A Light in the Darkness sneak peek

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Today would have been her son’s twenty-first birthday.

Carol Winchester flinched from the kitchen calendar and the gaily drawn star her daughter had put around the date in purple marker back at the beginning of the year.

No. Today should have been his twenty-first birthday. But Mikey would forever be only twenty years, seven months, and three days old. A baby. Her baby.

And he was gone.

Grief, the kind that still snuck in like a sword-wielding ninja when she least expected it, seared through her chest, a white-hot blade of pain and sorrow.

Oh, dear God, my baby is gone.

Hand pressed to her mouth to stifle the moan that rose from the deepest pit of her soul, she pivoted from the calendar to stare blindly out the window into the backyard.

None of it made any sense. The earth still turned. The sun still shone. Flowers budded in the garden and birds sang from the trees. By all appearances, it was a normal spring day like any other.

But it wasn’t.

Because Mikey wasn’t in it. And the unfairness of that permeated every immovable brick in a wall of rage and resentment so thick and high inside her she sometimes couldn’t see past it. Not to her quietly grieving rock of a husband. Not even to her daughter Nicole, confused and shaken by the unexpected loss of her big brother. Hurting in a way never before experienced in her fifteen years of very sheltered life.

She’d tried. Lord knew she had.

But there were some days she just couldn’t move past her own pain to deal with theirs, too. Days she couldn’t even bear to speak his name out loud. Couldn’t listen to stories that were meant to be comforting but weren’t, about how wonderful he’d been. How caring and loving. How special.

Days like today. When her amazing, beautiful boy should have been celebrating a milestone into adulthood. Not lying cold in a grave.

A wet nose nudged her hand hanging fisted at her side. By reflex, her fingers unclenched and ran down the golden retriever’s silky head in soothing strokes. “I know. You miss him too, don’t you, girl?”

Sadie let out a soft whine, her body leaning more heavily against Carol’s leg. She might have been the family dog, but it had been clear early on she’d chosen Mikey as her main human. Her husband David swore Sadie took his leaving for the Army harder than they had. Not a day went by since he headed off to bootcamp that Sadie didn’t look expectantly at the front door around dinner time, as though waiting for him to walk in at any minute.

Something she’d caught herself doing as well. Especially these last few months.

Even knowing it wasn’t going to happen.

Ever, ever again.

Her fingers tightened on Sadie’s ruff as another wave of loss rolled over her. Not as sharp this time, or as long. More like the small, choppy whitecaps on the Long Island Sound hitting the shore near the end of a storm. Lapping. Ebbing. Diminishing.

But still enough to erode the sand out from beneath your feet if you weren’t careful.

Taking a deep breath, she loosened her hold on the dog’s fur and went to one knee to give her a hug. “He loved you so much, Sadie-girl. I hope you know how important you were to him. How much he missed you.”

So much so he’d insisted they include her in the infrequent video calls he made home from whatever far-away place he was stationed despite the limited time they were allowed. A rare smile turned her lips at the memory of holding the laptop in front of Sadie so he could talk to her.

Each time, the dog would get super excited at the sound of his voice, furry butt wriggling with delight. But she’d never been able to grasp the concept he wasn’t in the room with them, no matter how many times she ran behind the computer looking for him.

Sharp little puppy yaps drifted up from the basement family room they’d turned into a temporary whelping den, breaking the early morning quiet.

“Uh oh, looks like the minions realized you escaped.” With a watery chuckle, she pressed a kiss to the dog’s head and stood. “Let’s go see what kind of trouble they’re getting into, shall we?”

Because there was always trouble.

The cute, silly, can’t-really-stay-mad-about-it kind only a litter of eight roly-poly golden retriever puppies could create. Which was a lot. Enough that she and David had already decided this third litter would be the last, even though Sadie wasn’t even close to the top of the age range where it was safe for her to breed.

It had nothing at all to do with how Mikey had hated that they bred her for profit.

Lie to everyone else if you want, woman, but don’t lie to yourself.

Okay, fine. That might have had something to do with it.

It felt wrong to keep doing something their son had been so vehemently opposed to. Even with the compromise they’d struck with him, donating half of the money they made from Sadie’s litters to local animal shelters rather than it all going into the family vacation fund as originally planned.

Not that he hadn’t loved the puppies. Mikey loved—had loved, an insidious voice corrected—all animals. So much so they’d had a makeshift wildlife hospital in their garage from the time he was ten. No, it was the idea of purposely bringing those puppies into the world just because they were purebreds that had frustrated him.

Infuriated him, actually.

“Coming with papers and a registration number doesn’t make them better than any good old everyday mutt,” he’d argued. “It’s not fair. So many shelters are filled with dogs no one wants because they’re not cute, or young, or perfect. They all need a loving home just as much as any of the puppies you want to sell. More, in fact. Some of those shelter animals have had horrible lives. They’ve been cold, hungry, abused, abandoned. I wish people would realize every one of them deserves to feel safe and happy, too. We owe it to them to know they’re loved at least once in their lives.”

That was her son. Compassionate to a fault.

At the bottom of the stairs, Sadie hopped over the low barricade across the doorway to the right. As soon as she stepped over it herself, she was instantly surrounded by a swirling mass of little pink tongues, sharp baby teeth, and, most of all, fur.

So much fur.

At ten weeks, they hadn’t grown into their adult coloring yet. But since Sadie was a true gold and their sire was a dark gold with a heavy reddish tint, they could end up being anything in between by the time they matured into adulthood.

Something Mikey won’t ever get to do.

Shoving that cruel voice aside once more, she lowered herself to the floor, back against the wall, and let the yappy hoard swarm over her. There was nothing more certain to banish the urge to cry than being covered in hyperenergetic puppy love.

“Okay, okay, I know. It’s so horrible. Almost eight whole hours since anyone loved on you. How terrible of us. Hey, stop that!” With a laugh, she gently pushed an inquisitive cold nose out of her armpit.

The black nylon collar the pup wore marked it as the male the breeder had chosen instead of a stud fee. The alpha of the litter, he took the mild reprimand in stride and attacked her sneaker lace instead, challenging his sister in the purple collar with a mini-growl as she tugged on the other one.

The color system helped keep straight who was who without having to look at the name tags. Purple, yellow, and brown were heading to stringently vetted buyers next weekend. Green, who they’d named Ginger, was staying with them. And the ones with the red, white, and blue collars would leave today to start their new lives at a training facility to become future service dogs for veterans.

Nicole had suggested the idea after one of her meetings with the grief counselor they were all seeing. She’d pitched it to them at a family session as a way to blend Mikey’s lifelong legacy of helping others with his love for Sadie. Giving some of her last puppies a role in aiding wounded soldiers, just like he had.

It was a bittersweet cause she’d been okay getting behind.

Until she heard the other part of her daughter’s suggestion.

That they “honor” Mikey’s sacrifice by naming the three pups after the men he’d given his life to save. As if she wanted that constant reminder under her own roof every day, even for a few months, of why he’d died. Of the fact all three men had lived to go home to their families. While Mikey, in his role as unit medic had gone under enemy fire to render aid, only to come home in a flag-draped box.

Talk about grinding salt into an open wound.

She’d adamantly opposed the idea. So had David.

At first.

But the counselor had pointed out in that irritatingly calm tone of hers how clinging to displaced anger about what happened wasn’t helping the healing process. That to blame the men for surviving when that was the very outcome Mikey had sacrificed himself for actually diminished his actions. Devalued his selflessness.

She’d hated hearing that. Hated it.

Hated the counselor even more for being right.

Even so, she couldn’t let go of her deep, burning rage. Hating those men sometimes seemed like the only thing that kept her from unraveling entirely. From curling into a screaming ball of pain and grief and never getting up again.

David had caved. He’d always been the more empathetic of the two of them. The one to more easily forgive and smooth the path to harmony. It was part of why she’d fallen in love with him almost thirty years ago.

The big softhearted jerk.

But when Nicole had looked at her with such pleading and hope in her eyes, eyes the exact same shade of blue as Mikey’s, she’d ended up caving, too. 

She’d agreed to the names.

The anger about them, however, she just couldn’t let go of.

So, to get through the last few months, she’d basically ignored the three puppies. They weren’t abused or neglected. She’d never do that. But she never called them by name. Never played with them. And she never, ever held them.

It had seemed like the best compromise she could make.

At least it had kept the peace.

Then Nicole took things a step further. Which had been one step too far.

She’d written a letter to each of the people who would eventually get Samson, Bailey, and Cooper—God, how she hated those names—as their service animals. To tell them about Mikey was all she would say. She’d left them on the kitchen table to read for themselves.

David had. But Carol had tucked the envelopes in a drawer, out of sight. Until she was ready, was her excuse.

That was a week ago. She still wasn’t ready.

Might never be ready.

Writing the letters may have been cathartic for Nicole, but she couldn’t imagine letting strangers read things about her son. Her baby.

Why would they even care about a boy—no, a young man—they’d never met? How would they ever understand what a special person he’d been? The gentleness with which he’d dealt with both animals and people. The thought he’d put into crafting handmade presents on birthdays. The genuine joy he got from releasing an injured rabbit he’d nursed back to health into the woods behind their house.

None of them would ever comprehend the light that had been snuffed out of the world. The vast potential lost in the blink of a bullet, when Mikey had been so cruelly stolen from her. From them all.

How did you put any of that into mere words?

She only realized she was sobbing when one of the puppies crawled into her lap with a barrage of concerned whimpers. Cuddling the warm weight tight to her chest, the emotional dam holding back all the pain as it built and festered inside her let loose with a blast. Through the torrent, the puppy lay docile in her tight grasp, head tucked under her chin, the quiet comfort of its presence doing what all the talky-talk share-your-feelings grief counseling hadn’t.

Pain. Grief. Anger. Frustration. Guilt. It all came spilling out along with the tears as she told the puppy about her precious boy. How she was so proud of him. And so angry. At the Army. At the people who’d shot him. At the men he’d saved.

At him.

For doing what was, for Mikey, the only thing he could have done.

Finally admitting the deep-seated anger she’d been holding onto was at least partially directed at her dead son was both shameful and freeing. Like an infected wound being lanced, that acknowledgment helped drain a little of the hurt. Of the guilt.

The anger remained. But maybe, just maybe, it could begin to ease now as well.

When the tears eventually slowed to a dribble, she loosened her hold and stroked the pup, who promptly wriggled around so it could lap at her wet cheeks. The unique scent of puppy breath filled her nose.

“Thank you, but eww.” She pulled the puppy away and pressed a kiss to its snout, earning another swipe of its tongue. A small laugh somehow bubbled up from the remnants of her grief. “Okay, that’s enough of that. Geez.” As she shifted her head out of licking range, the flash of white from its collar caught the edge of her vision.

She froze.

“Bailey.”

It came out a pained whisper, but the puppy squirmed excitedly at its name, bouncing in her grasp in another attempt to lick her face.

Damn it.

Why did it have to be one of them who’d given her comfort?

As if knowing she was seconds from rejection, Bailey whined and shimmied to snuggle against her again, tiny head resting right above where Carol’s heart was tripping wildly in her chest. A small sigh of contentment escaped the pup before it promptly fell asleep.

Carol sat frozen, one hand supporting the puppy. The other hung helplessly in the air, as if it didn’t know whether to pluck her away or cradle her closer.

As the moments ticked by, her body didn’t care that her brain remained frozen by indecision. Her racing heart slowed. Her choppy breaths steadied. And the soft weight of the puppy in her arms became less burden and more comfort, like a weighted blanket during a thunderstorm.

Finally, a long breath escaped her, like a purge of the last air tainted by hate.

Displaced anger.

Okay, maybe the counselor knew what she was talking about, after all.

She settled back against the wall in a more comfortable position for them both, stroking Bailey’s soft fur like a worry stone.

“Mikey would have adored you, you know. He loved animals so much. All animals, even ones who aren’t as cute and cuddly as you.” They still had the bat house in the yard he’d made for shop class instead of the assigned birdhouse, since ‘bats need a place to live, too.’

“Raccoons with missing tails. Baby squirrels with broken legs. He wanted to help them all. And the ones he couldn’t…well, those hit him hard. He was so like his father that way. A total emotional marshmallow.” She grinned at the memory of the face both of them had made when she’d said that to them once. “But dogs? He loved them most of all. He would have brought home every stray he saw if we’d let him.”

And in that instant, she knew they’d be finding some other way to generate extra income not just for the family vacation fund, but to keep donating to the shelters as well. Mikey would have wanted that.

She wanted that.

To carry on Mikey’s passion for helping the neglected and forgotten.

When her arm started going numb, she deposited Bailey with her littermates and went back up the stairs. Her eyes ached, her throat was raw, but her heart sat a little lighter in her chest than it had before she’d gone down them.

While the coffeemaker saturated the room with its delicious aroma brewing her first cup of the day, she assembled the ingredients for breakfast. Again and again, as she measured, as she stirred, her gaze drifted to the end cabinet drawer.

The drawer.

And every time she pulled it away again, struggling to ignore the increasing need building inside her.

Pancake batter ready, coffee poured, table set, there was nothing left to distract herself with. Her gaze went once more to the drawer.

And stayed.

“What the hell. In for a penny, right?” she muttered as she walked over and yanked it open. 

The envelopes sat where she’d shoved them a week ago. Three copies of the same letter from her daughter to the eventual recipients of the three puppies downstairs destined to be their service dogs.

Sucking in an unsteady breath, she picked up the one on top and stared at it like it might explode in her hand. Which shook just a little as she drew out the single sheet and unfolded it. Her daughter’s neat handwriting filled the page of purple stationery she’d gotten last Christmas.

“That girl and her purple fixation.” She closed her eyes for a second, questioning once more what she was doing, then opened them and started reading.

Dear Serviceperson,

First, I want to thank you for your service. If you’re reading this, it means that you were wounded in some way and are in need of a service dog, and for that, I’m truly sorry. But if you’re reading this, it also means that you’re getting one of the dogs that was born to my brother Mikey’s dog, Sadie, and for that I’m glad. You see, Mikey was a medic in the Army, and he was killed trying to help some wounded soldiers just a few weeks before he was supposed to come home.

I’m sorry to say I was really angry with my brother when I first heard what he’d done. I guess it’s selfish of me to think he should have cared more about keeping himself safe than risking his life for other people. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized there was no way he could have done anything else. Mikey was always the kind of guy everyone could rely on. He was smart, and funny, and the best big brother anyone could ever have. I loved him lots, and I’m going to miss him even more, every single day of my life.

I’m not telling you any of this to make you sad. I just wanted to explain about my brother, and why the dog you’re getting is so special. My brother spent the short time he had on this Earth helping others. I can’t wish him back to life, but I can wish this: that his generous spirit live on in the love and comfort you receive from your service dog. Take each day you have together as a gift, and maybe once in a while think about Mikey. I know when I do, I’ll be picturing him smiling down on you, knowing that his legacy, and Bailey, are in good hands.

Wishing you a happy and fulfilling life,

Nicole

Dear lord.

Had she really thought Mikey couldn’t be captured in mere words?

Clearly, she’d underestimated her daughter.

And done her a great disservice.

Seeing an admission of anger at her brother so like her own, anger that she, the adult, had only just been able to acknowledge, was a surprise. A painful one.

Because she hadn’t known how she felt. Hadn’t given Nicole the chance to let her know. Too caught up in her own pain for her daughter to feel she could come to her with those confusing, hurtful feelings. When she needed her mother most, she’d been left adrift to navigate her grief all by herself.

Guilt bit her, sharp and deep.

I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’ll do better. I swear.

One of her children was beyond her ability to help. She wouldn’t continue to fail the one who wasn’t.

As she refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, the silent form of her husband in the kitchen doorway caught her attention. Like she’d been found with her hand in the secret stash of Milano cookies, she quickly tucked the letter in the drawer and closed it. 

“Good morning.”

David walked to her with slow steps. The way you’d approach a skittish animal.

“You finally read it. I didn’t think you would.”

She picked at the speck of batter that had splashed onto her sleeve, not meeting his gaze.

“I didn’t plan to. But…I’m glad I did. I was wrong.” She glanced toward the stairs, where the sound of puppies demanding breakfast was getting louder. “About a lot of things. Especially about shutting everyone out.”

Their daughter wasn’t the only one she’d let suffer through their shared loss alone.

With a low sound of relief that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him, David pulled her into an embrace that was almost too tight.

She wrapped her arms around him and held him even tighter. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Everyone has their own path through grief. I’m just glad you’ve found your way back to me. To us.” His arms tightened to the point of stopping her breath for a second before he released her.

As he wiped at damp cheeks, he stepped back and looked over at the batter bowl as though searching for some sense of normalcy to retreat to. “So, what’s for…” He stared. “Chocolate chip pancakes.” His voice went husky. “Mikey’s birthday breakfast.”

“Well, it’s his birthday, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t… Yes. It is.”

There was so much in his eyes as he looked at her. Relief. Love. Understanding.

Gratitude.

In for a pound.

“I want to go with you today.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “To drop off the puppies.” She drew a deep breath. “And to the cemetery.”

Because Nicole wanted to bring flowers and wish Mikey a happy birthday.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I think it’s time.”

Time to step out of the shadows of grief and start moving forward again. To take all the pain and anger and turn it into something good. Something positive.

Something Mikey would be proud of.

And it all began with those three dogs who would become his legacy.

Something was about to go horribly wrong.

The knowledge was there in the itchy sensation that crawled up the back of Neil Crawford’s neck like a troop of fire ants, setting his nerves ablaze and sending his body into hyper-vigilant mode. Sixth-sense, primal fear, soldier’s intuition. Call it what you will, it was screaming at him shit was going to hit the fan in a spectacularly awful way, and he was about to get a face full of it.

His hand dropped instinctively to grab the weapon at his side, but fell instead on the camera bag slung there.

What the hell…

Panic and confusion clouded his thinking for precious seconds before he remembered.

Not a soldier anymore. 

This time around, he was just a civilian. His job was to document the ongoing struggles of the people caught in the middle of a never ending war for the documentary they were shooting, not to join in the fight.

His fingers twitched, still searching for the phantom rifle that had once been like another limb. Almost four years since he’d last set foot in this hellhole, and it was like both yesterday and another lifetime ago. Instincts that had kept him alive before demanded he protect himself now. But he had no weapon. The unit they were imbedded with was supposed to provide all the security they needed.

Which would have been fine if the LT spent a little more time with his head in the mission, and a little less trying to charm his way into Jessica Lynch’s pants.

Not that he could really fault the man for his interest.

Jessie was a fine-looking woman, even dressed in dusty BDUs and combat boots and five days out from a shower. More to the point, though, she was a civilian American woman, something most of these grunts hadn’t seen in the living flesh for far too long. He remembered the feeling well.

All the guys jockeyed for a chance to talk to her, be near her, take selfies with her. She was like a little piece of home caught in a bottle, and these kids hadn’t been home in a very long time.

But there was a time and a place to try for a piece of ass. And neither was when they were out in the open the way they were right now, in the center of the tiny village at the ass-end of beyond they’d entered half an hour ago.

He looked to where the lieutenant was standing hip-cocked against the crumbling wall that surrounded the communal well, chatting up Jessie like he did every chance he got. As he watched, Jessie glanced idly around as though looking for something. When her gaze landed on Neil, he realized she’d been looking for him.

To ride to her rescue yet again, no doubt. Just like every other time she couldn’t politely extricate herself from Lieutenant Henderson’s presence.

She didn’t want to alienate the man. He could easily sabotage the entire documentary, and they’d both agreed he was exactly the kind of asshole who’d do just that in a fit of petty revenge. So, Neil got to be the bad guy instead, always cock-blocking him by dragging Jess off on some flimsy excuse or another.

Leaving him currently front and center on the LT’s shit list.

Sure enough, the look in Jessie’s eyes was one of desperate pleading, despite the smile she wore as she listened to whatever Henderson was saying. He considered leaving her to work her way out of this one on her own, just to ruffle her pretty reporter feathers a little. Because he was sure the hell sick of playing her stooge instead of her cameraman.

But that itch on his neck was getting worse. And suddenly it seemed an excellent idea for both of them to get the hell out of the open.

He had taken one step from the meager shade he’d been savoring when half of Henderson’s face disintegrated. A mist of pulverized bone and muscle and blood sprayed out onto Jessie in a wide arc. She gasped, hunching in like someone unexpectedly doused with ice water, clearly not yet understanding what had happened.

An indistinct roar of yelling and gunfire and screams filled his ears as the unit realized they were under attack and scrambled to find cover. But Neil remained frozen in place, foot still raised to take that next step that wouldn’t come.

Bewilderment etched Jessie’s expression as she stared at hands splattered with blood and other things, before raising horrified eyes to meet his.

Run!

He shouted it, but only in his head. He couldn’t seem to say it out loud.

Run!

Jessie held out her hands towards him, the gesture pleading with him to help her.

To save her.

Run, damn it, run!

A bullet skipped off of the wall beside his head, sending sharp lances of fire into his face where the stone shrapnel bit into his skin.

Like a balloon had popped, all the muffled sounds suddenly came rushing in at him with full surround sound clarity, waking his body and unsticking his brain. Nearly overwhelming him with sensory memories. Of other villages, other firefights, other times the scent of blood and gunpowder had seared his nostrils and coated his throat with the acrid taste of death.

“Run!”

A weight like a small fist pressed into his side, again and again.

Ignoring it, he ran for her. But no matter how far he went, he never seemed to get any closer to the woman still standing beside the well, hands extended, an expression of absolute horror on her gore-speckled face.

Something warm and wet ran down his cheek.

“Jessie, get down! Get down!”

The wetness moved to his ear, and then his neck.

As he ran, a small hole dotted the center of her forehead. He saw the split-second of surprise on her face before she collapsed to the ground like a suddenly boneless doll. All of that life and vitality snuffed out in the merest instant. A wave of pain and grief crested over him even as he felt the push against his body, rocking him to the side.

“Nooo—”

Neil jerked awake with the hoarse cry on his lips. Disoriented, he stared at the ceiling above the bed, uncertain where he was. When he was.

Fuck, who he was.

A soft whine and a warm, wet swipe of a tongue against his neck immediately grounded him. He threw an arm around the furry body lying partially on top of him. As he sucked in lungful after lungful of air, the band of terror squeezing his chest loosened by small increments as he slowly came back to himself.

Knowing the drill, Bailey stayed wedged against him, her wet nose pressed tight to the spot under his ear. As she always did, she seemed to recognize the second he was truly back in the present again. Her tail thumped lightly against the mattress and she pulled off him enough to plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

“Good girl,” he croaked, giving her an awkward pat, limbs still not quite in synch with his brain.

True to her training, Bailey had already pawed the light switch to turn on the bedside lamp before going into her waking and deep pressure therapy mode. It cast the bedroom in a soft glow, further pushing back the clingy hold of the dream by proving he was safe at home in Tennessee, not seven thousand miles away in some desert death trap.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he grabbed the bottle of water from his nightstand and chugged half of it down. A futile attempt to wash away the acrid taste of sulfur and fear that always followed him out of the nightmares.

Damn it!

Wasn’t he ever going to be free of the memories? The horror?

The guilt?

He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes as he hunched over. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Whining softly, Bailey belly-crawled to his side again and wriggled her way around so she could lay her snout on his thigh. When he dropped his hands from his face, her big brown eyes rolled up to look at him with quiet adoration and calm acceptance.

He wished to hell the people in his life would look at him with half as much understanding as the friggin’ dog did when he fell into the hellhole of his mind.

Then again, he’d never given the people in his life much cause to.

A glance at the clock on the nightstand showed 2:19. Fucking wonderful. Not like it mattered, really. Sleep was still a tricky thing for him, even when it wasn’t being haunted by ghosts of memories past.

“Fuck,” he said once more with feeling. Scrubbing a hand through his short, sleep-ravaged hair, he looked down into the soulful eyes still watching him, waiting for the magic words.

“Ice cream?”

Like a shot, the golden retriever bounded from the bed and raced to the closed bedroom door, where she did a quick donut and came back to sit at his feet, entire body quivering with anticipation.

Bailey’s excitement about their ritual post-nightmare treat dragged out a grin despite the residual terror that left his muscles aching from being clenched so tightly. A small scoop of ice cream was her reward for a job well done. For him, it helped cover the lingering tastes of war his mind managed to reproduce in such exacting detail.

Of course, a few shots of Jack Daniels would do it better.

But the thought was a fleeting one. He’d worked damn hard to get sober. One more fucking nightmare wasn’t enough to tempt him to backslide now. Not when he had come this far. So much farther than he’d ever anticipated he could.

Especially since he had fully expected to be dead long before now.

Opening the bedroom door, Neil followed the now amped-up dog to the kitchen, where she sat at perfect attention beside the refrigerator. After scooping out a small ball of strawberry/vanilla swirl from the gallon container, he dropped it in the plastic bowl he used only for treats, not regular food, so she understood the difference.

With an affectionate stroke on her soft head he gave the release command, and she greedily attacked her reward while he scooped out a larger portion for himself. He leaned against the counter to eat while Bailey chased the dish around the faded linoleum floor, licking for every last drop.

My brother spent the short time he had on this Earth helping others. My wish is that his generous spirit live on in the love and comfort you receive from your service dog.

The words from the handwritten letter given to him after he “graduated” with Bailey from the service dog training course a year and a half ago had stuck with him.

Love and comfort?

Those were small words to describe the enormous impact Bailey made on his life.

It never ceased to amaze him how freaking lucky he’d been the day she’d been walked into his dorm room at the Another Step Forward campus and introduced as his. It wasn’t overstating things an inch to say she had literally saved his life.

And kept on saving it, every single day since.

Of course, the fact a recovering alcoholic had ended up with a PTSD service dog named Bailey was an irony not lost on either Neil or his therapist.

After checking to make sure every door and window was still secure despite having done the same inspection right before going to bed, he headed to the small front bedroom. He’d converted the unused space into his darkroom-slash-office after moving into the house the previous year. If he wasn’t getting any more sleep, he might as well do something productive with the long hours till dawn.

Alex wasn’t expecting the project she’d commissioned from him to be finished for another few weeks yet. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have some early proofs to show her and make sure their vision about the final product meshed. The two of them were usually pretty like-minded on projects, but that was work. This was personal, and he wanted to make sure he got it absolutely right for her.

After closing the door, he settled into the office chair he’d picked up for a steal at a garage sale thanks to the puppy-chewed seat, patiently pressing down the silver tape he’d used to cover the damage. There were very few things in life duct tape couldn’t fix.

Too bad he was one of them.

With a contented grunt, Bailey collapsed next to the desk. Within minutes, soft doggie snores filled the room.

“Show off,” he muttered under his breath as he booted up his computer and brought up the files of the photos he’d shot the previous weekend. Digital photography might make it possible to take twice as many shots while he tried to get just the right one, but the purist in him still missed using film.

There was just something about it that was more…organic. More honest.

Or maybe, as had been accused more than once, he really was simply stuck in the past, unable to move on. He hoped that wasn’t true, because his past wasn’t a place he really wanted to stay.

One trip through hell had been more than enough for any lifetime.

***

“I look like a poodle!”

Squinting at the picture being waved in her face, Alexandra McKenna shook her head. “No, you don’t.” Personally, she thought the resemblance was closer to a Pomeranian, but voicing that opinion wouldn’t be wise. She needed to talk Vanessa down from her high horse, not stick a burr under her saddle.

“A big, fat, poofypoodle!”

Well, yeah, okay, she kind of did.

Biting her cheek to keep from grinning, she said, “Really, Vanessa, you look fine.”

“He did it on purpose, you know.”

“Who, Neil?”

“He always makes sure to shoot me in the least attractive way possible.” Vanessa brandished the picture again as proof. “That man is a hack.”

Tired of the familiar refrain, Alex plucked the picture from Vanessa’s fingers and placed it face down on her desk. “That man has won awards for his work. It’s not his fault it was windy that day.”

Or that Vanessa had chosen to get a perm the day before, which had taken on a life of its own. A subsequent trip to a salon in the city had resulted in a successful repair job, but not before the damage was already done, photographically speaking.

Vanessa sniffed, because she couldn’t refute facts. But she wasn’t about to be put off that easily.

“If someone had simply told me my hair was a mess, I could have done…something.” She frowned, because really, nothing short of a net would have helped contain the poof and she had to know it. “In any case, we’ll just have to reshoot them.”

This time, Alex didn’t even try to hold back her laugh. “These pictures were taken on Founders Day,” she said, in case Vanessa had forgotten that tiny detail. “We can’t ‘just reshoot’ everything.”

“Not everything. Just the ones with me in them.”

How very Vanessa.

“I really hope you’re joking right now, Vanessa, because if not, then you’re delusional.” Sadly, Alex knew she wasn’t joking. In Vanessa’s world, anything that benefited her was what mattered most, and nothing would stand in the way of her getting it. It was what helped her rise so quickly from fledgling reporter to featured anchor at the station.

And made her the least-liked person in the WMKN family.

Forestalling Vanessa’s reply, Alex leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled the way she’d seen her grandfather do a hundred times.

“Here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll ask Neil if he can fix the pictures you find the most objectionable. Maybe with Photoshop or something he can make your hair look a little less…” Edward Sissorhands. “…flyaway.”

“Well, he’d better be able to do something, or—”

“If he can,” Alex interrupted with a raised finger, another weapon from the Colin McKenna arsenal, “then we’ll update the pictures currently on the station’s website. If he can’t…” She spread her hands in an “oh well” gesture.

“That’s unacceptable,” Vanessa sputtered. “You can’t leave those pictures there with me looking like that. Not when…” Her glossy lips pressed together.

“Not when the other networks you’ve sent your resume to might see them?” She smiled thinly at Vanessa’s surprised reaction. “Worst kept secret of the year, Nessa.” She knew the other woman disliked the nickname, but she’d had just about enough of her prima donna crap for one morning. “If you’re that worried about it, I can go ahead and take all the pictures you’re in off the website entirely. Problem solved.”

Vanity warred with professional practicality as Vanessa visibly struggled with her choices.

“Fine, then. Leave them up. But if your pet cameraman is as good as you keep insisting he is, then it should be a moot point, anyway. He shouldn’t have any trouble at all making me look gorgeous again.”

With a dramatic swirl that tossed her now beautifully curled blonde hair in a showy arc, she stormed out of Alex’s cramped office, closing the door with enough force to rattle the frosted glass panel.

“Only on the outside.” After waving away the residual cloud of Chanel Vanessa always left in her wake, she flipped over the picture printed from their website’s events page and studied it again.

It showed Vanessa interviewing the mayor as he concluded his Grand Marshal duties at the Founders Day parade. Her over-permed hair, aided by the wind, was blowing up in a big blonde cloud around her head, making her look like a dandelion about to burst into seed.

Despite her confidence in Neil’s photographic abilities, even she had her doubts he’d be able to make Vanessa appear any less ridiculous.

Shoving the picture aside, she got back to the tedious station work Vanessa’s visit had interrupted. The myriad reports and contracts were her least favorite part of the executive producer’s job, but they still needed to get done. She was slogging through the week’s sponsor sheets when there was a knock on the door.

Welcoming the interruption, she called out, “Come in.”

The door opened quickly, pushed all the way open in a smooth arc. From that motion alone, she knew who it was. Neil Crawford rarely entered a room without visually clearing it first. It was one of his many quirks and tics which had long since stopped being odd and were instead just a part of who he was.

Neil tipped his head towards the computer screen once he’d completed his inspection and settled his gaze on Alex. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Yes, you are, and thank you for that.” She closed the current file and put the computer into hibernation, saying again, “Come in.”

It was difficult to tamp down the little frisson of sexual awareness that always accompanied being in Neil’s presence. He wasn’t good-looking in the slick, manscaped male model mold like some of the men who worked on-air for the network. Rather, he had a more earthy appeal with his square jaw and broad shoulders, tapering down to a nice, lean torso and long, well-defined legs that would have done any cowboy proud.

Alex had always had a secret weakness for cowboys.

Dragging her mind from thoughts that would embarrass them both if Neil ever realized she lusted after him with all the wistful longing of a horny teenager, she waited for him to close the door and take a seat.

As always, he chose the one which put his back closest to the wall.

Bailey, wearing her little blue service vest, stood with her feathery tail waving, but she didn’t leave his side until Neil gave her a soft “shake” command. Only then did the dog approach and offer her paw in exchange for a petting and one of the dog treats Alex kept in a jar in her desk drawer.

It had been an adjustment for her when Neil and Bailey first started at the network. Animals were her kryptonite. Show her any dog or cat, and Alex wanted to get right down on the floor and love on them.

But she’d done some research on service dogs when they hired Neil, which he’d reinforced on his first day at the station when she asked. And the simple act of petting or even talking to a service dog without permission was not only rude, it could distract it from its job. Sometimes with dire consequences.

So, she’d learned to wait until Neil gave Bailey permission before getting in her small doggie-love fixes.

After a final pat, Bailey settled on the floor at Neil’s feet, leaving Alex free to concentrate her attention on the far-too distracting man now seated across from her.

“So, what’s up?”

Neil fished in his pocket and drew out a silver flash drive.

“I put together some preliminary layouts for the birthday album you wanted.” He slid the drive across the desk to her. “I thought you might want to take a look before I go any further. See if there are any changes you want or if there’s anything I left out that you want me to add.”

She took the drive, more than a little surprised.

“I wasn’t expecting to see any proofs for another week, at least.” The shrug she got in answer told her nothing, but the dark smudges beneath Neil’s eyes did. The long-lashed eyes were a light blue, almost the color of well-washed denim, and one of his most arresting features as far as she was concerned. But right now, they looked tired.

And a bit guarded.

She couldn’t claim to know Neil well—she didn’t think anyone at the station could—but she knew enough to not ask questions when he wore that closed-off look.

“This is great,” she said instead. Gesturing toward her computer, she added, “Do you mind if I…?”

Another shrug.

A man of few words was their Neil.

She woke up the computer and snapped the drive into place, all the while hyper-conscious of the man watching her with the quiet intensity that never failed to make her feel clumsy and gauche. Neil Crawford had worked for her grandfather’s news network for a little over a year now. And she knew practically nothing more about him than she had the first day he’d shown up for work.

Other than he was an outstanding photographer.

As she watched the pictures both old and new Neil had assembled fill the screen, her already high opinion of his work skyrocketed. He’d turned the simple digital album she’d asked him to assemble as a surprise for her grandfather’s eightieth birthday into an artistic slideshow telling the story of Colin McKenna’s life and family. There were some photos she’d never even seen before.

“These are…amazing.”

“I can change anything you don’t like.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked, disengaging the drive. “I love it all. Don’t change a thing.”

“It’s just the mock-up. I’m not done yet.”

He sounded slightly defensive about it. Probably because he was such a perfectionist. That she understood. She was one herself.

“Then I can’t wait to see the finished product. Colin is going to love it.”

It was always Colin around the station. Never Grandfather or Gramps, even when no one else was around to hear. Colin had always been very clear about keeping personal and business relationships distinctly separate.

Alex might bear the same last name, but she’d earned her place in the executive producer’s office despite it, rather than because of it. Colin McKenna suffered no fool lightly. And when it came to the running of his beloved network, everyone who worked for him had to prove they were worthy of the honor. Even family.

Especially family, unfortunately for her poor cousin Richard.

As Neil reached for the flash drive she held out, his hand stopped as it passed over the picture of Vanessa and the mayor laying on the desk. He looked at Alex with a question in his gorgeous eyes.

She blew out an unhappy sigh.

“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that. Is there any chance you can, I don’t know, fixit a little? Vanessa’s hair, I mean,” she added quickly, not wanting it to sound like she found fault in the actual photography, which was just fine. “It’s a little…” She waved her hands around her own head. “Big.”

There was a long pause as Neil studied the picture. Thinking about ways to fix it? Or how to tell her it wasn’t his job to Photoshop out bad life choices? He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair as he thought, disrupting the silver-shot brown locks into a sexy mess.

And unknowingly giving her a tiny thrill as his biceps flexed beneath the edge of his dark blue tee. 

She swallowed and looked away.

Drooling wasn’t polite.

Finally, he tipped his head to the side in a partial nod. “Yeah, I can probably do something with it.”

“Great.” One diva crisis averted. “Thank you.”

“But there’s nothing I can do about the interview segments we filmed,” he added, totally deflating her premature relief. “Stills are one thing, but video…”

Alex swallowed a groan. She’d forgotten about the slew of interviews conducted during the Founders Day celebrations to be run as part of the station’s Hometown Heritage weekend show over the next month. Vanessa must have forgotten them, too.

For now.

Alex didn’t look forward to when she remembered.

“No chance you can work a little CGI magic, I suppose?” she half-joked.

“Spielberg and Lucas combined don’t have that much magic.”

His wry comment surprised a laugh out of her. Neil rarely made jokes, but she could see from the slight twitch of his lips he was more amused about Vanessa’s situation than he had let on. It was no secret he wasn’t Vanessa’s favorite person. Alex just hadn’t realized the feeling was mutual.

If she didn’t know how much of a professional Neil was, she might suspect there was actually something to Vanessa’s accusation of photographic sabotage.

“Well, then, it is what it is.”

Not that Vanessa would agree. But really, what else could they do other than scrap the interviews altogether? And there was no way thatwas happening. Founders Day was a huge deal to the people of Shelby, and since WMKN’s studios were based there, that made it a big deal for the network as well.

She held out the flash drive to Neil again. As his slightly calloused fingers grazed hers to take it, she had to bite her lip to repress the shiver of awareness that tingled up her arm.

Her stupid body seemed to have a mind of its own where Neil was concerned. It didn’t matter how many times she reminded herself the man had shown zero interest in her beyond their working relationship. She couldn’t convince her hormones to stop doing the mating dance whenever he was around.

She could only pray he remained as oblivious to his effect on her as he always seemed.

As Neil closed his fist over the drive, Bailey rose to her haunches, looking up at him as she pressed against his leg. He used his free hand to stroke her head in an almost absent fashion for a few seconds before standing, shoving the drive into his pocket as he did.

“I won’t be able to work on fixing Vanessa’s shots until later.” A small hand gesture had Bailey moving to stand in front of the closed door, waiting. “I’ll be out most of the day with Penny.”

A ridiculous spurt of jealousy hit her gut before she realized he meant he’d be on a location shoot with the attractive young reporter. Working.

She should know. She’d scheduled the piece herself two days ago. And been the one to assign Neil as Penney’s cameraman since she was still learning the ropes and Neil was, well, Neil. Smart. Talented. Dependable.

Hot.

Oh, this was so bad.

“Okay, sure,” she said, reopening the sponsor file on the computer to make herself look busy. It was rude, but anything was better than trying to meet his eyes when she could feel a blush starting to heat her cheeks. “Let me know when you have something to show Vanessa so she can climb down off the ledge.”

“Will do.”

The urge to glance over as he left was strong. So strong.

She stared at the computer screen for all she was worth instead, despite not seeing a thing on it. Only after the door closed behind him did she drop her head with a low groan.

Lusting after one of her employees was so not smart.

In fact, it was dumb, reckless, and completely unprofessional.

Although…technically, Neil was her grandfather’s employee as Colin was sole owner and CEO of the network. And would be until he deigned her ready to take over the reins and finally stepped down into what some thought was a long overdue retirement. Still, she was Neil’s direct supervisor, which should have been enough to keep her rowdy hormones in check.

Sadly, it wasn’t.

So, it was a good thing she had a date with Steve Prentiss that evening.

He was another of her mother’s many attempts to match her up with “someone of the right caliber” to marry into the McKenna clan. Of course, Helen McKenna’s idea of right and hers didn’t usually mesh. Like, at all.

But every once in a while, her mom wore her down enough to agree to a blind date with another of her meticulously chosen candidates. This one happened to be the youngest son of one of her mother’s “dearest” friends.

God help me.

Still, he’d seemed nice enough from the brief phone conversation they had to decide on a place for dinner. And after how she’d practically been salivating all over poor unsuspecting Neil just now, maybe going out with another guy was exactly what she needed. Despite her reservations about someone her mother thought was “right,” she could at least manufacture a little enthusiasm for the evening.

Because really, even if she and Steve didn’t click, how terrible could it really be?