“I’m surprised old Bob didn’t fill your behind full of buckshot,” the judge said.

“But he did, I mean, he tried. He chased me off with a rusty old rifle. The stuff sprayed all over the tree next to me. So, you see, I was rattled.”

A smile twitched at the corners of the old man’s thin lips, then vanished. “Be that as it may, it’s not an excuse for making a poor decision. Since you see the results of accidents every day, I’m sure you can understand how serious this is.”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“With your speeding tickets and this latest stunt, you deserve to lose your license….” The judge brought up his reading glasses, glancing through a thin file. “Violet.”

Violet. The little girl cowering in a corner, trying to make herself disappear.

Another trip down memory lane. It was almost as bad as going home, something she never intended to do again.

“Please, call me Vi.”

“Well, Vi, we have a decision here…”

“I’d appreciate any leeway you could give…sir.”

Judge Tanner leaned back in his leather chair and steepled his hands. “Maybe we can find a solution. Hit-and-run means you lose your license. But, there could be another way.”

“Speed too fast for conditions,” she supplied. A mere point or two on her license. Her insurance rates would skyrocket, but she’d save her job.

The judge’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job. From the looks of your traffic violations, you always drive with your foot in the carburetor. Seems to me you could use some cooling off time. I’ll give you a break. Community service, restitution.”

Relief washed over her. A couple weekends at the local soup kitchen, maybe picking up trash in the town square. How bad could it be?

“Yes, community service. I’d appreciate the second chance, sir.”

She ignored the perspiration pooling at the waistband of her skirt. “I do feel bad about Mr….ah, about his dog.” She gestured vaguely in the madman’s direction. “I’d be happy to replace it for him.”

“So ruled. Community service, replacement of the dog.” The gavel echoed through the small courtroom. “I’ll give you a day to collect your things and move in.”

The judge glanced toward the front row. “You’ve got a spare room, don’t you Ian?”

“Uh-huh,” the big guy grunted.

“Move in?” Vi squeaked.

“Sure. You can’t watch over Daisy properly unless you stay the night.”

She choked back a laugh. “You mean I’m supposed to watch over a dog?”

“No, ma’am. You’ll replace the dog. Take her place.” Judge Tanner turned to the man. “Now, Ian, how long did Doc Woodworth say Annabelle’d be laid up?”

“A month. Six weeks if there’re complications.”

“Who is Annabelle and what does she have to do with this?” she demanded.

“Annabelle is the dog you practically killed. She’s an important member of my family and a certified service dog.”

The mountain of a man spoke to her directly for the first time since he’d come charging out of the brush.

“Wha…? There was no vest on that dog—”

“She was off duty. We weren’t out in public. Even a dog needs R&R, especially a service dog. Fetch is her stress-buster.”

“What about my job? I’ve got responsibilities, a good shot at District Claims Manager.”

The judge waved his hand as if to shoo a pesky fly, telling her exactly what he thought of her job. “You should’ve thought of that before you went speeding down a dirt road. You’ve got till four tomorrow afternoon to show up at Daisy’s place. Ian’ll give you directions.”

“But that’s not fair.” Vi stormed the bench, her heels clicking emphatically. “You can’t do that. I’ll get an attorney.”

“Attorney’d be a waste of time and money.” He gestured toward the man. “Ian, I’ll have Sheriff Moreno stop by for a report now and then. That’ll give old Joe a chance to chat with Daisy and make sure Ms. Lead Foot here keeps her end of the deal.”

“Thanks, Ralph. I’m about beat.”

“Think you can hold out till tomorrow?” His prune face relaxed into a sympathetic smile.

The man swiped a hand across his face. “I’ve done it before. I’ll do it now.”

Fumbling through a daily planner, he found a blank page and ripped it out. He scribbled furiously, then handed the sheet to her. “See you at four tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute. Who’s Daisy? And why the heck do you need me?”

“Daisy’s my mother. Annabelle’s her service dog. You’ll keep an eye on Mom at night while I sleep.”

Vi shook her head. She was having a hard time relating a service dog to a woman who needed to be watched while she was asleep. Seizures maybe? She’d read about dogs trained to sense the onset of human seizures.

“Oh, and bring some comfortable clothes.” He eyed her up and down. His lips curled into a smirk as he took in every detail of her gray silk suit. “You won’t be needing those.”

He gestured in her general direction. By those, she assumed he meant designer clothes, or maybe it was her three-inch heels.

“I need to know what I’m getting into. Why exactly does your mother need a service dog?”

“Alzheimer’s. She has Alzheimer’s.”

VI CAREFULLY NEGOTIATED the curve, keeping her speed down to a crawl. Impatience had got her into this mess, thinking on her feet would get her out.

Mentally reviewing her options, Vi figured her week’s vacation would keep the rumble of discontent at Transglobal Insurance down to a dull roar. After that, they’d start talking leave of absence, a death knell to her goals.

She patted the laptop next to her. A large box of files rested on the back seat. Black leather was hell on the thighs during the scorching summer, but it sure looked good. The Mustang was her pride and joy. New, sleek and powerful. Not bad for a girl from East L.A.

Peering ahead, she saw where the scrub brush parted for a bit and a rutted path jogged off to the right. That had to be it. It was the only private drive for miles. She followed the narrow dirt road for several hundred yards and parked on a circular drive.

Letting out a low whistle, she admired the view. It was an adobe—low, squat and brown. Perfectly framed by the backdrop of lush, undisturbed desert, the Superstition Mountains rising in the distance. It looked like a small piece of heaven.

Vi got out of the car and approached the veranda, her gaze lighting on new and wonderful discoveries. Wild flowers in big terra-cotta pots. Two antique branding irons, crossed like swords, anchored to the wall.

She laid a palm against the adobe, absorbing the warmth of reflected fall sunshine, admiring the coarse texture. The weathered mud brick looked like it had been there for years. And would probably last for many, many more. It was stable, unchanging, safe.

Patrick would have loved it. He had loved all things western. Probably because of the old cowboy movies he’d watched when they were kids. Where the good guys always won, and the bad guys were easily spotted in their black hats.

Vi swallowed hard. She would not cry. It didn’t accomplish anything. And it wasn’t what Patrick would have wanted.

Laughter and joy were what he had brought to her life. And at the first sign of trouble, he’d whisk her off to their special fort and tell her jokes until she’d forgotten her fear.

God, how she missed his smile. The mischievous twinkle in his eye. The absolute goodness in his heart. The bravery he shrugged off as brotherly duty.

Vi fingered the heavy wooden door. Splinters nipped at her, but the core was solid. The bulky expanse was attached to the hand-hewn door frame with cast iron fittings. It might be old, but it looked strong enough to hold off an army. Or one really pissed-off SOB.

Yes, Patrick would have loved it.

Someday, she’d have a place like this. If she worked harder and smarter than everyone else.

Vi slipped into her favorite daydream. The one where she possessed the security only money could buy.

What would she change if the adobe house were hers? Definitely not the massive mesquite tree shading the flat roof, its gnarled black branches stretching protectively toward the house. And not the prickly pear cacti that lined the gravel drive. The ocotillo would stay, too. It looked almost like an upside-down octopus as it reached for the sky, the long, skinny stems undulating with the slightest breeze. The blooms added just the right touch of orange, breaking up all the tans and sages of the desert.

It was quiet, hushed almost. Except for the occasional call of some sort of bird, a dove maybe. What did someone do with all this quiet? No sirens, no neighbors, just quiet.