Rescue Me (Second Chance Ranch) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

RITA Award winner Catherine Mann is the USA Today bestselling author of numerous romances including the Dark Ops novels. She lives in Florida with her military flyboy husband and their four children.

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Acknowledgments

Prologue

FOR TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS I had three names—Bitch, Fat Mama and Dumbass.

I didn’t dare ignore the voice that growled more fiercely than any animal. I didn’t question if I deserved to have a single name of my own. My existence followed a pattern. Hungry, not hungry. Hurt, healed. Pregnant, nursing. And above all, obey or pay.

Looking back, the contrast from then to my life now is staggering. Some people have said they wonder how I survived so long in that cabin with limited human contact, only the drone of game shows on television and the bubbling mix in the kitchen to break the tedium. How I kept my spirit intact. How I didn’t turn into a mirror image of the voice that both fed me and hurt me. I have to confess I came close to becoming like the soulless monsters that drifted in and out during those early years.

Until I was saved from crawling into the dark hole of hurt and misery forever. I was given a hint of hope beyond the rank four walls of my home.

I smelled honeysuckle.

Just a whiff of the perfume drifted through an open window one summer Tennessee day. At first, I thought I’d imagined it. I tipped my nose into that gentle breeze curling through the half-cracked pane, each puff parting the despair one ripple at a time. Overriding even the constant hum of quiz shows.

Then there it was again. Honeysuckle. Sweet. Soft. Light. Everything opposite of what I’d known from birth.

Desperate for more, I crawled to the window, slowly, praying no one would see me. Life was easier if I stayed hidden, because otherwise I feared I would one day have to fight back. Still I was willing to risk detection to breathe more of that flowery perfume.

I have a particularly keen sense of smell, so living in a filthy meth house for twenty-eight years took a toll on me. And just to clarify, twenty-eight human years equates to four dog years for me. As a dog, that explains why the stench hit me hard.

Did you know that canines can identify smells up to ten thousand times better than a human? Well, we can. I learned that about sniffers on Jeopardy! My brain has forty percent more capacity devoted to smell than yours. Not that I mean to sound condescending or call you inferior. Facts are facts. I have more than two million olfactory sensors in my nose. You have opposable thumbs. Truly, aromatherapy is wasted on you people.

I like facts. The endless television programs offered that much at least, game show after game show. Back then, I embraced those quizzes, soaking up data, anything to prove I wasn’t a dumbass at all. If I’d been a human and hadn’t started having babies so early, I’ve often thought I would have become a professor with thick black glasses. I would have sequestered myself in an office lined with books, solitude. Peace.

But back to my sniffer.

Back to the honeysuckle.

And how all that relates to the day I found freedom in a splintered door.

To be clear, I spent my life watching methamphetamine being cooked, smoked, shot, sold. The rancid odor of the drug left me groggy. Sometimes even made me snarl, when that’s not my nature. The smell of it saturated the walls, peeling the paper down in strips I chewed in moments of frenzied boredom. It permeated the saggy sofa I never sat on. Even clung to the mattresses on the floor in both bedrooms where junkies had sex. Worst of all, the toxic clouds hung in the kitchen, counters packed with everything from drain cleaner to funnels to my bowl full of scraps.

But that afternoon during my fourth summer, when I discovered honeysuckle, I considered that maybe, just maybe, there was something better for me, if only I could wait long enough to escape farther than the chain in the yard allowed.

Easier said than done, because I was a moneymaker, just like that steaming meth cooker. My litters of boxer pups were worth a lot, so I ate well, periodically. No one kicked me for a while. Until my babies were taken away so I could breed again. They always took them too early, and then I was alone.

You may already be thinking puppy mill, but that’s not one hundred percent accurate. The woman who owned me—I won’t bother to distinguish her with a name—would be more appropriately labeled a backyard breeder who used me and other dogs to supplement her meth income. Up until that honeysuckle moment in my fourth summer, I thought my mission in life was to have babies for people to love even if I never got to experience that feeling myself, other than for the few brief weeks I was allowed to keep each litter, their warm, tiny bodies snuggled up against me.

By the fourth winter, I wondered if I’d imagined a honeysuckle world just to survive. I began to lose hope, drawing in nothing but the fumes that made me mean.

Then, on the bitterest, coldest morning, my world changed on a larger scale with another beautiful scent. Peppermint. It’s still my favorite perfume, even above honeysuckle. Those two beautiful smells outnumbered the one evil stench of that cabin. There was more out there past my chain. So much more.

And I thank the Big Master who made us that the peppermint-scented lady understood I was not at my best the day she and the sad-eyed policeman broke down the meth-house door to rescue me.

One

I’ll take famous cops for five hundred, Alex.

—FEMALE BOXER, FOUR YEARS OLD, BROWN/BLACK CONFISCATE #8

DETECTIVE AJ PARKER started kicking down doors at five years old in hopes of becoming like his idol, Chuck Norris. The first attempt had landed AJ in the emergency room with a broken leg.

Thirty years later, though, he’d perfected the skill. By then he’d gotten a lot of practice as an Atlanta detective. Too much practice. The very reason he’d relocated to the sleepy town of Cooksburg, Tennessee, for a more low-key life. Still, a sixth sense honed from too many years undercover in narcotics told him he would have to channel his inner Chuck before high noon this Christmas Eve.

Raiding a home on a holiday wasn’t particularly holly jolly, but there had been a report of neglected animals inside, and dogs left outdoors without shelter, in imminent danger of dying due to the frigid weather. His boots crunched along the caked snow as AJ approached the isolated cabin with caution. Footsteps crackled behind him—his police-department partner, Wyatt, his cousin who’d gotten him this job.

Oaks and pines circled the clearing, creating a wall of privacy with only one icy path to the cabin. Which also meant there was one lone escape route, and so far no signs of animals or people coming in or out.

A brisk wind cut through his thick coat and bulletproof vest, chilling him all the way to his Southern roots. He and Wyatt accompanied an animal rescue team that had been instructed to stay safe and warm in their van for now, the engine purring softly.

Sunshine glimmered off the icicles spiking from the railing as if nature had decorated for the holidays even if the occupants of this ramshackle place ignored the season. Not so much as a wreath or tinsel in sight. Even the windows were blacked out with thick curtains, making the porch less than inviting.

Not to mention dangerous, depending on who lurked behind those darkened windows.

AJ breathed steady white bursts of air into the December afternoon. But inside AJ’s gut, his instincts were on fire.

Adrenaline burned his veins as he scanned the front yard, deserted except for an old gray truck with a camper top. There wasn’t snow on the hood, so the vehicle had been driven recently. The place was silent other than the grunt of a distant deer and a crisp wind whistling through the trees, boughs burdened with snow.

His cop senses burned hotter with each step closer to the cabin. Complicating matters, he had that contingent of animal rescuers behind him in the van. He held up a hand reminding them to stay back.

Then he saw it.

A thick chain, almost covered with snow, glinted through the powdery white like twisted garland spilling out of an overturned trash can. A brown mass of fur was curled up in the back. A large dog that didn’t growl, bark—or even move.

Shit. They might already be too late.

He heard a car door open and caught the movement out of the corner of his eyes a second before one of the rescuers shot past. He didn’t have to guess who it had been.

Mary Hannah Gallo.

A fearless dynamo in a paisley parka.

And a giant pain in his butt.

His first night in Cooksburg, they’d had an impulsive one-night stand of crazy-good sex—his first since his life had gone to hell in a handbasket. The connection had sizzled so damn hot he’d been stunned stupid when he woke up the next morning and found she’d left the motel room already.

Worse yet, she’d given him a fake name. Francesca Vale. Not even a good made-up name. And he fell for that shit in spite of more than a decade collaring criminals.

He hadn’t discovered her real name until his cousin tried to set him up on a blind date. AJ’s only consolation? Miss Fakey-Pants Francesca Vale had been every bit as shocked to see him as he was to meet her for real as Mary Hannah Gallo. A buttoned-up mental-health counselor who had a wild-child hidden side. Very hidden. Apparently she’d assumed he was just traveling through town on his way to Nashville like most people at that truck-stop bar.

That bar.

That motel.

That night.

He willed away the steam-charged memories. He couldn’t afford to think about anything except getting the job done and keeping those with him safe. Especially the Queen of Mistruths making her way to the dog in the trash can.

He understood her urge to charge ahead for the animal’s sake, but damn it, caution saved more lives in the long run. He’d learned that the hard way. And wasn’t that a memory-lane trip that could walk him straight to hell like in some bad teenage horror film?

“Gallo,” he hissed between his teeth. “Get back to the van.”

Without even turning, she waved away his concern and crouched near the toppled trash can, a blanket tucked under her arm. The winter gear hid how freaking petite she was as she crawled closer. And that petite frame hid a will of steel. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know about that night at the bar, and she didn’t want to have anything more to do with him. Fine by him. Except they’d been made the target of matchmakers determined to pair them up, in spite of how many times he and Mary Hannah told them no. No. And hell no.

It wasn’t surprising she’d been sent with him today.

Now she was a great big stubborn distraction a few feet away. She wasn’t budging unless he threw her over his shoulder and forcibly moved her. Which she would know full well he didn’t have time to do.

Or even think about.

At least she would be on the side of the house when he pressed ahead. All the action would be focused at the front door. Left with no choice, he hauled his attention off Mary Hannah’s fine ass in blue jeans and back to assessing the cabin.

Mewling and muffled woofs swelled from inside the cabin. The animals had picked up on his arrival, which meant any people behind those blacked-out windows would know soon as well. If they didn’t already. He climbed the slick steps with sure feet, no hesitation.

He thumped the door with his gloved fist, launching a fresh blast of barks. “This is the police. We have a warrant to search the premises.”

He pounded again. Only more woofs responded. “Police,” he said. “Open up now, or we’ll be forced to enter.”

Still, no one answered.

He glanced at the rusted pickup with no snow on the hood. Screw waiting. “This is your last warning to comply. We have a warrant.”

Notice given. He kicked the door. It held. Shit.

Snow showered down from the frame. The hefty bolts sent his instincts on a higher alert. This crappy cabin had a stronger door than he would have expected, a lot sturdier than even those at his rental cabin with top-notch security.

Bracing his feet on the icy porch was an iffy thing, but the element of surprise was gone now. He had to act fast. He booted the door again. The force jarred his teeth. But the door gave a little. He felt it.

He slammed his shoulder against the panel to finish the job. Wood cracked and splintered. A plank fell inward.

Yes.

His relief was short-lived.

The smell hit him hard. One whiff was all it took for total recognition after all the drug cases he’d worked in Atlanta. Snaking free, the unmistakable stench of meth stung his lungs. Not just a single pipe burning, but the thick stink of a full cooking operation.

This was supposed to be a sleepy little town. Most often cops dealt with the standard teenage vandalism and an occasional bar fight. That’s why he’d chosen to move here. He’d intended to leave this kind of high-level crime nightmare behind.

He shouted over his shoulder to warn his partner, “Smells like a meth house. Call for backup, then secure the rear.” He thought of Mary Hannah on the side of the cabin with the trash-can dog. “Civilians, return to your vehicle. Gallo, do you hear me? That means you. Clear out. Now.”

His fingers closed around the grip of his 9mm Glock. With his other hand, he tugged his shirt collar up over his nose as a makeshift filter. He kicked the door the rest of the way open. It slammed against the inside wall. He prepared himself for whatever animals he might meet. At least his winter clothing added some padding.

Except nothing charged at him—human or canine. He was greeted with woofs from inside kennels. Four large and filthy crates lined the living room. Two were full of poodle and schnauzer puppies and two held nursing mama schnauzers. There wasn’t a person in sight.

Had someone already escaped out another door? Did Wyatt have that entrance covered? God, he hoped Mary Hannah had taken her paisley, perky self back to the van.

AJ edged past the saggy sofa. An old-school console television was turned on, the volume lowly chiming game-show reruns. Not even a Christmas parade.

His heart slugged in his ears as he swept the two-bedroom cabin, sparsely furnished. Definitely not enough here to call the place a home. A framed yarn-art owl was faded with age. A wagon-wheel lamp cast a yellow glow through a dingy shade. He’d seen plenty of places just like this, even lived in them during undercover assignments.

Wood floors squeaked beneath his feet, his steps muffled by a rag rug. The one bathroom was empty other than a nasty toothbrush caked with spit. A poodle slept in the tub, curled up and snoring. The black ball of fur peeked through half-open eyes then drifted off again, uninterested in the stranger in her home.

Very un-doglike. Probably groggy from the fumes. Poor little gal. The rescuers outside would have their hands full.

Soft footsteps from the kitchen had AJ spinning back to the main area. Someone escaping? His eyes narrowed, and he closed the bathroom door to make sure the poodle didn’t suddenly sprint out to trip him up.

Whoever was leaving, Wyatt would be ready for them. AJ stepped deeper into the toxic haze toward the kitchen, ready to have his partner’s back. AJ reached the linoleum floor in a 1970s-era orange kitchen just as the rear door creaked.

A shriek split the air. A female scream.

AJ’s muscles bunched.

“Ma’am,” his cousin Wyatt’s voice rumbled through, cutting the shout short. “Put down the baseball bat and place your hands on top of your head. Now!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” the woman’s voice answered, raspy like a chain smoker’s. “I surrender. I was just here to pick up some puppies. I wasn’t doing nothing wrong.”

The click of handcuffs snapped. One problem down, and so far no one else in sight. Still, his muscles stayed tensed, ready.

AJ scanned the dirty kitchen full of a grocery list he knew by heart—everything needed to cook crystal meth. Ephedrine, butane, brake fluid, drain cleaner and more lined the counters along with other ingredients. Dishes were stacked in the sink with food caked on them from meals eaten here in spite of the dangerous fumes.

His mind churned with memories of another bust, another time, of finding a child hiding beneath a bed with a sippy cup full of drain cleaner.

Bile roiled in his gut.

He stuffed down the image before the past sucked him under. He needed to focus on the present. To give one hundred percent to a job that should have been nothing more complicated than doling out speeding tickets and catching underage drinkers.

“Wyatt,” he called, “appears all clear inside. Dogs are contained in crates.” His nose twitched under the shield of his collar. “Since it’s a meth house, we’ll need masks and latex gloves.”

“Shiiiiit.” His cousin whistled, then let out an “ooof.”

“You okay?” AJ started toward the back door.

“Just securing the lady in the cruiser. You deal with the inside. I’ve got this.” Wyatt’s voice grew fainter as he walked farther away. “Don’t even try it again with the knee, ma’am.”

AJ forced his hand to relax on the grip of his weapon and turned back toward the living room. Now they just had to deal with the animals. Tragic, yes, but not as dangerous as a bunch of meth dealers. Mary Hannah and her friends at the local Second Chance Ranch Rescue could step in now and do their thing.

A mewling drifted from the far bedroom—half human–, half animal–sounding, stopping him in his tracks. His grip tightened on his weapon again. His thoughts firmly planted on that other bust, the child under the bed in agony from a sip of drain cleaner.

AJ followed the noise into the smaller of the two bedrooms. One step at a time, he inched closer to a rocking chair with a ratty afghan draped over the seat, preventing him from getting a clear view. Crouching, he lifted the trailing corner, slowly. A low growl gave him only an instant’s warning that the mewling cry hadn’t been human.

And that his first search hadn’t uncovered all the animals.

A big brown dog shot out, toppling the rocker onto AJ. The beast darted past until the tether bolted to the floor went taut quivering with tension. The dog—a boxer—cowered only inches from the door.

Blocking the exit.

Crap. There was no way out except past the growling canine. His winter police-issue jacket wouldn’t last long if that animal decided to take a serious bite out of him. The dog snarled louder, teeth bared as it flattened to the floor, pulling at the restraint that wouldn’t survive another serious lunge.

Even a regular Joe with no animal rescue experience could tell the boxer was clearly freaked out and terrified, ears back, eyes wide, drool dripping from its mouth. He’d learned on past assignments that a scared dog could be every bit as dangerous as an aggressive one.

Much like people.

He wasn’t the type to cry uncle, but animal rescue folks used tools for this job for a good reason.

“Um, hello,” he called lowly. “Can someone bring a catchpole before Cujo in here turns me into a Milk-Bone?”

Hopefully someone outside heard him. The team of four consisted of two employees from county Animal Control and two from the Second Chance Ranch Rescue.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh.” He made what he hoped were soothing noises. “I’m not here to hurt you, puppy. Be good and there are people here who will get you a bed and food. I’ll personally make sure you get a grade-A hamburger if you keep your teeth to yourself.”

A one in four chance Mary Hannah would show up. She was thin, short and not particularly intimidating. He envisioned her comforting the little poodles, not wrestling with this muscular creature.

Except the odds were not in his favor today.

Mary Hannah appeared in the open doorframe, a catchpole held in a fierce grip. Her sleek dark hair slipped free from a low ponytail to brush the shoulders of her parka. Her wide brown eyes saw everything.

But through pretty rose-colored glasses with heavy black frames.

The woman was a whirlwind of naive perfection who seemed to think the world could be changed with sweet words and a soft touch. She might take a brief walk on the wild side now and again, but she hadn’t come close to seeing what he had. He’d witnessed firsthand that some evil just went to the core. There was no talking it down with a warm, fuzzy hug.

He wasn’t judging. She just hadn’t seen what he had. She would get there someday if she kept assisting in these kinds of “rescues.”

Someday.

But right now she was all that stood between him and a wild-eyed animal high on meth fumes.

*   *   *

SMELLING THE METH made Mary Hannah’s mouth water, made her nose burn.

And made her senses sing like sirens luring her back into the bottomless pit of addiction.

Mary Hannah Gallo had made a lifetime’s worth of mistakes by twenty-four. She’d spent the next four years making sure she never screwed up again. Too bad Detective AJ Parker was a sexy, hot temptation begging her to break every one of her rules for a calm, structured future.

One night. Just one weak night of mourning in a bar, thinking she could have a no-strings fling to ease some of the pain, grief, hunger, and now she was stuck bumping into temptation every time she turned around in this closet-sized town.

Not that she had time to check out Detective No-Strings with a full-sized, growling boxer straining on a tether. The bolt in the floor inched upward.

“Parker . . .” She kept her voice soft and low-pitched. She peeled off her gloves so her grip would be more secure on the pole. “Keep your eyes averted from the dog until I loop the catchpole over its head.”

She monitored the fawn-colored boxer out of the corners of her eyes, cataloging details about the animal. Her OCD came in handy sometimes. The dog was female, trembling, jittery, likely from living in this disgusting place. Mary Hannah took another step, assessing, inching warily until she was finally close enough. Slipping the loop at the end of the pole over the dog’s head would require finesse.

The boxer lurched toward the door, away from the cop. The bolt in the floor wriggled at the strain. AJ’s hand twitched just over his gun. Mary Hannah winced. Shooting the animal would be a last resort, and one she prayed wouldn’t happen here. She couldn’t stomach the thought that this was the only life that poor dog would know. She had to give this animal a chance. Mary Hannah took another, final, step, extending her arm. The loop at the end was . . . almost . . .

There.

She tightened the loop until it was secure. The pole gave her distance from the dog for now.

A sigh of relief shuddered through her, and she allowed herself an instant to breathe, just breathe a thankful prayer that AJ was okay. Her eyes skated to him as he stood slowly, taller, taller, taller still and filling out that cop uniform oh so very well.

God, he was too sensually appealing for his own good. And for her sanity. It wasn’t about the handsome features, either, or the way his coal-black hair curled at the ends, just a little too long in a rebel kind of way. He epitomized tall, dark and studly in the manner that made teenage girls flock to vampire movies.

It was his crystal-blue eyes that drew her in, those haunted windows to his soul that made her consider he and she might not be complete opposites after all.

This wasn’t anywhere near an appropriate time to be thinking about how sexy he looked. Maybe the fumes were affecting her judgment.

“Hey, Mary Hannah?” he said without moving, the tension in the room so thick she could swear his Southern drawl vibrated across in waves. “How about getting some more help before the beast knocks you over? I’ll hold the dog, with my eyes down checking out the peeling wallpaper.”

Sure enough, wallpaper pieces curled and spiraled like macabre ribbons on a package. Except why was she checking out the decor of this filthy place, for God’s sake? She needed to get her head in the game and shake off whatever had hold of her, whether it was the fumes or the holiday doldrums.

Mary Hannah tightened her grip on the cool metal pole, bracing her feet. “Everyone else is outside working to medically stabilize the male boxer found in the trash can. So I’m all the help you have.”

“He’s actually still alive?” he asked, glancing her way.

“Barely. He may not make it. Damn it, avert your eyes,” she reminded him sharply. Herself, too. Except she needed to look away from the man. “Dogs perceive direct eye contact as a sign of aggression. Now keep yours focused on the floor while you slip out and find another catchpole. Then we’ll have more control to walk the boxer to the vehicle and into a crate. Or you could also ask someone to sedate the animal, but we’ll still need her safely restrained until the drugs take effect.”

AJ snorted. “Or like I said before, you could pass over control to me before that dog runs you over.”

“Quit going all macho man on me.” She kept her voice low and even, doing her best not to rile the dog. “Do your job. I’ll do mine.”

The wild-eyed animal strained against the loop, making Mary Hannah’s arms burn from the force. She’d already noticed the dog was female, and given her saggy underbelly, she must have puppies around here somewhere or had recently.

“Parker, stay loose as you inch past. She’s clearly had a recent litter. Mother dogs can be protective, which makes them more aggressive. Maternal instincts kick the aggression into possessive overdrive.”

Understandable, really. Mothers should do anything to protect their babies. Anything. Her eyes stung. Her heart, too. But there could be no more attempts to indulge in just one night to forget.

AJ walked in a slow half circle past the mama boxer. “I haven’t seen puppies that look like hers around here. Only small-breed pups.”

“Good to know.” Mary Hannah’s arms ached, but she had to hold on only a little longer. AJ was at the door now, just behind her. “Shhh, shhh, Mama, it’ll be all right. We want to help you.”

Mama lifted her head, a low growl rumbling in the back of her throat.

AJ locked his arms around Mary Hannah in a flash, his hands eclipsing hers. “Careful now. Mama here’s high—”

“—on meth.” She swallowed hard and held herself very still in his arms again for the first time since that impulsive, stupid—mind-blowing—night five months ago. “Mama’s high on meth,” she repeated. “Right.”

That made her want to help save this dog all the more, to give the girl a chance to show who she really was underneath the drugs. This horrible existence couldn’t be the end for the dog, especially not because Mary Hannah was distracted by the feel of AJ’s arms around her again.

His chest was a solid wall of muscle behind her, the scent of his aftershave a tempting relief from the sting of drugs in the air. She swallowed hard, her body tingling to life—and at such an awful time it was surreal.

His breath was warm against her neck. “Mary Hannah? You can let go now.”

“I understand the need to be careful.” In more ways than one. She was always careful and tried to do the right thing, except on those rare occasions when she messed up, she went all out. Big-time. “I’m not in danger . . . from the dog.”

“For some crazy reason I’m not reassured by your pink snow boots.”

She ground her teeth together before blurting out, “That’s sexist.”

But sexist or not, the heat of his breath on her neck was too much. She needed to get out of this room, away from this man.

Mary Hannah passed AJ the catchpole. “Fine then. Since you insist. You can hold her, and I’ll get more help—”

Before she could finish the sentence, Animal Control Officer Martel—a big burly guy who could have passed for a lumberjack—ducked inside the room and added a second catchpole over the dog’s neck. “Nice job, you two. Take this and I’ll give her a quick injection.”

A shudder of relief went through AJ that shimmered right into Mary Hannah, warming her freezing-cold toes before he stepped away and took the other restraint pole. Martel pulled a capped syringe from his pocket, tugged off the cover and tucked the needle in the boxer’s left haunch before she could blink.

The Animal Control officer stepped back fast. “That should kick in soon and make her easier to handle.” He took the catchpole from Mary Hannah. “I’ve got her now.”

“Thanks. I’ll see if they need help outside.” She couldn’t run from AJ fast enough.

She stumbled away in the living room, through the front door, gasping in the crisp afternoon air to clear away the jumble of too many emotions and sensations intensified so much during the holidays. Everything tangled up inside until even the good was overshadowed by the bad.

And oh God, there were so many sad memories of another man’s touch. Her husband’s. Her ex-husband’s—Ted’s.

She couldn’t even blame him for walking out on her. She’d gotten hooked on prescription drugs, of all things. So damn cliché and too easy to access when she was a college student afraid of disappointing her parents, then terrified of not being accepted into grad school.

There was a seductive allure in those pills that seemed socially acceptable. They’d been prescribed by a doctor, after all. Then two, then three different doctors.

Then through other avenues.

After that, she’d deluded herself into believing that she used to make sure her studies didn’t inconvenience her husband, only to lose him and so much more.

She blinked back tears. She didn’t have the luxury of time to indulge in a pity party right now. The yard was filling fast with more cops, another team from Animal Control and the head of the rescue she volunteered with—Second Chance Ranch.

Her friends. Her new family of sorts, especially since she’d so royally messed up her chance at a real family.

She and Ted hadn’t planned on having children until she finished college. She’d thought she had plenty of time to get over her “little problem” with drugs. Except she’d accidentally gotten pregnant and couldn’t avoid her demons any longer. Her addiction threatened the well-being of the life growing inside her. She’d thought confessing to her doctor, then to her husband, had been the toughest days of her life.

Not even close. The worst day had come later. When she’d miscarried her baby while in rehab. There was a grief in that she would never get over.

Never.

Ted hadn’t been able to get over it, either. He blamed her for the death of their baby, and she couldn’t disagree with him. It was her fault, and she had to live with that. The only way she could stay sane—stay alive—was to spend the rest of her days trying to make amends. She didn’t expect forgiveness. She just wanted peace.

Mary Hannah sagged back against the icy slick wall of the cabin. The cold against her was nowhere near as intense as the chill inside her.

Not all junkies looked like the skeletal woman sitting in the police cruiser.

Some of them wore pretty paisley to cover ugly secrets.

Two

That injection made my head spin like a Wheel of Fortune.

—FEMALE BOXER, FOUR YEARS OLD, BROWN/BLACK CONFISCATE #8

AJ CAME FROM a family of cops. It was in his blood.

He tore off his surgical mask and tossed it in a hazardous-waste bag set up outside the cabin, the routine familiar, similar to countless other days on the job in Atlanta. His dad had risen to the rank of police commissioner and had been proud of AJ’s speedy promotion to detective.

Papa Parker hadn’t been too thrilled over AJ pulling himself off the fast track to move. Not that there’d been any choice. After his last undercover sting, he’d been on a crash-and-burn path of reckless behavior, shit for brains. His cousin Wyatt had somehow seen it in his eyes at a family reunion and mentioned the opening in his small-town force along with a great rental cabin next door to the Second Chance Ranch Rescue. The offer had come a day after AJ had almost gotten his partner killed. He wasn’t cut out for the big-city crime scene anymore, and his old man would just have to live with that.

AJ reached for his surgical mask only to remember he’d already tossed it. He may have made it through this bust with everybody in one piece, but he was rattled. He never should have let Mary Hannah get away with running around outside, much less entering the house to save his ass.

He eyed the Animal Control van loaded with crates. Mama lay inside with her head on her paws, ears plastered back against her head in fear. She’d been given a tranquilizer, but her eyes were still so wide with terror the white showed in a whale-ish look that made him want to crouch down in front and talk softly to her.

Promise her . . . what? That everything would be okay? Because that was a lie. He didn’t know what would happen to her.

The thought twisted his gut so hard he didn’t notice his cousin approaching until Wyatt clapped him on the back.

“Poor Boxer Mama,” Wyatt drawled, the laid-back soul of the family. “Mary Hannah said the dog looks newly weaned. Puppies have probably already been sold.”

“The truck looks like it was driven today, no snow on the hood. Maybe they were dropped off earlier and we still have a chance of tracking them down.”

Wyatt pulled his keys from his coat pocket. “Maybe the news coverage will help.”

AJ glanced at the woman under arrest in the back of the cop car. She wore a gray wool coat over a sweat suit. Her lank blond hair hung down her shoulders. Years of drug use showed in the dark circles under her eyes and her pocked, acned skin. She could have been twenty-five or fifty. Meth gave a person a timeless look—and not in a good way.

With luck, the meth woman would cut a deal.

AJ looked back at his cousin. “Has she confessed to anything yet?”

“She says it’s her boyfriend’s cabin, and she was just here to pick up the poodle and schnauzer puppies to take to their new homes. The male poodle and schnauzer were found in the back of the covered pickup, huddled together to stay warm. According to our suspect”—Wyatt flipped open his notepad—“Evelyn Lucas, the litters on the property are all Christmas presents due to be dropped off today.”

“Then there are going to be a lot of disappointed families, because those pups can’t go anywhere.” He knew the drill by heart after past busts, a couple of them four times the size of this one. “The dogs are contaminated with the fumes from the meth cooker. They need a good wash-down straightaway. And of course there are Boxer Mama’s missing puppies. God, I hope each family bathed them before letting their kids cuddle up to sleep with the new pup.”

Wyatt shuddered. “Once we get back to the station, I’ll make it a number one priority to get Ms. Lucas to give up the names of the buyers.” He tugged his stocking cap over his red-tipped ears. “The place will be searched more thoroughly once we get a team with suits in. If they find contact names, I’ll pass them along to Animal Control.”

Doubtful that there were any records. And likely cash-only transactions. He braced his hands on his thighs and hung his head. “Some way to spend the holidays.”

Wyatt swept off his stocking hat and finger-combed a hand through his graying hair. “Hey, once we finish our report at the station, you should come with me to Lacey’s for Christmas Eve dinner. I know she invited you for the big Christmas Day meal, too. But you’re welcome at both. Mary Hannah will be there.”

Of course she would.

AJ cricked his neck from side to side, searching for the best way to duck out. Wyatt dated the quirky owner of the Second Chance Ranch Rescue—Lacey McDaniel. The two of them led the effort to set him up with Mary Hannah like they were all in high school, for crying out loud, trying to match up their friends for double dates to the movies. He wouldn’t have expected Wyatt to become such a romantic sap, but he didn’t intend to exchange locker-room stories with Wyatt about the one-nighter with Mary Hannah and how she’d bolted before sunrise.

“I appreciate the offer,” he said again, “but I’ll be beat by the time I get home tonight. And I have holiday plans of my own for tomorrow.”

“What plans?” Wyatt raised an eyebrow. “A microwaved dinner and a beer in front of the television?”

“My Christmas holiday. My traditions. My business. But thanks all the same.” He glanced over at the van with Mama in her crate, her eyelids starting to slide down as the drugs kicked into high gear. “I’m going fishing.”

“Seriously?” Wyatt snorted. “You’re the worst fisherman I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks.” AJ winced but couldn’t deny it. Not that it mattered. He didn’t fish for food or sport. He hung out there with the line in the water, no bait on the hook, just searching for peace.

“Promise you’ll think about the offer, okay? Lacey put a ham in the oven before she headed over here for tonight. And she’s got a turkey in the smoker for tomorrow. Friends and volunteers from the rescue are bringing side dishes. She needs our support over the holidays. Even though it’s been two years since her husband died in Iraq . . .”

“I’ll try,” AJ offered, guilt already stinging because he wanted to help his cousin, but he also knew he would be a big wet blanket. Better to stay away.

“Good. And hey, with her daughter and son-in-law coming to town, plus all those volunteers, the crowd will be large enough for you to stay quietly grouchy if you want.”

Wyatt was ten years older and always had been in charge of looking after his younger cousin AJ. Apparently some things hadn’t changed, and as much as AJ wanted to haul his own ass out of this dark pit he’d fallen into, it wasn’t happening.

His cousin clapped him on the shoulder again. “I’ll see you at the station later?”

“Yeah, as soon as I finish up here. I need to double-check all the Animal Control documentation.”

So he could stay and watch over Mary Hannah even if he didn’t plan to push for a second one-night stand.

Idiot.

“Later, cousin.” Waving, Wyatt slid into the front seat of the cruiser and flipped on the lights, sending flashes streaking across the pine trees in the late afternoon as he took Ms. Lucas away.

It had been a long day of grueling work. He was sweating under his winter gear.

He’d accompanied other Animal Control contingents back in Georgia since dogfighting and drug trafficking often went hand in hand, but he’d never been on an operation that included a volunteer animal rescue, too, like Second Chance Ranch.

Mary Hannah had certainly pulled her weight today, loading filthy dogs and puppies into crates. That surprised him. Up to now he’d been so focused on reconciling that wild night with “Francesca Vale” with the image of prim Mary Hannah Gallo, who shut him down cold. Granted, he hadn’t been himself that night, either, morose as hell after too long spent undercover and all too willing to indulge in a distraction.

But the woman he’d come to know over the past five months had her life in alphabetical order. So he’d been surprised today to see her be so hands-on in the rescue operation. She’d just yanked on two pairs of latex gloves and a surgical mask before wading right in, cuddling the terrified creatures matted with their own feces. She’d even already agreed to go with Animal Control to the county shelter to help intake the animals.

AJ peeled off his own gloves and tossed them into the industrial-sized waste bag on his way to one of the vans, which happened to be where Mary Hannah was working.

He stopped just behind her, catching a hint of peppermint that stayed on her. Breath mints? Or shampoo? The question tugged at him like some great puzzle he had to solve.

“Hey,” he called out softly, his hands twitching with the urge to rest on her shoulders. “I didn’t get to thank you in there for saving my ass.”

She jolted, just a slight twitch of her head, then her shoulders braced as she went back to the task at hand. Her eyes were so damn sad as she labeled the crate with the groggy boxer.

“No thanks needed.” She knuckle-nudged her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “We were both doing our part to handle the situation.”

Suddenly he didn’t want to pile into the van yet with everyone else around them. He wanted more time to figure out this third dimension of a woman he hadn’t come close to understanding in the five months since they’d crossed paths. Then maybe she would stop haunting his dreams. Naked. “How do you know so much about animal rescue as a volunteer?”

“I may be a volunteer, but I’ve gone through additional training.” She tucked the paperwork into a waterproof sleeve.

He wasn’t letting her brush him off so easily. Not this time. “But it’s not like you’re on the payroll with this group. You’re under no obligation to work holidays.”

She glanced over her shoulder, her brown eyes still shimmering with that sadness, her hand falling to rest on the crate protectively. “Most of the other volunteers have families. I don’t have anywhere else to be, so I offered to assist.”

Just like him. Other than a cousin. “So you don’t have plans for Christmas—”

Her eyes went wide with panic. “Speaking of Christmas, I need to finish up. Have a great one.”

What the hell? Had she feared he would ask her over for a microwavable turkey dinner and a visit with Francesca?

Her snow boots punched through the icy layer on her way to the van where Second Chance Ranch Rescue director Lacey McDaniel jotted notes on a clipboard while an angry schnauzer charged the crate door. The reality of how badly things could have gone today hit him hard for the first time. An image of Mary Hannah wrangling that freaked-out boxer chilled the sweat on his skin.

He couldn’t just walk away, not until he knew she was tucked in back home with visions of sugarplums dancing in her head. The sooner he wrapped this case up at the shelter and the station, the better. It would take a full afternoon of Christmas fishing to erase the memory of this day—and dreams of that one night five months ago.

*   *   *

THANK GOD THE shelter had a private shower, because Mary Hannah’s nerves were shot.

She held the sprayer over her head. Exhausted. But relieved.

The male boxer was in the clinic in critical condition. All the other dogs had been cleaned, processed and settled in kennel runs faster than she would have predicted, thanks to the unexpected help from AJ. She’d done her best to keep him at arm’s length since she’d realized her stupidly impulsive one-night stand lived next door to the Second Chance Ranch—next door to her since she rented the loft apartment over the barn. Sometimes she wondered if they should talk about that night, blame it on the two drinks, except they hadn’t been drunk.

And she couldn’t bear to think about what drove her to seek comfort. Or how much he enticed her to go back for more.

She cranked the water hotter, hoping to chase away the chill in her heart that seemed to go deeper today because of that mama boxer and her missing babies. Showering in the shelter’s dog washroom wasn’t optimum. But it was private with a locked door that would give her a few minutes to collect herself.

The patter of the shower water hitting tile muffled the distant barking mixed with the low melody of Christmas tunes—ironically “Silent Night.” This place was anything but quiet.

She’d bagged her clothes to be tossed—including her favorite parka and boots. Maybe they could have been cleaned, but there was no way she could wear them again. Each piece would serve as a reminder of the meth smell. She’d even eaten a whole tin of breath mints—homeopathic, all-natural for stress—trying to get the scent and taste out of her system.

Water streamed off her. Suds swirled down the drain. She’d scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin was almost raw. Still the smell lingered, reminding her of how easily she could be tempted to numb herself with drugs again.

Or sex.

Except her one attempt at that hadn’t gone as planned. God, what were the odds she would have her one epic fling with a narcotics detective? The last kind of man who could forgive or understand her past. She needed to remember that and chalk up today’s weakness to holiday sentimentality.

She shut off the water and squeezed the excess moisture from her hair. Her life consisted of one day at a time, staying clean, keeping her world in order and making atonement through her volunteer work at the Second Chance Ranch.

That place had a peace about it that had saved her, a peace she knew these poor animals needed. Once legalities were cleared up, these animals could be transferred to there—if they passed their temperament tests. She just prayed they would stay healthy here in the meantime with all the airborne viruses of so many animals in close quarters.

One day at a time, she reminded herself.

Get through the holidays, then she could focus on these animals and the upcoming My Furry Valentine Mutt Makeover competition. A group of animal-lover bigwigs from Nashville were sponsoring the shelter challenge, led by country-music legend Billy Brock. Trainers and foster families from across Tennessee and Kentucky would pair up with rescue dogs for six weeks to train, culminating in a Valentine’s festival with music and a parade of the canine contestants. Then a big debut on Valentine’s Day for love-match adoptions and a hundred-thousand-dollar grand prize to go to the winning shelter.

The perfect opportunity for Second Chance as well as the animals.

Some had called her a workaholic for volunteering all her free time, but she preferred to stay busy. She wasn’t interested in partying. Her rescue friends kept her social calendar packed with plenty of events and camaraderie.

She had a full life, damn it.

So why was she so nervous about leaving this shower room and running into AJ again? She’d managed to keep her distance for five months. She could manage today.

Mary Hannah grabbed a couple of towels to dry off, the terry cloth bristly from so many washings with bleach. She tugged on the sweat suit with the shelter logo, and her gym shoes. She’d washed her glasses—five times. She finger-combed her hair. With no more reason to delay, she stepped out of the small washroom and into the corridor.

Where AJ waited. For her.