bluff to the established trail he usually used to access the beach, but in this case, urgency won over practicality.
Upon finally reaching the rocky shore, he ran until his lungs ached.
There was no hurry. No way even a tough guy like Sam could’ve possibly survived that fall, so why couldn’t Heath stop running to get to him? Why couldn’t he shake the feeling that just as it had on that sunny day when Patricia had slipped from him, his life was spinning out of control.
Sure, Sam was just a dog, but most days that mutt felt like the only thing keeping Heath sane. Sam gave him a reason to get up every morning. Beyond the necessities of keeping him fed and watered and letting him in and out, Heath had found solace in watching his dog’s tail wag the whole ride to their favorite fishing hole, or hearing him bark when the mutt chased after his ratty old tennis ball.
Twenty yards out, Heath hunched over, bracing his hands on his knees. He couldn’t bear going farther.
Eyes squeezed shut, all he saw was the hospice nurse dragging that damned yellow sheet over Patricia’s dear, faint smile. Ever since, he’d hated the color almost as much as he hated life.
“What’re you doing?” a faint, wind-tossed voice called from above. “Hurry, Heath! We need to get him to a vet.”
What was wrong with her?
Couldn’t she see he was in pain? Why was she even there, when all he wanted was to be left alone?
“Run!” she hollered.
In a mental fog, Heath raised his gaze to Libby, only to find her animated and waving toward poor Sam’s lifeless body. What was wrong with her that at a time like this, she refused to give him space?
“Heath, look at him! He’s trying to wag his tail! Don’t you know he’s alive?”
Alive?
She might as well have been speaking Latin for all the sense the word made in Heath’s grief-stricken mind. Hope had long since left his vocabulary.
But then a strange thing happened....
Seagulls rioted near Sam’s body, and Sam gave a short woof, sending the birds flying.
Charging to action, Heath made it to Sam’s side in well under a minute. He kneeled to scoop Sam into his arms, and instead of the cold, salt water–matted fur he’d expected, he was met with solid warmth, a whimper, a feeble tail wag.
Was he dreaming? Had he really been given this second chance?
A quick inspection of his dog showed why Sam hadn’t come home. His feet were covered in purple sea urchin spikes. The urchins weren’t poisonous, but clearly painful and if it hadn’t already, infection was likely to set in.
Shooting to action, uncaring of his own comfort, Heath knelt in the rising surf. Cold water soaked his legs, but he ignored any physical pain to gingerly pluck spike after spike from the swollen and clearly tender pads of Sam’s paws.
“Hang in there,” Heath soothed, 100 percent focused on the task at hand. “We’ll get all of these things out, then run you to the vet. In a few days, you’ll be good as new.”
Once again having purpose drove Heath to work even more efficiently. Guilt for not having thought to look for Sam on the beach much sooner caused acid to rise from his stomach and high into his throat until bile flavored his tongue.
“I’m sorry,” Heath said, stroking behind the dog’s silky ears.
Sam whined, lurching forward when Heath tugged at a particularly large and deep spike.
“Be gentle,” a soft voice said behind him. Libby had somehow waddled her way to the beach and lowered herself onto a sun-bleached driftwood log.
“You shouldn’t be down here.” Though he couldn’t have begun to explain why, Heath resented her presence. As a man who’d spent years in the business of saving others, it was a rush to once again be on the job. The purpose and drive felt damn good. The knowledge that for once in a very long time he was making a positive difference—if only to his dog—deeply mattered.
“I thought you might need help. What happened? How did he even get down here?”
“How do you think?” he growled. One glance at her crestfallen expression left Heath ashamed of his sharp words. “Sorry. I’ve got enough on my plate in carrying Sam safely up the bluff. I don’t want to have to worry about you, too.”
“Who said you had to?”
Having removed all the spikes, Heath wedged his hands under the dog’s fragile frame. Due to his negligence in not having remembered how much Sam enjoyed barking at the occasional sea lions who hung out on the point, the dog had been a while without food or water.
Crashing surf must’ve muted his bark.
“Drop it,” Heath said, already heading for the trail.
“Why are you acting like this?” She chased after him, which only made him feel worse, but no way was he slowing. “You should be thrilled Sam’s going to be okay.”
“I am.”
“So would it be too much of a strain to smile?”
“Shouldn’t you worry more about keeping your footing on these rocks?” He kept his gaze focused on the winding dirt trail leading up the bluff.
Sam whined.
“Just a few more minutes, boy...” Heath had never wished more he’d kept up with his physical training. Were he in top form, scaling the hill would’ve been no big deal—not that it was difficult now, he just lacked the speed he’d once had.
“If you’d slow down just a little,” Libby yapped, dogging his heels, “I could help soothe him.”
“I’ve got this,” he insisted. “Please—back the hell off.”
She held up her hands, stepping away per his request, but her glistening tears left him feeling dirty inside. What kind of man yelled at a pregnant woman? What had happened to his honor?
Ha! He and honor and giving a damn about anything parted ways around about the same time the love of his life died in his arms.
“Would it kill you to let me in?” The woman might’ve temporarily let him be, but there she was, right back in his business. “I just want to help you—you know, like you helped me.”
“I don’t need help.” Jaw clenched, Heath kept his gaze focused on the trail, mentally blocking Sam’s heartbreaking whimpers.
By the time Heath reached the trailhead at the top of the bluff, the dog’s ninety pounds had his untrained muscles screaming. How had he allowed himself to get so out of shape? Was he really so pathetic?
“You found him!” his mother cried as he approached. “Is he all right?”
“Find my keys!” he shouted back.
From behind him, the sounds of Libby’s labored breathing did little to improve his mood.
“Would you like me to drive or hold poor Sam on the way to the vet?” Libby asked.
“You have no lap,” he managed from between clenched teeth. His thigh muscles screamed from mounting the steep grade. Back when he’d been on the job, a trek like this would’ve been a cakewalk. Now, when his dog needed him, his body wasn’t delivering as it should. And that further pissed him off. But the anger was good. It gave him much-needed energy to fuel the rest of his way to the truck.
“There are very few people I’ve disliked over the years,” she said, “but you, Heath Stone, are definitely one of them. You’re thickheaded and stubborn and obstinate.”
“Aren’t those all basically the same?”
“Well...” His mind’s eye pictured her heart-shaped face all flushed and scrunched from concentration.