From The Ashes
Sharon Mignerey
She couldn't hide forever. Animal trainer Angela London had never stopped looking over her shoulder. Her extraordinary skill with guide dogs had won her a handsome celebrity client, ex-football player Brian Ramsey, and helping him cope with the loss of his vision was awakening powerful feelings in her heart. But she feared his reaction if he ever discovered the truth about her dark past…As Christmas approached, a vengeful enemy targeted Angela, bent on destroying her newfound happiness. Now she had to thwart a dangerous threat–with Brian's help–or risk losing a love that promised to redeem them both.
From the Ashes
Sharon Mignerey
In memory of my mother, Thelma Anis Black
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Acknowledgments
My deepest gratitude goes to the Clinton family—Willie Jr., Sajuana and Shanelle who so generously shared their experiences with sight loss, especially their wonderful stories about Willie’s guide dogs Jada (his current dog) and Elton (who is now retired). I also need to thank Russ Burcham, M.D., who patiently answered my questions concerning glaucoma and sight loss—if there are mistakes in the book, they are mine and are no reflection on him.
A special thank-you to my proofreader, Danielle, whose sharp eyes and attention to detail are invaluable.
ONE
For we walk by faith, not by sight.
—II Corinthians, 5:7
“Hey, doll face.”
It was a nickname—and a voice—Angela London had never wanted to hear again. She searched the crowd for the man who had betrayed her. There he was leaning against the wall near a drinking fountain, looking as though he belonged—which he didn’t. Looking as though he could be one of the businessmen leaving the monthly luncheon for the chamber of commerce—which he wasn’t. Any business he had would be on the shady side of the law.
Tommy Manderoll was dead last on any list of people she wanted to see. Smiling as though he were welcome, he started toward her.
“Angela,” a woman said, coming to a stop next to her. “Thanks so much for your talk. The work you’re doing is so needed. Wonderful, really.” She patted Polly, wearing her service-dog-in-training vest and sitting at Angela’s feet, then pressed a check into her hand. “You’re making such a difference with Guardian Paws.”
“I hope so.” She glanced down at the check, the donation beyond generous. “Thank you. You’re sure you wouldn’t rather put this in the prepaid envelope that was in your packet?”
She shook her head. “I’m giving that to my boss.” The woman squeezed her arm and moved away.
“You are the woman of the hour,” Tommy said, coming to a stop in front of her, adjusting his tie in a gesture of preening that was second nature to him. “The outfit almost goes with the dog.”
There wasn’t a single thing wrong with the taupe, tailored, below-the-knee skirt and knit twinset she was wearing, but she still took the statement as an insult. This was the new Angela London, the one who didn’t like men like Tommy Manderoll and who didn’t wear the flashy clothes that attracted them.
She was prevented from answering when a deep voice inquired, “Miss London?”
The vaguely familiar-looking man who approached her was tall, with broad shoulders and a chiseled face that would have been perfect in a razor commercial. He offered his hand. She automatically took it and had the fleeting thought that his smile was meant only for her as his broad palm enveloped her smaller hand.
“Being here today was an answer to a prayer,” he said. “But you probably hear that all the time. I’m Brian Ramsey.”
“Nice to meet you.” The name, like his face, was familiar, though she couldn’t have said from where. Probably thirtysomething, though his eyes seemed older somehow. The niggle that she should know him, or at least know of him, didn’t go away as she took in his aura of confidence and the superb fit of his sports coat.
“I need a dog.” An indefinable expression chased across his face, and he took a breath before asking, “When would be a good time to call you?”
“That’s something I’d like to know, too,” Tommy interrupted. “Miss London, when would be a good time to call?”
Angela looked from Brian to her ex-boyfriend, the man she had never wanted to see again.
“I’m sorry,” Brian said. “I’ve caught you at a bad time—”
“No.” Angela touched the back of his hand when he would have walked away. She swallowed against the giddy feeling that heated her cheeks when his tawny, golden-brown gaze settled on her face. “Do you have a card so I can call you?”
“Sure.” Shifting his wool top coat to the other arm, he retrieved a slim wallet from his navy sports coat and pulled out a card. “I look forward to hearing from you.” Then, glancing down at Polly, he asked, “What kind of dog is she?”
“Since she was adopted from the pound when she was six months old, it’s hard to know for sure. She’s certainly got some golden retriever in her and probably some shepherd.”
“She looks just about perfect.”
“Thanks. I think she is.” Angela grinned.
As if reluctant to leave, Brian took one step away, then turned back. “You will call, won’t you?”
“By tomorrow morning at the latest,” she promised.
He nodded once, then strode down the hall, keeping her attention on him even as Tommy said, “Brian Ramsey is way out of your league. If you think a pro ballplayer, even a retired loser like him, would give you the time of day, you’re dead wrong.”
Brian Ramsey certainly had the physique of an athlete, but since she didn’t follow sports, she had no idea what team he had played for.
“So you’re into dogs now.” Tommy moved into her line of vision. “I would have never figured that.”
“What do you want?” She finally looked at him, not caring how rude or blunt her question was. When Tommy crowded into her space, she moved back a step.
He clucked his tongue. “Now is that any way to talk to an old friend?”
“You’re no friend,” she said softly, “and I’m not sure you ever were.”
“Don’t tell me you’re holding a grudge.” He drew her toward the edge of the rotunda as a group of people came out of the banquet room. Next to her, Polly stayed right at her side, standing patiently as she had been trained to do.
Angela met his gaze square on, once more putting some space between them and lowering her voice to a murmur. “How would you define turning state’s evidence so you got to walk away scot free while I was sentenced to four years in prison?” Thankfully, she’d had to serve only two, and they had been the longest of her life. The only good thing out of that experience was that she had been chosen to be part of a pilot program to train service dogs who had needed a second chance as much as the female inmates.
“I did what I had to do,” Tommy said, his smile fading.
“So, I repeat, what do you want?”
He glanced around the hallway where people had gathered in groups of two or three and many others were still making their way toward the wide doorway that led to the parking lot. “Let’s go get a drink somewhere.”
Angela shook her head.
“Ah. You’ve got the dog.”
Her gaze fell to Polly. “That. Plus, I don’t drink.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Pull the other leg, doll face. We both know you do.”
“Don’t call me that.” She held up a hand. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He took a step closer to her, bent his head toward hers, and pulled the check the woman had given her a few minutes earlier from her hand. “I don’t know why you’re messing around with pocket change like this when you’ve got a half million dollars stashed away.”
That again. The same rumored money that she had supposedly stolen from a drug kingpin.
At last she understood why he had looked her up. The promise of easy money. If Tommy was good at anything, it was looking after his own best interests to the exclusion of anyone else.
She took back the check and stepped away from him. “There is no money, Tommy. Never was.” The rumor of it, though, had nearly cost her best friend her life. That was one more regret Angela had to live with.
“I don’t believe you.” He shrugged. “I’ve got a sure thing, and you’re just the kind of girl who would want in.”
The statement was a replay of a conversation they’d had a long time ago. Then, a whole lifetime ago, she had been exactly that kind of girl. Girl. She was no longer young or naive in any way at all.
“Sorry, no.”
He ducked his head toward her a little, pasting on the cajoling smile that once had worked on her. “It’ll be like old times—”
Once more, she lowered her voice, but she couldn’t keep the anger from it as she said, “You mean like the old times where you showed me how to party and then supplied the drugs that I sold for you so I could pay for my own habit? You mean like the old times when I’d do anything for you, no matter how stupid?”
“Settle down.” He looked around, then, evidently satisfied he couldn’t be heard, he said, “Look at you. You’re the girl who likes sexy silk and trips to Cabo and European wheels. This isn’t the real you.”
“Actually, it is.”
“I don’t believe that, either.”
“I don’t much care what you believe as long as you do it someplace else. And as for getting involved in any of your ‘sure’ things—you’ve got to be kidding.”
“Then at least stake me the money. You know I’ll pay you back.”
“Stab me in the back is more like it,” she said, his sense of entitlement typical and irritating. “Same answer as before. No. As in no way, never. C’mon, Polly.” She took a single step, then turned back toward him. “Goodbye, Tommy. And I mean that in the most final way possible.”
“You’re gonna regret not taking me up on the offer,” he said, his cocky grin returning, his voice loud enough to carry as though she had just turned him down on a business deal.
In fact, she had.
“And you’ll regret ever bothering me again,” she said, tugging on Polly’s leash and moving away from him. She realized her voice had carried to a couple of the people around them when they turned and looked at her.
He took a threatening step toward her, his hand curling around her elbow to keep her from moving away, his pleasant smile masking his fierce whisper. “That sounded too much like a threat.” His grip tightened. “Remember this, doll face. You went to prison because you had no guts. Don’t be making threats you can’t keep.”
She pulled her arm away, proud of herself that she wasn’t cowering the way she once had. “That was no threat. It was a promise. Stay away from me.”
“A promise for you.” He pressed two fingers against his lips, kissed them, and tossed it toward her. “I’ll be seeing you.”
He walked away from her, as though he didn’t have a care in the world, as though he hadn’t just shaken hers. What she had ever seen in him? A stupid question since she had promised herself more honesty than that. He’d been an easy end to getting the drugs that had consumed her. Had being the operative word.
Her getaway wasn’t as clean as she would have liked. Several people who had attended the luncheon and watched her demonstration with Polly approached her the instant Tommy left. They asked thoughtful questions and a few people, like the first woman, gave her a donation. Through it, she kept noticing Tommy lurking in the background, which kept her thinking about his demand for money.
The kingpin who had been Tommy’s supplier had coerced her into using the business she’d owned with her best friend, Rachel, as a means to launder money. For reasons Angela still didn’t understand, after she’d gone to prison he’d decided she had stolen a half million from him that she’d left with Rachel. Angela’s pastor had encouraged her to forgive herself. She didn’t know how she could. Her own greed had ruined a friendship that still meant everything to her. The price Rachel had paid was unbearable to Angela.
Until today, she had believed that Tommy was behind the rumor. Except he wouldn’t be trying to shake her down for the money if he had been. Right now, Angela knew only two things for sure. She wanted that part of her life behind her and she never wanted to see Tommy again.
She shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d shown up today, she decided. Usually, the events of her day were a reflection of her daily Bible study. This morning’s reading had been from the first book of Proverbs, a warning of what happens to those who throw in with bad company. My child, if sinners try to seduce you, do not go with them. Only, a lifetime ago she had, and, caught in the lure of money and drugs, she had deliberately harmed her best friend. That simple, awful act had come back to her tenfold. Now, she doubted she would ever be able to make things right again. God might have forgiven her sins, but she was a long way from forgiving herself.
She might have paid her debt to society as defined by her prison term and her just-ended year of parole, but she still had debts to repay and would for the rest of her life, the least of them monetary. As always, that thought was nearly overwhelming, which made the idea of her having the money Tommy wanted all the more ludicrous.
One day at a time, she whispered to herself. One minute at a time.
She went outside and immediately wished she had remembered to put on a coat when she had dashed out of the house hours ago. The summerlike temperatures this morning had disappeared into the more typical November day in Denver—blustery with the scent of snow in the air, the cold biting right through her. The walk to the bus stop was going to be cold, as was the walk the rest of the way home on the other end.
A couple of hotel workers, bundled against the cold, were wrapping Christmas lights around the trunks of the trees flanking the entrance.
To her surprise, Brian Ramsey was coming toward the door, smiling—that same warm-down-to-her-toes smile that he had given her before.
“I was hoping I’d catch you before you took off,” Brian said. “I know you said you’d call, but if we could talk today, that would be better.”
Angela shivered as a gust of wind hit them, and Brian immediately noticed she wasn’t wearing a coat.
Her expression had gone from distracted to interested when her gaze lit on him. That at least was something.
“Is your car far?” He shrugged out of his cashmere top coat and settled it over her shoulders. The coat was huge on her, but somehow looked right, too. When she shivered once more, he reached out and closed the top button to keep the coat from slipping off her slim shoulders.
“Actually, we rode the bus today. I was headed for the Park and Ride across the street.” She glanced at him. “I should have known better than to leave home without a coat.”
“The weather can turn on a dime,” he agreed, looking from her to her destination, turning his head to compensate for his lack of peripheral vision. “Across the street” didn’t come close to describing the long walk across the hotel parking lot, up a hill and across another parking lot to the bus stop. There, she still wouldn’t have any protection from the weather except for a glass-enclosed lean-to.
“Look, you don’t know me from Adam,” he said, “but I’d be happy to give you a lift wherever you’d like to go.” This close, he became aware of her fragrance—soft, mysterious. Her soft brown hair had slipped from the clip holding it up, and tendrils curled around her face. When he’d watched her demonstration, he’d thought she was in her early twenties. Now he pegged her age at least ten years older, though nothing about those years made her any less appealing.
“And you’d be able to tell me what’s on your mind,” she allowed, “since you said you needed a dog.”
“That’s right.” He waited while she searched his face without any apparent recognition. Given all the notoriety he’d recently had, finding one person who didn’t know him on sight was a relief. “I’m harmless, I promise.”
She grinned. “So said the spider to the fly.”
He liked her sense of humor. “Probably. But if you’re not going to go with me, I want my coat back. It’s cold.”
Once more her eyes danced, and she patted the dog on the head. “What do you think, Polly? A warm ride or a cold walk?”
The dog wagged its tail, and Angela looked back at him. He heard the quick beep of a horn, and he turned his head, taking in the vehicle he had stopped driving two months ago easing up to the curb. “My car is here,” Brian said, pointing at his Escalade. His driver waved.
“Okay,” she said, stepping off the curb. “I am supposed to know you from somewhere, though, aren’t I?”
He waited until they had reached the vehicle and opened the back door for her before saying, “That depends, I guess, on whether you read the sports pages.”
She gave him another of those considering glances with her expressive brown eyes. “Not usually.”
He opened the back door, and as the dog jumped in, motioned to Sam. “Say hi to Sam Waite.”
“Hey,” Sam said.
“Hi,” Angela responded, taking the arm Brian offered for support as she climbed into the backseat.
He went around the vehicle to sit in the backseat with her, and, realizing his intention, she signaled the dog to climb into the back of the vehicle.
“Where are we off to?” Sam asked after they were settled.
“The lady’s pleasure,” Brian said.
“In that case San Diego. At least it would be warmer there.” She smiled at Sam’s raised eyebrows and cheerful expression, then gave him her address, adding the directions.
The address was far enough out in Denver’s northeast suburbs that Brian doubted it was on any direct bus routes. He wondered if the choice was part of the dog’s training.
After they were underway, he figured she’d ask why he had a driver, but she didn’t. Instead, she said, “That sounded rude. You know, saying I don’t usually read about sports.”
“Not rude.” He didn’t like that he had put his career behind him on something less than his own terms, but he also knew that simply because sports had consumed him from the day he could walk, it wasn’t so for many others. “Truthful.”
“You’re a ball player?”
He nodded, allowing a grin. Ball player left a lot of room.
“Football?” she ventured.
“What makes you say so?” he asked.
“You’re tall, but you don’t have that seven-foot height that seems to go these days with basketball players.” Her gaze left him and strayed to the gray day outside.
“You left off baseball or soccer.”
She shook her head with a good-natured grin. “I’m sticking to my first guess.”
“You’re right. I played football.”
“What team? Or maybe I’m supposed to ask what position.”
“I’m a quarterback. Was a quarterback,” he said.
“Are you completely insulted that I don’t know?”
He shook his head. “Since I didn’t play here in Denver—”
“Where, then?”
“Boston.” He found her watching him as though what he said really did matter. Once he’d been conceited enough to think that it did. “Thankfully, my lousy season last year didn’t rate front-page news here.”
“This is home?”
“Yep. Born and raised. Graduated from George Washington High School. What about you?”
“Transplant,” she said. “I grew up on the Western Slope. Glenwood Springs mostly.” She turned slightly in the seat, his large coat still draped over her shoulders. “Why do you need a dog, Brian Ramsey?”
There it was, the bald question that had only a bald answer to go with it. The words didn’t come as easily as he wanted though he had been laying the groundwork for months now. This was one more step in the journey, and he liked the exchange he’d been having with her. The three words that answered her question would change everything.
“Are you married?” he asked instead of answering her question. Extending these moments before the inevitable. “Involved with anyone?”
“No.” She gave him a challenging look that could have meant he should mind his own business or that she didn’t want to be involved.
“Me, neither.”
“Good to know,” she said, her smile taking the sting out of the words. “What does that have to do with your wanting a dog? We train dogs only for the deaf and the blind as I told you during my speech. Do you want to help a family member?”
He shook his head, studying her, in the middle of another of his daily realizations that everything in this life that he’d taken for granted for so long was precious. Driving. Looking at a pretty girl.
“A friend?” Her eyes really were beautiful. She was close enough that he could see her whole face, even though his field of vision was markedly smaller than it had been a few weeks ago.
“No.”
She frowned, drawing his attention to a freckle at the edge of her lip. “Are you all right?”
He took a breath and nodded. “Fine, today.” Absorbing all he could of her lovely face, he said, “I’m going blind. The dog is for me.”
TWO
Stunned by the news and hoping her expression didn’t reveal that, Angela watched Brian look away from her, then back, his own gaze challenging.
“Now you know why I need a driver.” He gestured toward Sam.
“Yes.” As with every other person she had met who had lost their vision, she knew there was a heartbreaking story here. As a professional athlete in the public eye, Brian would have an extra set of challenges. Not necessarily worse than what others faced. Just different.
His expression was so implacable that she suspected he was waiting for that moment he’d undoubtedly had with others. The outpouring of heartfelt sympathy and the “I’m so sorry.” She was, but telling him so would only make him feel pitied. He didn’t need that, surely didn’t want that.
“The first step is filling out an application, then getting you scheduled for a class—”
“You mean after my sight is totally gone?” He shook his head. “Listen, I know others are ahead of me in that whole process to get a dog. I’ve done my homework, and I know about the two-year training stint. And I know about the preparation and class work that I need to do ahead of time. The thing is, I’m in a unique situation here—”
“Privileged?” She hadn’t intended to interrupt, but the idea that he might think he could circumvent the system simply because he had money made her suddenly, unreasonably annoyed. With that, she became aware of the vehicle’s leather interior and the latest in gadgets on the dashboard. With his wealth, why was he seeking her help?
“Fortunately, yes,” he said simply. “But that’s not what I mean. To me, having this warning that I’m losing my vision is like training camp. You’ve got a set of things you need to do to get ready for the season—get in shape, learn the new playbook, do the work to build a team out of a bunch of individuals. What I’m going through is the same thing.” His expression lightened. “A Braille playbook isn’t going to be easy to learn.”
Surprised at his ready agreement to being privileged and intrigued by his comparison to training season, Angela saw the passion in him that had undoubtedly driven him to become an athlete good enough to be a professional.
“Exactly what do you want from Guardian Paws?” she asked, her annoyance diffused by his explanation.
“To participate in picking out and training my guide dog.”
Like his statement about going blind, this one was equally forthright, as though he had given the idea a lot of thought.
“Why Guardian Paws?” she asked. “There are other organizations, more experienced trainers—”
“Who could help me?”
His gaze searched her face, making her wonder just how much of his sight was left and what was causing his loss of vision. Diabetes? Macular degeneration? Glaucoma? Some irreversible injury?
“First, you’re local, so it seems reasonable that the logistics would be easier. Second, because your organization is small, I’m hoping you’ll be able—willing—to take a chance on this.”
“So you’ve already asked one of the other schools.”
“Several.” He nodded. “They have a set protocol that works, and I understand that.”
Sam turned the SUV onto her street.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” she said to Brian. “I’ve got to talk with my partner.”
“Is this the right house?” Sam asked from the driver’s seat.
Angela looked out at the small ranch-style home where she lived. Her twelve-year-old Honda Civic was in the driveway. “Yes.”
He pulled into the driveway, then got out of the car to open the door for her. She unbuttoned Brian’s overcoat and left it on the seat as she got out of the car. A gust of wind hit her, and she shivered.
On the other side Brian was getting out, as well. Like the well-trained dog she was, Polly waited for her command before hopping out of the back of the SUV and immediately coming to stand next to Angela.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said as Brian walked her to the door.
“I should be thanking you for listening,” he said. “Anything you need from me to help you make a decision—” He laughed suddenly. “Well, make a decision that I like.”
“I’ll call you.” She smiled at him, liking the way he turned his humor and his expectations back on himself.
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said, heading back down the walk, this time getting into the passenger seat of the SUV.
Another car came slowly down the street, the driver looking in their direction. Angela watched, hoping it wasn’t Tommy Manderoll.
It wasn’t, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the car drove past her house. Sam backed into the street while Brian gave her a brief salute from the passenger seat as they drove away.
After she let herself into the house, she remembered there had been a newspaper article about him recently. Something non-sports related. Looking through the stack of newspapers she had set aside for recycling, she found the article on the front page of the Family Living section of last Saturday’s paper—a huge piece about his foundation and the work he did with inner-city teens. With the loss of public money to fund after-school programs, the foundation had quietly and effectively filled in the gap. Sports was the cornerstone, but there were also activities for kids interested in other things, all designed to build teamwork and burn energy.
“The programs of the Beanstalk Gang are built around traditional activities, like sports. But we do more than that. Imagine field trips that take these kids behind the scenes where they can see people doing jobs they might aspire to. These outings are styled after reality shows and are fun and require skill,” the article quoted Brian. “It’s all about being somewhere safe and being where kids know somebody cares about them. You can’t let them know that in a sentimental way, of course, so it’s all in the guise of competition and learning life skills—teamwork, decision making, sportsmanship. It’s about basic tutoring when it’s required—you’d be surprised how many of these kids can’t read. Compared to the cost of doing nothing, these programs take an insanely small amount of money.”
The article concluded saying that he was proof that one person could make a difference.
Indeed. The man was attractive inside and out, a man she could seriously like. And like is the furthest it could go, she firmly told herself, imagining the field day a reporter would have if either of them acted on the attraction. Assuming, that is, that her awareness of him hadn’t been one-sided.
The convict and the blind quarterback. That was a headline she never wanted to see.
She had been the object of a reporter’s insatiable curiosity once before and the means to a front-page story. No way did she want that again.
Despite the warning she had given him that she needed to talk to her partner, Angela expected Maisey Erdmann to go along with the idea of involving Brian in the training of his own dog.
He couldn’t know how tempting his offer was. They had narrowed the focus of their training to working with dogs for the blind and the deaf. And they knew they could have the most impact by remaining a small local organization. Angela dreamed of one day having access to dogs specifically bred to be guide dogs, but she’d also had good luck so far with the carefully chosen dogs they had found from the pound and through various rescue organizations. And because they worked with local clients, they could get them involved in the training for six to eight weeks instead of the typical four.
Brian had said he wanted to pick out his own dog, and she had one that she hoped he’d want. She suspected he would hate Jasper on sight, but they would be perfect for each other—two athletes in the midst of a transition.
Just after sunrise the following morning, Angela arrived with Polly at the farm where Guardian Paws did business. Their training facility occupied one small corner of land and included a tiny farmhouse used for the office and a six-stall barn they had converted to a kennel. The barn was new, but its old-fashioned gambrel roof and deliberately faded red paint made it look as though it had been on the property for years.
Tim Warren had donated this part of his farm for them to use, a generous gift that he said was his way of giving back to the community. He farmed the rest of the sixty-acre property, growing organic fruits and vegetables along the Platte River.
In the distance, old-fashioned cornstalk teepees covered the field, Tim’s homage to a simpler time. The black soil gleamed with a layer of frost. The place was quiet, unlike summer when everything was growing and people came in all day long to pick their own vegetables. Personally, Angela thought Tim and his wife had been brilliant in their concept. Give their customers the rewards of having a garden without any of the headache of weeding and watering.
The harvest-theme decorations that had lined the driveway had been replaced by garlands of evergreen, along with a sign that counted down the days until the day after Thanksgiving, when Christmas trees would be available for sale.
Angela turned on lights in the house and put on a pot of coffee to brew before heading out the back door to the kennel with Polly obediently close behind. The small barn had a center aisle and three stalls on each side that had been perfect to convert for their purposes. Four of the stalls could hold the dogs, supplies were stored in one and the final one was their examination room.
She turned on the light and was greeted by wagging tails from the four dogs occupying two of the kennels.
“You guys are already awake?” She opened the gates and was immediately surrounded. If any of them had been jealous that Polly had gotten to go home with her last night, none showed it. Instead, they sniffed her in greeting, and when Angela opened the door to their fenced yard, they raced outside.
As happened every single morning, Angela’s heart swelled with gratitude. She didn’t simply like her job—she loved it.
After hearing about the program to train service dogs shortly after she was sent to prison, she had applied, hoping she’d be chosen. At first, she had imagined it would be a way to fill the time that had loomed endlessly in front of her. Instead, she had found a calling, the work she was meant to do.
Being with the dogs made her thankful, and she felt blessed to have this work. Dogs didn’t have an agenda. They didn’t have expectations she could never meet. They lived in the moment. Important life lessons, every one.
Prior to the end of her sentence, she had scoured the entire state, looking for someone who would hire her to pursue the calling she had discovered in prison. Not only had Maisey taken her on, she had stunned Angela after her parole was over by making her a partner in the business. It was a gift that Angela cherished, most especially because she knew she hadn’t deserved it.
One by one, almost as though taking turns, the dogs ran to her before taking off again. Bailey, the gorgeous golden retriever whose training was just beginning and who had been too high energy for the family who gave her up. Checkers, the smart shepherd–border collie mix who had been found in the pound without any tags. Gatsby, the black Lab mix, who was also a rescue from the pound where he had been taken after being found tied to a tree at a campground in the mountains above Golden. Polly, who was scheduled to begin training with her hearing-impaired master within the next month.
And the dog she had in mind for Brian—Jasper, the year-old elegant standard poodle who had been a socialite’s accessory. Maisey had thought Angela was crazy when she asserted that he’d be a wonderful guide dog, since the conventional wisdom was they had to be German shepherds, golden retrievers or Labrador retrievers, but she had signed on to the project with enthusiasm after reading the success stories about other poodles that Angela had uncovered.
“How are you doing, boy?” Angela said to him. He dutifully sat in front of her, his dark eyes on her as she rubbed the tips of his ears, which practically made him smile. Within the first month, he had learned more commands than any other dog she’d ever seen. That had been three months ago, and he continued to be the most responsive dog she had ever worked with. High energy and smart, he was going to need someone who was active and disciplined. To Angela, that sounded exactly like Brian Ramsey.
She had spoken with him briefly last night and suggested that he come out to the farm to meet their dogs in training. He had promised to come late this morning, his voice filled with anticipation and relief as though he somehow knew she was on the verge of agreeing to his proposal. She wondered if he’d be quite so pleased after he met Jasper.
The back door to the house slammed, and Angela turned to see Maisey coming toward her. Fiftyish and plump, the woman was smiling, just as always.
“Every single morning I think I can get here before you, and you’ve beat me again.” She held her bracelet-encased arms out to the dogs who came to greet her.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Angela said while Maisey murmured greetings to each of the dogs. “So I decided I might as well get up and come in.”
“Thinking about that good-looking Brian Ramsey, I bet.”
Angela had called her last night before talking to Brian. “Yes, but not because he’s good-looking. I invited him out here today so you can meet him. I want to know what you think before we agree to let him participate in the training.”
Maisey laughed at her prim tone. “I told you already. I trust your judgment.”
“I know you do.” Angela headed back toward the kennel to set out breakfast for the dogs. “But let’s face it. Since he’s a high-profile kind of man, we have to take the bad with the good. If this doesn’t work out the way he hopes it will—”
“It’s all going to be fine.”
“Says the eternal optimist.” Angela followed Maisey inside, holding the door open for the dogs.
Maisey headed to the cupboard and set out five dishes. “What are you afraid of?”
Angela stared into space a moment before saying, “I want to make sure it’s not my ego with grandiose ideas that makes me think this can work.” She began measuring out the kibble for each dish.
“I’ll meet him,” Maisey promised. “But the choice is still yours.” She grabbed a couple of the bowls, setting them in front of Checkers and Gatsby, who like all the dogs were patiently sitting, as they had been trained. “I picked up the messages. There were three for you from a Tommy Manderoll. ‘Urgent,’ he said.”
Angela sighed. “He’s a lowlife from my past,” she said, setting down the remaining bowls. Just because he had called her didn’t mean she had to call him back. She was sure he’d take any contact, even in the form of go-fly-a-kite as some sort of perverse encouragement. “Throw away the messages.”
“Anything else I can do?” Maisey asked.
Angela shook her head. “Anything else would be illegal.”
Maisey laughed. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”
After the dogs ate, Angela put on their in-training vests, a signal that playtime was over. As she worked with each of the dogs, she made notations in the planning books she kept for each one. She kept thinking about Brian’s comparison to training camp.
She supposed the initial assessment they made of the dogs was like training camp—figuring out which ones had the aptitude for their intended jobs. Only a few of the dogs they had chosen for the program had made the grade. The dogs that didn’t were adopted out to families. For the dogs that did, the real work began, complete with a “playbook” where goals were set out, progress was charted and personality traits were noted.
When Brian and Sam arrived shortly before noon, Maisey hung around only long enough for introductions before leaving with a whispered, “He’s great. Snap him up,” behind Brian’s back. To Angela, that sounded way too personal. Personal would never do.
Brian told Sam he could leave for a couple of hours, which left Angela alone with him. Gathering several Frisbees and softballs, she took him to the yard where the dogs were.
“This is playtime?” he asked with a teasing smile. “And here I thought you’d give me a formal demonstration.”
“You saw that yesterday at the luncheon,” she said, handing him one of the discs. “These guys all love Frisbee and can go at it all day long.”
“Good thing I have a strong arm,” he said, taking the first one from her and sending it flying. “And that I don’t have to worry about interceptions.”
“Did that happen a lot?” she asked.
“Too much last year.” He threw the next three discs in rapid succession, a big grin on his face as the dogs chased down the yard, their eyes on their prize. “These guys could be NFL-bound with speed like that.”
“How did you first learn you were losing your vision?”
The first of the dogs returned and dropped the disc at Brian’s feet. “Good boy,” he said, patting the dog and throwing the Frisbee again. “I was having the worst headaches of my life. At first the doctor thought it was migraines.”
“Glaucoma?”
Brian stared at her, aware that the dogs were returning one by one and dropping their prizes at his feet. “How could you know that?”
“One of the symptoms.” She smiled slightly. “And not a huge leap since it’s a primary cause of blindness. It’s pretty unusual for someone your age, but not unheard of.”
He picked up the Frisbees and threw them one by one for the dogs already running away from him like well-honed running backs. “It’s more a case of reaping the rewards of my sins.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Steroids,” he said simply. “My doctor says he’s never seen a case quite like mine, but the theory is anabolic steroids plus genetics plus the physical abuse inherent to playing a contact sport is what led to the condition. Definitely not my smartest move.”
She nodded as though she really understood. “That goes along with one of my favorite sayings. Do you know what results in good judgment?” When he shook his head, she said, “Experience.”
He grinned. “If that’s not the truth…”
“And what results in experience?” She paused for a beat.
“Poor judgment,” he guessed, then grinned more widely when she nodded. “I have to remember that. I like it.” He threw the Frisbees once more. “Anyway, surgery last January wasn’t successful, and medications haven’t helped, either. The docs tell me that’s the way it is sometimes. Too much irreversible damage, and nothing can be done.”
“How much vision do you have left?” she asked.
He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger that was about four inches in diameter, and held it in front of his eyes. “Everything on the outside of that circle is black. My doc says it might stabilize and stay like this for a while, or the rest of the field of vision might close and be gone in a matter of days.”
“So you’re praying for a miracle now.” She said it as though she was teasing.
“Nope,” Brian said, turning slightly, so he could see her, comparing the circle of his vision to what he remembered from the previous day. “That would be taking away my responsibility for what I did to myself.”
Her smile faded to a softer expression, as though she once more understood exactly what he meant.
He noticed immediately. “You know?” he added, enjoying the connection with her. Especially because she hadn’t offered him any of the heartfelt—and unhelpful—sympathy or platitudes that others had.
“Oh, that.” She rolled her eyes and grinned. “I’ve been there more than once myself.”
“To the point you royally screwed up your life?”
He’d meant the question to be a rhetorical one so he was surprised when she nodded.
“Hard to believe. You look—”
“Looks can be deceiving,” she said, her smile fading. “Let’s just say that I’ve too much experience—” the smile came back, rueful and directed at herself “—you know, that thing leading to good judgment—and plenty of practice with the Serenity Prayer.”
Though he was curious, he didn’t ask about the circumstances. But he wanted to. He liked her. In their all-too-brief meetings, all those reasons for not getting involved lost importance.
“That matter-of-fact way you talk about being responsible for your own stuff,” she added when he caught her glance, “you’d be surprised at how rare that is.”
He grinned at how neatly she had turned the subject away from herself. His own lack of responsibility had been a point of contention between him and his grandfather for years. Brian was trying hard to rectify that, so her observation pleased him. “Maybe the world wouldn’t be in such a mess if more people did.”
Even more, he liked that she hadn’t turned all clinical on him about how little he saw. One more thing that made her easy to be around, made him aware of her as a woman. Too aware. Once more, he reminded himself this wasn’t the time to get involved with anyone.
“Tell me about your foundation.” She threw the tennis ball for a couple of the dogs, grinning as the big sissy-looking poodle in the red sweater flew into the air to catch one. “Why is it named the Beanstalk Gang?”
“Because it was my favorite story when I was a boy,” Brian said. “I think we’re all given the equivalent of magic beans somewhere along the way in the form of opportunities—which are usually disguised as hard work—or advantages, like a talent to sing or play ball or be great with a computer. It’s what we do with those things that count. But, the story is also cautionary. Jack followed a calling by climbing up the beanstalk, but he also caused himself a lot of trouble by stealing from the giant. I think it’s a reminder that kids have to learn responsibility and let go of thinking they’re entitled to anything. My grandfather always told me that for every privilege there’s an equal responsibility.”
“The work you do there…you sound like you love it.”
“It’s what I’m supposed to be doing,” he said simply, meaning it. At one point, he hadn’t been able to imagine his life after football. Then a high school buddy who was now a teacher had told him about all the trouble the school had begun having with gang violence and vandalism, something he traced back to the suspension of after-school programs after funding was cut. That conversation had sparked Brian’s imagination, and when he’d realized that he had the money—and fund-raising ability—to do something about the situation, he’d thrown himself into the project, more satisfied with the charity work than he’d been about anything else in his life. Making such a confession to anyone, though, made him sound like some self-righteous do-gooder, and that wasn’t the case at all.
The newspaper article that had been in the paper last week was mostly accurate, a nice change for him, and it had done exactly what he had hoped in raising awareness—and money. The foundation Web site had received ten times the number of hits since the article, and the donations had gone way up.
He turned his head to look at Angela, not knowing what else to say that wouldn’t make him sound like some self-aggrandizing celebrity calling attention to himself.
“I feel that way about training service dogs,” she said.
The fact that she didn’t pry a bit surprised him. Pleased him.
They didn’t talk for a couple of minutes while they continued to play catch and fetch with the dogs. Angela was good company, quite unlike the women he used to spend time with. He had liked girls with flash, second only to playing football. When he was younger, the key to success with both sports and girls was being bigger, stronger than the other guys. He’d known taking steroids was wrong, but at the time he’d had the misguided idea that the end justified the means. Twenty years later, he was paying the price.
Forcing his attention away from those gloomy thoughts to the dogs playing in front of them, he sized up each one. The poodle in the sweater kept coming into his line of vision, and Brian decided it was a good thing the dog was wearing a sweater. Otherwise, he would have looked like a seventy-pound rat. The most alluring dog of the group was Polly, the dog he had met yesterday, even though he knew she was being trained to help someone else. He also really liked the golden retriever and the Lab mix.
With effort, he returned his thoughts to the topic Angela had started. “The work of the foundation—that’s the thing that drives me,” he finally said. “I have a few months left before most of my vision is gone if I’m lucky, days if I’m not. In the meantime, I want to get as much set up as I can.” He looked around at the dogs, able to imagine all of them except the poodle as his guide dog. “Is there a chance I could have one of these dogs?”
She nodded, a smile making her eyes light. “Polly, Bailey and Checkers are being trained for hearing-impaired owners. Gatsby and Jasper are being trained for the blind. Gatsby is already spoken for.”
“That leaves Jasper,” he said.
“It does. Why don’t you call him?”
Brian did, and the prissy poodle in the red sweater came to sit in front of him.
THREE
“He has purple hair,” Brian said, looking at the dog, who stared right back at him with dark, intelligent eyes. He had the fleeting impression that the dog was sizing him up—and that he might come up lacking.
“Disgusting, isn’t it,” Angela agreed cheerfully. “He just had a haircut, so most of it is gone. You should have seen him when he first got here. A full continental cut and purple from his head to the pom-pom on his tail.”
“So he’ll be white when the last of this is cut off?”
“Yes. His previous owner thought he was a fashion accessory, not a dog.” Angela came to stand next to Brian, the top of her head just at his shoulder. “Imagine how humiliating it would be to be dyed purple so you go with an outfit, then taken to a function where you’re supposed to act like a stuffed dog.”
“Sounds bad.”
The dog appeared to wink, which made Brian grin, though he still couldn’t believe that Angela saw him with this particular dog.
“It gets worse,” Angela assured him. “This was an outdoor affair, a fashion show. There was a close-by bolt of lightning and a huge crack of thunder. Jasper’s owner screamed and dropped his leash. Rain started falling in buckets, and Jasper, exercising good sense, headed for the nearest shelter—the buffet table.”
“That couldn’t have been good.”
“It wasn’t,” Angela said, glancing at him. “The hero of our sad tale—”
Unable to resist, Brian teased, “Would that be tail with an i or—”
Grinning, Angela nudged him with her elbow. “Be good.”
“The buffet table,” Brian prompted, imagining the event. White tablecloths and a gallery of who’s who all dressed in their Vogue and GQ finest.
“Jasper caught the tablecloth in his crown.” Catching his glance once more, Angela held up a hand. “Don’t ask me why he was wearing a crown. I don’t know. But when everyone started shouting, he ran. Or tried to.”
Jasper winked again, and Brian patted the top of his head.
“Evidently embarrassment and being expected to pay for thousands of dollars of seafood delicacies were too much for his owner. She had him taken to the pound with orders that he be put down.”
“You’re kidding.” Brian’s heart fell, the story going from funny to heartbreaking in an instant. He admitted the story put the dog in a different league. He still couldn’t imagine Jasper as the dog for him. “How do you know all this?”
“A friend who was there told me about it. In fact, she was the one who told me he was in the pound. Unfortunately, it took us almost six weeks to get him out. He’s been here five months now.”
Brian felt sympathy for the dog and couldn’t resist scratching his ears, the fur surprisingly soft.
“He’s the smartest dog I’ve ever worked with,” Angela continued.
“You should be the star of your own show,” Brian said to the dog. “For putting up with bad hair days and people who don’t understand.” He glanced at Angela. “I’m sure he’s great, but I don’t quite see myself with a poodle.”
“He’s an athlete,” she countered. “He’d go jogging with you.”
How could she know jogging was important to him and that he’d been wondering how he could continue after his sight was gone? “I think a golden retriever or a German shepherd—”
“Did you know that poodles were originally used for hunting?” She waited until Brian looked from the dog to her. “Or that in Russia they were used to haul milk carts? These dogs were first bred to be working dogs. He may look fragile, but he’s not.”
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course.” She looked away, then back at him. “This whole process of having you involved in the training is unorthodox and unproven. Decades of experience from other training facilities have owners coming to the dogs only after they’ve completed their training. Bottom line, there’s a good chance this might not work.”
“You’re not going to talk me out of this,” Brian said, “even if I’m not sure the poodle is the right dog for me.”
“From the beginning of the process to turning over a fully trained dog is a huge investment of time and effort. The dogs that are specifically bred for use as guide dogs are earmarked for the training facilities they are contracted with. It could be a long time before I have access to another dog who is as good as Jasper.” When she met his gaze, her beautiful eyes were serious.
“I understand.” Brian stared down at her, liking her conviction and her passion for her work. She was close enough he didn’t have to compensate for his peripheral vision being completely gone. This close, he could see a fine blue vein beneath her skin at her temple and varying shades of brown in her luminous eyes. She stared back at him, the attraction shimmering between them. With effort, he reclaimed the thread of what he needed to say to her. “Whatever releases you need that absolve you from any liability, I’ll sign them.”
She waved a hand. “I wasn’t thinking about that.” She looked back at Jasper. “I was thinking about the dog. You have weeks to months before your vision is…”
“Gone?” Brian finally prompted.
“An uncertain amount of time,” she qualified. “For every guide dog we’ve trained, we’ve assessed dozens that didn’t make the grade.” She met his gaze square on, all businesslike again, making him wonder if he had imagined that instant of mutual interest.
“So the poodle is the dog you think I should have?”
“His name is Jasper. And yes, he’d be a good dog for you.”
“Are you always this blunt?”
She looked away for a moment, and surprised him once more by smiling when she turned back to him. “When it comes to the dogs, yes.”
The storm door at the back of the house slammed, drawing Brian’s attention. When he looked toward the sound, he became acutely aware once more of just how much his field of vision had shrunk in the past month, reminding him that he didn’t have a lot of time left before his sight was gone completely.
“Angela,” Maisey called, coming toward them.
She wasn’t alone. The guy Angela had been talking to yesterday was with her, a smug smile on his face as he strolled along, his hands in his pockets. Angela was in the fog that had once been Brian’s peripheral vision, so he had to turn his head until he could see her. There was a glint of anger in her eyes.
Interesting. It wasn’t the look of a woman happy to see a boyfriend, and yesterday Brian had been sure that’s exactly who this guy was. Something eased in his chest, a feeling of joy he hadn’t even been aware of. In that split second he realized his interest in Angela went beyond the simple appreciation of an alluring and intriguing woman…and the timing couldn’t have been worse.
“I told you yesterday that I didn’t want to see you again,” Angela said, focusing on the man.
Maisey’s smile vanished as she came to a halt. “Who are you?”
“This—” Angela took a breath, waving a hand “—is Tommy Manderoll.”
“Oh.” Maisey turned an accusing look on Tommy. “You’re the one who left all those messages.”
Brian wondered at the wealth of meaning in Maisey’s voice as she put her hands on her waist and leveled a schoolteacher’s frown at Tommy.
Angela’s gaze went from Tommy to Maisey, then met Brian’s. Her expression was neutral enough, but the furious glint was still there. “Excuse me a moment,” she said to him. “Maisey, maybe you could talk to Brian a little about our training protocols.”
“Sure.”
Angela pointed a finger at Tommy. “You come with me.”
He grinned. “Just what I was hoping for.”
Shaking with annoyance, Angela headed toward the office, contemplating how to best get rid of him. She didn’t want him coming around, didn’t want him involved in her life in any way at all. She mentally counted to ten, reminding herself of her life now, her happiness, and her personal determination to live up to Maisey’s and Reverend Chester’s faith in her—and her newfound faith in herself.
She stopped a few feet away from the door and turned on Tommy, hating the twisting knots of old, familiar, hated cravings that threatened everything.
“I was very clear yesterday,” she said. “I don’t want anything to do with you. Whatever you’re involved with, I don’t want any part of it.”
“You weren’t always so uptight.”
She made a shooing motion toward the parking lot at the side of the house. “Just go or I’ll call the po—”
“Who?” he taunted. “The police? I don’t think so.” He folded his fingers against his palm, then fanned them out like a magician, a small white packet appearing between his fingers. “I have what you want.”
She recognized what it was, and her heart lurched. Just the sight of it made her nerves dance. One part of her longed to reach for the cocaine even as memory after memory washed over her at the terrible things she had done in exchange for those fleeting moments of euphoria. Her mouth dried as she wiped her suddenly sweaty palms against her jeans.
“You know it.” He smiled, drawing her attention back to his face. “And I know it.”
“Go away, Tommy.” Her voice was pleading instead of commanding, and she hated herself for it.
He looked toward the yard, and Angela followed his gaze. Brian was smiling at something Maisey had said, Maisey’s posture animated the way it got when she talked about training dogs. The woman meant everything to Angela, as much as Reverend Chester and her life-long friend, Rachel McLeod. Angela looked back at Tommy, a living reminder of the mountain of regret she felt for the dreadful things she had done.
“Take your drugs and your innuendos and go.” She was proud of the firm tone in her voice. “As for calling the police, you can bet I will.”
“This is me you’re talking to, doll face.” Tommy waved toward the dogs. “Don’t make threats you’ll never follow up on. Do you honestly think a convicted felon can withstand the kind of scrutiny that will come your way? It’s one thing to talk to a chamber of commerce and solicit a few puny donations for a good cause. But what about when a reporter comes around and does an in-depth story and discovers the truth about you?” He nodded toward Brian. “He’s here to donate to your little charity, I bet.”
“What if he is?” she challenged, thankful Tommy didn’t know the real reason behind Brian’s visit.
“I’ll make you a deal, and before you go shaking your head at me, you might want to know the terms.”
“There’s nothing you can possibly say—”
“Maybe you put the half million dollars into this business, so you’re a little short of cash—that means you have equity and you can get it. I need a stake—”
“A patsy,” Angela said, remembering that he had somehow convinced her to take out a loan against Victorian Rose Antiques, the business she and her best friend, Rachel, had owned. Angela rationalized that she hadn’t known until later he had used the money to buy a kilo of cocaine…but deep in her heart she had, and she’d had the drug-induced conviction that she could make everything work out. She’d been wrong.
“And you have the money—don’t even bother denying it because I don’t believe you.” He glanced toward Maisey and Brian, then back at her. “Get it, and I won’t dig up every piece of dirt that I can find on your famous new boyfriend. You know how the media just loves a juicy story.” He motioned as though reading a headline. “The Football Player and the Felon.” Tommy pressed the small packet into the pocket of her denim shirt. “Something to help you think.”
He turned away then, walking around the side of the house toward his car with that I-own-the-world bounce in his step. In her pocket, the packet of cocaine—she knew that’s what it was, could smell it though it had no discernible odor—whispered seductively to her.
She looked back toward Brian and Maisey. He was listening attentively, his fingers absently petting Jasper each time the dog butted his head against his palm. Angela watched them a moment longer, then went into the office where she sat down at her desk, despair wrapping its claws around her throat. She took the packet out of her pocket, her thoughts chaotic, her fingers trembling.
With the bottomless pit where she’d once been firmly in mind, she marched into the bathroom and flushed the packet down the toilet. Then she washed her hands, feeling as dirty as she had the day she was arrested.
Going back into the office, she sat down at the desk, placing her hands flat on the blotter. To her dismay, they were trembling.
With that, she picked up the receiver of the phone and dialed the number of her lifeline. “It’s me, Angela,” she said after the familiar voice of Reverend Chester Holt said hello.
“How are you?” he asked.
Relief washed over her, and she sank back into the chair. “I’m good.” He wouldn’t let her get away with that for long, she knew, but for now just having the conversation with the man who’d been more like a father to her was enough. “I just wanted to hear your voice. How are Sarah and Andy—growing, I bet. And Rachel—”
“Hungry for news, are you?” he said around a laugh.
“You know it.”
Wrapping the receiver cord around her finger, she felt the tension fall away while Reverend Holt told her about Sarah’s and Andy’s latest escapades and about the big celebration they’d had when Rachel’s new husband, Micah, adopted them. They were all happy and doing well. For that, Angela was thankful. She and Rachel still weren’t speaking, and Angela couldn’t blame her. Still, she longed to make up with her old friend, wanted it with all her heart, and knew that even though she had tried before, she hadn’t tried hard enough. The next step was up to her.
Despite the rift between herself and Rachel, Reverend Chester had remained steadfast, visiting her every couple of weeks while she had been in prison, and providing guidance that had helped her grow into the person she was meant to be.
“Now tell me about you,” Reverend Chester said.
“I’m fine.”
“Angela, girl, that’s the answer you give this old man when you’re anything but fine.”
That fast, the tension was back.
“The truth…” Her voice trailed away, and she dropped her head, tucking the receiver between her neck and chin, pressing her fingers against her eyes.
The silence stretched painfully, and she knew he’d wait with all the patience in the world without saying a word until she did.
“I’m scared, Rev,” she whispered.
“Ah,” he said, his voice comforting with that single word. “Your faith is a little shaky today, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about the dogs,” he said.
The abrupt change in topic was usual for him, and she’d been through the process often enough to know that she’d be rewarded with some insight. She focused her narrative on Checkers, who would soon go home with deaf, eighty-year-old Greg Proudie. The man’s wife had died about a year ago and his son had introduced the idea of a service dog. The dog was a perfect fit for Proudie, and Angela was proud of the work they had done.
“He’s going to be great with his new owner,” she concluded, “who is participating in the last of his training.”
“How do you know he’s going to be great?” Reverend Chester asked.
“I just know—”
“You have faith.”
“Of course.”
“No fear?”
“Fear?” So there was the point he wanted to make. Her gaze went to the window where sunlight streamed in.
“Faith is harder to keep in focus when you’re afraid,” he said. “Faith is knowing, the way you know the dog you’re telling me about will do well. Fear is letting the unknown consume you.” He paused. “And you know the pathway to faith, Angela.”
“Prayer,” she breathed. He was right, of course. An obvious reminder she needed.
“That’s right. And you know you’re in mine.”
The door to the training yard opened accompanied by Brian’s and Maisey’s voices.
“Thanks for taking the time to talk,” Angela said, looking toward the hallway where they were walking toward her. “I have my bearings back.”
“You hadn’t really lost them,” Reverend Chester said. “Stay in touch.”
Angela said goodbye and disconnected the call.
“Here you are,” Maisey said after Angela hung up the phone. “You got rid of that Tommy person?”
“For now.” Angela suspected he would be back, just like the bad penny he was. She had to figure out what to do about that.
“Brian has decided to follow your recommendation about Jasper and wants to know when you guys can get started.” Maisey looked from her to Brian. “And I told him right away.”
Good news…if it weren’t for Tommy’s threat to dig up dirt on Brian. And since Brian had confessed to her about reaping the rewards of his sins, she had the feeling working with him would be opening up Pandora’s box. But since she’d already agreed, how could she turn him away?
FOUR
Hours later, Angela came through the back door to their offices, and Maisey called to her. Following the sound of voices, Angela found Maisey in the front room, her face lit with her usual beaming smile when she talked about Guardian Paws. “Angela, this nice young man is Andrew Brogg. He’s a reporter with the Denver Chronicle, and also a part-time correspondent for Channel 7.”
Angela recognized the journalist’s name from the investigative pieces he did, the latest one accusing a university president of using public money to finance improvements on his home.
“After all the things Ms. Erdmann told me about you,” he said, extending his hand, “I was expecting you to be about ten feet tall.” Behind wire-rimmed glasses, calculating brown eyes met her own. He smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Thanks,” Angela responded. Since he had made a reputation for himself on scandals associated with various local and regional entities, having him show up on the same day as Tommy put her on alert.
Reporters had a way of twisting things to meet their own agenda, no matter how charming they might appear. She’d had her own up-close-and-personal experience, and she’d learned one important lesson—never take any reporter at face value.
“He wants to do a feature article on Guardian Paws,” Maisey said.
“What kind of feature could be interesting to you?” Angela wondered if he worked hard to look exactly like a stereotypical newspaper reporter. He wore a shapeless corduroy sports coat, plaid shirt and scuffed athletic shoes. A black nylon briefcase hung over his shoulder, and in his hand was a stenographer’s notebook and pen. “I’ve read some of your stories, Mr. Brogg. Like the ones you did on the stockyards near Greeley and a toxic spill at Rocky Flats. I can’t imagine a man of your talents being interested in what we do.”
“It’s nice to meet someone who remembers my work,” he said.
“Really, there’s no great exposé here,” she added. The Guardian Paws Web site had a link to the prison program where she had learned to train dogs, and when she was asked about it, she told her story. So her prison record wasn’t a secret. “So I can’t imagine what might be of interest to you.”
He smiled again. “It’s the season. You know, peace on earth and feel-good stories.” He turned toward Maisey. “If we could focus in on a child—say one in a wheel-chair—with a dog to the rescue. What’s not to love?”
His explanation was as cynical a one as Angela had heard about Christmas in a long time. “I think you misunderstand the nature of our work,” she said.
“Then enlighten me. Let me interview you.” Once more his gaze went from her to Maisey as if he thought she was the softer target, his expression conveying nothing but earnest appeal. “I’m not planning an exposé. Just a human interest story for my readers about two women making a difference in their community.”
Angela heard the word planning, and for the moment, she couldn’t decide if that seemingly careful choice was her own imagination or him being cagey. If his story turned out to be something else, he had himself covered. Too easily she imagined him telling her that he’d simply followed the story where it took him if it happened to turn into an exposé. Given her history, that’s exactly what she expected rather than one about a woman taking full advantage of her second chance and turning her life around.
“See?” Maisey beamed. “A feel-good story. Maybe one of our clients would agree to be featured. And if it brings in some donations, think of the additional things we could do.”
Though her business partner was right about that, they weren’t that short of money. They had recently received a grant that provided funding to cover expenses for the next year, and donations had been steadily coming in.
“Maisey tells me you do the majority of the training,” Andrew said to Angela, as though everything was all decided. And, in a way, it was. Given the tone of the couple of stories that Angela had read, she assumed they’d be piquing his curiosity if they turned him down. The goal now was to figure out how to defuse his interest—especially since she didn’t believe his agenda.
“So,” he continued, “I’d like to begin by interviewing you.” He looked poised to open his notebook.
No way was she going to do that until she’d had a chance to really think through what to say to him. “I need to check my schedule,” she said.
“Fine.” He inclined his head toward the desk visible through the open doorway.
Feeling cornered and not seeing any rescue from Maisey, Angela headed toward the desk and pulled out her appointment book. “How about next Tuesday at four?”
“That’s Thanksgiving week,” he countered, openly looking over her shoulder and reading the entries. “I’d really like to get a jump on this before then.” He pointed to the following evening’s date. “How about tomorrow at six-thirty, and you can tell me about things over dinner?”
Angela looked up at Maisey, who watched her with a smile on her face and puzzlement in her eyes.
“Okay.” Angela made a notation in the appointment book, then closed it. “Where would you like to meet?”
“How about the Larimer Grill just off the Sixteenth Street Mall?” he said. “The food is good and it’s convenient.”
Convenient? Angela thought. Only if you worked downtown. So, not only would she have to have dinner with a man she didn’t want to talk to, she now had to navigate through Denver’s rush-hour traffic to get there.
Suppressing a sigh, she said, “I’ll see you then.”
“Great,” Andrew said, then said his goodbyes and headed for his vehicle. People were normally cooperative unless they had closets they didn’t want him poking through.
He knew Angela London’s type—the casual ones who played everything low-key and always had big skeletons rattling in the closet. When he reached his car, he punched the speed dial for the editorial assistant assigned to his department. “Find out everything you can about Angela London,” he said. “Approximate age is thirty-five.”
“Just a quick search?” the assistant asked. “Or the works?”
“The works,” Andrew said, still puzzled as to why Ramsey had come here. “I want to know everything about this woman. Where she went to school, where she’s worked, who her friends are and what she eats for breakfast.” He mostly wanted to know what her connection to Brian Ramsey was, especially since her appointment book had his name written down for more than half the days over the next week.
The relationship couldn’t be personal—she wasn’t Brian Ramsey’s type, not if his socialite ex-fiancée was any indication. Andrew had contacted the woman, and, following up on the rumors peppered through his thick file, he’d asked her point-blank about Brian’s use of steroids. She had flushed and stammered before telling him to talk to Brian. Andrew hadn’t found the supplier yet, but he would. It was just a case of poking around in the right closet. Maybe Angela London’s.
Unrelated pieces of information were coming together, and Andrew could smell the story. Ramsey’s sudden, premature retirement from football just before training camp opened last summer. A fiancée who bailed mere weeks before the wedding. A kid involved with the Beanstalk Gang, Ramsey’s foundation, arrested for trying to sell drugs to an undercover cop, a case where the charges were dropped and everything was hushed up. Andrew could sense a cover-up, especially since he hadn’t been able to get close enough to Ramsey to ask a single question. It was time to call the man again.
Andrew didn’t know how all the pieces fit yet, nor did he know how Angela London fit into it. But he would. Anything to do with celebrities and their falls from grace was a sure bet. For once, Andrew was going to be positioned to cash in. He had floated a book idea to a publisher, promising a lurid tell-all. Andrew was sick of the celebrity athletes who thought they could get away with things that would have landed him in jail. And he had no doubt Brian Ramsey was one of them, getting away with who knew what while pretending to be a white knight.
Andrew intended to prove it.
“You’re in one of those tabloids again,” Gramps said to Brian when he arrived home an hour after leaving Guardian Paws. Brian turned his head so he could look at his grandfather, who was perched on a stool next to the counter and who remained absorbed in the paper in front of him.
“It says right here that Erica left you because you gambled away all your money,” Gramps added, poking the paper.
“You know me better than that. I don’t gamble.” Brian walked around the island in the center of the kitchen where his grandmother stood, putting the finishing touches on a pie that was about to go into the oven. Even though the cook would be in to make the evening meal, Nonnie still baked, and her pies were the best. “How was your day?” he asked, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “I hope that’s apple.”
“It is,” she said. “And my day was just fine until this old fool started talking about the latest story in that old rag. Tell him that it’s not true.”
“It’s not true,” Brian said.
“Humph,” Gramps said. “Don’t know why they’d be printing stuff that wasn’t. A newspaper has a responsibility. Report facts and only the facts. How can they get away with this?” He looked up at Brian as though he expected an answer even though they’d had the same discussion dozens of times.
“They’re counting on me not to sue them,” he replied, heading for the stairwell to the second floor.
“Well, if it isn’t true, you ought to. It says right here that you’re depressed over your retirement from football and that you’re suicidal.”
“It’s fiction,” Brian said. “I’m fine. Ignore it.”
He put his foot down on the first step, somehow missed it, and stumbled before completely losing his balance and hitting the floor.
Irritated and humiliated, Brian lifted his head and sat up while Nonnie said, “Oh, my goodness. Are you okay?”
In the next second, Gramps was looming above him with his hands on his hips. “Don’t coddle the boy. If nothing’s broken, get on your feet.”
“Just give him a minute,” Nonnie said, leaning over and coming into his line of vision.
She had that same look of concern on her face that she’d had ever since Brian had told them that he was losing his sight. He managed a smile that hid his irritation with himself. “I’m fine.” That phrase was getting to be old, he thought as he stood.
I’m fine—there’s nothing to worry about…if you don’t include the fact that I’m scared spitless.
“Really,” he added. He turned his head, taking in his grandparents. Nonnie gave him an encouraging smile when he looked at her, and Gramps did his usual glower. “I’m going to change my clothes, then go work out for an hour.”
Once more he headed for the stairwell, this time grabbing the banister before putting his foot on the first step.
“You’re too hard on him,” he heard Nonnie say as he went up the stairs.
“Not hard enough,” Gramps replied.
Nothing new in that conversation, Brian thought as he reached the top of the stairs, making sure that he turned his head so he could see the doorway at the end of the wide hallway. Since the day he had arrived in their home when he was six years old, Gramps had been saying basically the same thing. Every day since then, Brian felt as though he hadn’t measured up and as though his grandfather expected him to be as big a screwup as his mother had been. He knew the story because Gramps had repeated it often.
She had been a party girl who liked the fast life—fast boys, fast cars, fast times made even more so by her drug use. The last time Brian had seen her, she’d been strung out on crack. He hadn’t needed his grandfather’s warning to make a vow that he’d never use, never be involved in that life in any way at all. He didn’t want that for himself, and he didn’t want anything to do with people who were part of that life. Somehow, though, his Gramps kept expecting that the sins of his mother would become his, as well.
Brian’s wish now was pretty much the same as it had been then—find a way to make his grandfather proud of him.
Brian pushed open the double doors that led to his suite just as the BlackBerry in his pocket began ringing.
“Ramsey here,” he said.
“Brian, it’s Dwight,” came his manager’s voice through the receiver. “How are you?”
“Fine.” That again.
“I just wanted to let you know we have things all set to shoot the last commercial for your sponsor. I just emailed you the information.”
“When and where?” At last, Brian thought, some good news. Finishing his endorsement contract with the National Milk Association was one of the things he most wanted before the holidays began.
The minute the final commercial was accepted, he needed to break the news to them about the reasons for his sight loss. Since there was a strict morals clause in the contract related to drug abuse, they needed to hear the sorry truth from him rather than it coming through a tabloid story. Though he’d been clean for years when he had signed the contract, he’d had a change of heart in thinking his previous behavior hadn’t mattered. It did, and he didn’t want any negative fallout to come near them even though his attorney and manager had both advised against making any confessions until after all the terms were fulfilled. His attorney assured him that he was legally in the clear. Maybe. But Brian didn’t feel morally in the clear.
“The ad company is working on a hometown angle,” Dwight said, interrupting Brian’s morose thoughts. “So you don’t have to travel.”
“More good news,”
“I set it up for Monday and Tuesday of next week since I figured you might be traveling on Wednesday.”
“Where would I go?” Brian asked, pressing the speaker button on the BlackBerry so he could continue to talk to Dwight while he punched in the button for the calendar to see if he had appointments he’d forgotten about. He squinted at the display, which looked fuzzy to him. He looked away, then back, the display coming into focus. No appointments on Wednesday.
“Aspen,” Dwight drawled. “It’s Thanksgiving, and I thought that’s where you always said you’d spend Thanksgiving after you retired.”
He was surprised that Dwight remembered. Thanksgiving in Aspen had been Erica’s dream, though. Not his. “No, I’ll be right here.”
This was the first Thanksgiving in years that wouldn’t be spent in practice or as a game day. And the date had arrived unnoticed. He wondered if his grandparents had planned anything. He hadn’t eaten Thanksgiving dinner with them in years.
“I’ll call you back in the morning as soon as I have times nailed down,” George said.
“I’ll talk to you then,” Brian said, disconnecting the call and slipping the phone into his pocket. He crossed the room so he could look through the window at the view of Mount Evans, taking in everything he could about this vista. The shape of the peak and surrounding Front Range ramparts. The brilliant hue of everything the sun touched.
Sighing, he turned away to take in the sitting room and his bedroom beyond. The purchase of this home that provided the kind of luxuries he’d always imagined having should have been the culmination of a dream. Instead, he felt cheated.
Once, he would have kicked off his shoes and left them lying on the floor as he crossed the sitting room. He didn’t take them off until he had gone through the bedroom and into the closet. He put them on the rack next to the others, then sat on the stool in the middle of the room, propped his elbows on his knees and rested his head against his hands.
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