A Father's Vow
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Chris Maday Schmidt
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16
Chapter One
You were born to serve and protect.
His late wife’s words echoed in his ears. Never mind that he’d failed to live up to his oath in the worst way.
Now, all senses on high alert, Constable Jack Wells maneuvered his station-issued cruiser over the rutted gravel drive. The tires settled into the well-worn grooves as he made slow progress toward the wooded wildlife preserve and sanctuary. With his headlights off, he used extra caution to avoid potential contact with critters that may have escaped from the fenced-in property.
Peering into the shadows cast by the towering ponderosa pines, piñon pines and Douglas firs, their needles glinting in the light reflected off the stars twinkling in the night sky, Jack scanned the familiar surroundings. After opening the window, he leaned his head into the crisp autumn air, straining his ears. To hear what, he couldn’t be sure. But because of the rash of targeted vandalism on the preserve at the edge of small-town Sweetwater—located in a mile-high basin in Northern Arizona—patrolling the grounds had become a routine event. Which, due to the station’s staff shortage, often meant conducting his rounds off-duty.
And his job as the constable was to serve and protect.
That phrase again. A twig snapped in the distance, distracting his mind from traveling down a different kind of well-worn trail.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he whispered under his breath, the melody reminiscent of his life before loss.
He cocked his head, searching for sounds that were out of the ordinary. But he only heard the usual animals—an owl’s hoot, unnerving giggles from a resident hyena and a few yips from a coyote. Most of the rescues slumbered now, safe within the confines of Sweetwater Preserve & Sanctuary and in the hands of its caring staff.
Continuing along the road, he peered into the shadows of the property run by the nonprofit. Not only was the preserve barely able to remain afloat, but it appeared to be wearing a big red target.
Nothing earth-shattering at this point—just petty occurrences on the grounds. But the probability that the culprits could step it up a notch by endangering the animals was not a stretch of the imagination.
And that was one thing he vowed would not happen. Even if the reasons he harbored were of a personal nature, rather than a professional one.
“Don’t go there,” he chided, voice low.
Advancing inch by inch along the gravel drive that funneled into the parking area situated in front of the preserve’s main building, his left hand absently touched the sharp metal points on his badge. He shifted his hand, then, to the contrasting smoothness of the ring pinned next to it. His daily reminder of the one person he’d promised to protect when she agreed to be his wife. The one person he’d failed.
His best friend’s voice—the words he’d spoken to him at Willow’s memorial service three years earlier—sounded in his memory: The Lord chooses where or not to heal on this side of heaven, but He’s still our refuge.
His throat constricted, the lump refusing to budge. His friend was right. Yet that knowledge would not bring back his child’s mother.
Just then, a swish of Petey the rescue peacock’s tail drew his attention beyond the entry gate; black eyes returned his stare. He couldn’t blame his little girl’s favorite feathered friend for the strong hunch that settled in his gut.
Something was going down.
As he inspected the perimeter of the grounds, he pulled the cruiser to the far left side of the building—home to the gift shop and postage-stamp-size office.
At the back of the structure, a small apartment served as live-in accommodations for the resident veterinarian, vacant since the previous vet retired at the beginning of the year. In the interim, while the committee in charge recruited candidates with hopes to fill the opening, the town had been blessed when a mobile animal doc had agreed to commute each week and care for the preserve’s wildlife.
Once more, he skimmed the fencing installed to keep the animals in, and trespassers out. Although Sweetwater, with its rich history as a frontier gold and silver mining town—population 1,025 at the latest census—was recognized for its low crime, on occasion he’d been called out for trivial grievances issued by the townsfolk. Like the citizen who complained about the garbage truck rumbling through the streets at 6:00 a.m. Or the discovery of a teenage prank that involved toilet-papering the statue of Sweetwater’s founder erected in the center of Town Square.
But from the time the vandalism had occurred the previous year at the Sweetwater Bed & Breakfast—an historic icon since the town’s inception by Constance Sweetwater in 1864—the station continued to receive more calls than usual categorized as suspicious. Even after the B and B vandals had been apprehended.
However, tonight’s visit to the sanctuary hadn’t been based on any tips. Jack’s motive far exceeded those related to the line of duty. And that reason had become his whole life when Willow passed away. His fingers grazed the delicate band on his uniform once more, his heart warming as he pictured the cherubic face of their daughter, Josie, who fueled his purpose.
She adored the preserve and its animals, and had often enjoyed outings here with her mother. He would do anything in his power to help her retain those memories. And then one day in the future, he would present Josie with her mother’s wedding ring—the symbol he wore like a second badge, although not one of honor.
Under the canopy of native trees that simulated the animals’ natural habitat, scents from the sanctuary wafted through the open car window—hay and manure, and a hint of creosote, which was unusual at an elevation above 5,000 feet.
Then, a new sound. A thump that came from neither the pasture nor the preserve. It seemed to originate from within the building itself, on the side that accommodated the small clinic and vacant live-in quarters.
“Okay, now what’s going on?”
A muted glow behind the window shades snagged his attention. Pressing a hand to his stomach in an attempt to quell the spasms, he again strained to listen as a fierce possessiveness stole over him. The community had fought tooth and nail for the preserve and sanctuary when developers had bulldozed their way into town, determined to raze several of the structures, including a handful of historic properties. And to put in a strip mall, of all things.
He snorted. While his shattered heart found no refuge on the property, he’d made a promise to his late wife that he would protect its interests for Josie. Running off the developers had been a no-brainer.
As he rolled the cruiser to a stop, its engine ticking, a loud crash penetrated the shroud of darkness. Pulse ratcheting up a notch, his fingers grazed the holster attached to his hip. Unlatching the door, Jack inhaled the earthiness and prayed that the element of surprise would be on his side to eradicate the vandalism tonight.
Especially as the last incident played across his mind, in which the gift shop had been broken into and ransacked, followed by a late-summer monsoon that had left a deplorable mess in its wake, ruining the evidence. After that, it had required many volunteer hours before the preserve could be reopened to the public.
A popular half-day visit for tourists and townsfolk alike, the nonprofit included educational demonstrations throughout the grounds. If the attraction possessed the funds to fulfill its mile-long wish list of activities and interactive programs, it would easily garner even more public interest. As it was, there was just enough in its coffers to care for the animals and maintain its limited paid staff.
And Sweetwater depended on tourists to boost the small town’s economy, whether it was the visitors who arrived to enjoy the laid-back lifestyle just ninety minutes north of Phoenix, or those romantics who wanted to see for themselves if there was any truth to the legend of Sweetwater—that there was something in the “sweet” water, and that true love prevailed.
Although Jack had experienced what he believed to be his sole opportunity at love, he wouldn’t fault others who sought theirs.
The click as he leaned against the cruiser’s door exploded like a belated Fourth of July firecracker set off in the stillness. Gut clenching, the last thing he needed was for a vandalism-in-progress to escalate into something more dangerous.
Josie’s face flickered across his mind. The child had already lost one parent. Yet he could hear his late wife’s words as if she was standing next to him... You were born to be an officer of the law, Jack Wells.
And Sweetwater—up until the developer had arrived the preceding year—remained a haven for its residents, with the majority of tourists behaving with respect.
His head pounded, the rash of vandalism a conundrum. The tampering at the bed-and-breakfast last year had been one thing; the random damage at the preserve another.
Another glaring concern revolved around retribution for repairs. Because if they weren’t able to catch the culprits in the act, they might as well take up a collection.
Cowboy boots crunching on the gravel, his nerves twitched as he forced himself from imagining the worst. And then there was the catch-22.
The preserve could not afford to shut down, but it also couldn’t risk driving away its patrons.
With painstaking steps, he crept toward the building, continually assessing the grounds. Besides the commotion just moments ago, the only other sounds had originated from the wildlife enclosures. And even though he knew the large rescue felines onsite were docile—which he’d learned from attending the afternoon feedings of the big cats with Josie—a growl from one of the tigers drove a shiver up his spine.
That’s when he registered a different noise, like something scraping against wood. Angling his head, he felt for his pistol again, fingers lightly resting on the safety release.
It’s now or never. With measured stealth, he stole around the side of the main building toward the rear with plans to startle the intruder.
His pocket buzzed and he stiffened.
If his cell phone’s volume had been on, the ringtone would’ve alerted him to the caller’s identity. But because he was off-duty, that meant it could be Josie. Although she was in good hands with the owners of the B and B—his friends Lacey and Persh—Jack had to be sure.
He reached into his pocket with his free hand and glanced at his phone. His shoulders settled, relief washing over him as a photo of his child filled the screen.
“Jose,” he whispered.
The grating sound continued, as if a heavy object was being dragged across the hardwood floors on the opposite side of the wall where he stood deliberating.
Continue the surveillance, or answer the call?
He punched the connect button and pressed the mobile phone close to his ear as he dropped to his knees. The fragrance of loam pervaded his nostrils.
“Daddy, I mith you.” He felt the tug on his heartstrings at the sound of Josie’s little-girl voice, and the lisp that resulted from the loss of her two front teeth.
“Daddy misses you, too, Jose.”
And then he saw it: a shadow shifting behind a small rectangular covered window. He uttered a quick “I love you” and straightened his legs.
But as he popped the device back into his pocket, he was nearly bowled over by the scent of lavender and the soft, yet unyielding figure that now squirmed in his strong grasp. Rooting his boots into the soil, he steadied himself, pulse tripping.
“I’ve got a gun!” the powerhouse in his arms shrieked, dark hair whipping across his face, lashing him as her ponytail swished with each contortion of her body, skin pale in the glow of the motion-detector lights that illuminated the area.
Myriad emotions slammed into him, from confusion to fascination, to self-reproach as he held her in his embrace—chalking them all up to his botched surveillance. He released his hands from the woman’s bare arms, where gooseflesh popped out in the night chill.
This spitfire was his vandal?
“Hold on, hold on!” He raised his hands in supplication. “I’m with the law.” He jerked his head toward the badge pinned to his collar.
The idea of an accomplice not improbable, he averted his gaze and squinted in an attempt to peer inside the small apartment through the open door. But then his attention swiveled back to the woman in front of him. Her lab coat hanging open over a T-shirt and jeans.
Oh, great.
Dr. Emerson Parker gulped several times, sucking in breaths of stolen air thanks to her run-in with the solid wall she’d just barreled into full force. Within seconds, she cataloged the Stetson pushed low on his forehead, well-lived-in cowboy boots, a blazer and—as he’d indicated after Emerson’s threat—a metal badge etched with big letters spelling out Constable pinned to his lapel.
Right beforehand, she’d been attempting to organize the quarters of her new home.
While the physical wounds that drove her to the small town of Sweetwater had blessedly healed, she’d sought out the preserve as her private sanctuary, fueled by prayer and hope that the healing properties of nature might help to mend the wounds still disfiguring her heart. The last thing she’d been expecting was to confront another human being before the morning arrival of staff and volunteers.
“This how you welcome all your new residents, Constable?” She focused on taking slow, deep breaths to regulate her pulse. Brushing at her wrinkled lab coat, a blush threatened as a result of her empty warning. In fact, she shuddered at the notion of handling a gun again, much less possessing one. But if she was reading appearances correctly, the Sweetwater lawman staring her down looked a lot more uncomfortable.
“I, um...” Shifting his stance, he palmed the back of his neck. “Suppose you wouldn’t believe the welcoming committee sent me?”
She appreciated the constable’s attempt at levity, but didn’t miss the pink tint that crawled up his neck. His discomfort set her a bit at ease. After swiping a dusty hand on her jeans, she extended it toward him, a smirk tipping her lips.
“Hardly,” she snickered. “But now that you’re here, I could use some help.”
While she’d been relishing the idea of soaking in the solace of the small town on her first night, she wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to engage the assistance of a strong and able body. Despite her familiarity with the dark side of human interaction—the kind that led to complications and heartache. Which was the reason she would be focusing all her attention on the animals in her care, while she navigated her own healing journey.
The constable’s large hand enveloped hers.
“Emerson Parker, live-in vet.” His palm was rough and his grip loose. Yet uncertainty propelled her to tug her fingers loose.
The last thing she needed was to let down her guard with a man. Not after her last relationship had left her badly burned. And by the expression in the constable’s eyes, she surmised that he, too, was no stranger to fire.
He tipped his head. “Jack Wells.” Scrunching his eyebrows, he noticed the plastic sack she’d been wielding upon their collision and retrieved it from the ground. “Uh...sure.” He lifted the bag like it weighed no more than a balloon, then hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “Garbage?”
Without waiting for an answer, he headed in the direction of the dumpster a few yards into a clearing in back of the building.
“Thank you!” She heard the slight edge to her voice as she curled her fingers into matching fists and fought the urge to grab the bag from the constable’s hands. Her defensiveness was a coping mechanism she continued to address, and all because of the fallout from her disastrous marriage and the impetus that drove her to the Sweetwater Preserve & Sanctuary. To find healing.
“Door’s open,” she called over her shoulder, then clapped her hands together before grasping the handle to the screen door of her little apartment, its hinges squawking and inviting the aviary inhabitants to elicit a fleeting cacophony of their own.
A whistle from the teakettle atop the compact stove in the well-appointed kitchen intermingled with the wildlife sounds. And not for the first time since her arrival at the preserve, she savored the peace within the shelter’s confines.
After pouring the steaming water into a second cup—the first had slipped from her fingertips, ending up in shards she’d quickly swept away—she sprinkled jasmine-green tea leaves into a stainless-steel strainer, the sweet, soothing fragrance reminiscent of her childhood garden after a spring rain.
As she plucked an extra mug from the cupboard, the squeaking screen door alerted her to the constable’s return. Yet, she couldn’t squelch the tiny wince at his imposing presence. Another flashback from her past and the wounds that still required tending.
“I didn’t think the new vet, er, you—” Constable Jack covered his mouth with his fist as he cleared his throat “—was arriving until next week.” His boots landed with heavy footfalls on the hardwood floor as he approached the corner bistro table.
Without forethought, she’d situated herself behind the furniture as a barrier of sorts. A window on the wall next to the seating area overlooked a copse of wildflowers no longer visible under the blanket of darkness.
“As you can see, I’m here now.” She shrugged. “Tea?” Presenting a rectangular box on the palm of her hand, she displayed a vast collection of tea bags as she met the constable’s shadowed blue regard.
Stetson still firmly in place, Jack thrust his hands in his back pockets and rocked on his heels, gaze wary. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
She couldn’t stop his guardedness from arousing her curiosity, but she refused to delve into the potential reasons for the constable’s behavior.
Adding the same tea leaves to an antique silver ball she’d unearthed in one of the apartment’s prestocked drawers, she dunked the orb into the water.
“Tell me, Constable, was tonight part of your normal rounds?”
Jack seemed to consider her question as he accepted the cup, then blew across the rising steam. All the while she covertly perused the five-o’clock shadow that dotted his cheeks, and the strawberry-blond hair that curled at the nape of his neck. The differences between Jack and her former husband practically jumped out at her. And beyond the physical—rugged versus cultured—she sensed the opposing personalities common between dogs and cats. Dependable versus unpredictable.
“Not sure how much you know,” Jack responded. “And I don’t want to scare you off.” After taking a swig of the brew, he licked his upper lip before placing the mug on the coaster across from hers.
“I know about the vandalism.” No sense mincing words since it had been one of her biggest considerations. But had she jumped from one unstable situation into another by accepting the job opportunity at the preserve? Her only consolation was to hope that now that she’d be living here full-time, the vandalism would cease.
As she sipped her tea, she continued to study the constable beneath lowered lashes. While less than thrilled with a man’s presence in her new home, she welcomed his assistance with a few larger pieces of furniture. A shiver skittered along her arms. Especially the electric fireplace.
Jack shuffled his boots along the gritty planks, a tangible reminder that it still needed a good scrubbing.
“So what did you need help with?”
He swallowed a big gulp of the tea, and by the way he darted his eyes around the room and its austere, white walls, she had no doubt he’d prefer to be anywhere else.
She tracked his gaze toward the feminine touches she’d arranged in an attempt to transform the sterile space. So far, she’d unpacked colorful pillows and a blue hand-crocheted blanket—one of the few nonnecessities she’d packed upon fleeing her previous life—that were now piled atop the pull-out sofa that converted into a full-size bed. And a homemade quilt gifted to her by her Aunt Francine had been tossed over the back of a bistro chair.
Observing the worn furniture, she sighed. It would more than suffice, despite the fact it was a world apart from the pristine home she’d vacated a short while ago—one that had served as a showroom and perfect analogy to how she’d been expected to conduct herself. Or to pay the penalty.
Just like that, she grappled with a strong fight-or-flight response, her heart and respiration rates increasing. If Jack was to study her now, would he notice her dilated pupils? The telltale tremors in her hands? It was still too recent since she’d separated herself from danger, and too easy to forget she was now safe.
But was she?
She scrutinized the constable, his gun returned to its holster. Before she could respond to his question, a raucous sound emanated from beyond the clearing that flanked the building.
With just three strides, Constable Jack faced the screen door and Emerson flinched, her heart stuttering as he pressed his head against it and lifted a finger to his lips. He turned the handle, and the hinges remained blessedly silent.
After he slipped outdoors, she avoided unpacking the reason for her unruly pulse, instead blaming it on the obvious: the vandalism, and her different surroundings. And denying that its origins had anything to do with the noticeably wounded, yet ruggedly handsome constable.
So much for a laid-back, fresh start.
Despite the vandalism, however, her faith was grounded in God’s provision going forward. Especially since her recent escape from her former situation—one that had given off warning signs from the beginning.
She scoffed in the silence. How naive she’d been by believing she could fix her fiancé once they were married. Yet it hadn’t taken long before she learned the hard way that it wasn’t her job to change hearts. And that what had originated as a gift could so easily turn into a curse—all because of her role as a fixer.
Because the wounded inevitably found a way into her life.
Case in point: Constable Jack, whose blue eyes revealed a deep valley verdant with wounds. It also hadn’t escaped her notice that his fingers habitually touched the gold band he wore over his heart, adjacent to his badge.
There’s a story there... The conspiratorial whisper was so clear it was as if her Aunt Francine was seated on the stool next to her.
And while she was happy to indulge the constable’s nonverbal directive to remain quiet, she didn’t intend to wait inside the apartment as he faced the unknown shenanigans taking place on the grounds.
“What better way to get acquainted with my new digs?” She tucked a long, errant strand of dark hair back into her ponytail. But as she pushed open the door, for the second time that evening she propelled directly into an immovable barrier.
“Oof!”
Without an ounce of hesitation, Constable Jack drew her into the full circle of his embrace, and she filed away the sensations as neither unpleasant nor threatening. Yet her eyes widened in surprise, perhaps as wide as saucers by the appearance of the constable’s shadowed stare.
And even though her instincts prompted her to shove away from the man, the warmth that coursed through her veins resembled nothing akin to the fear she’d endured for so long.
“I thought I told you to stay put!” His voice was a low growl, much like the harmless chuffing from the preserve’s felines. A puff of his breath hovered between them before it dissipated into the cool air.
She stiffened, an automatic response to the constable’s tone. “I don’t do well with orders, Constable.” Her lips curled into what she hoped conveyed her displeasure. Well-versed with how the law worked—and not always in her favor—Emerson was treading on unstable ground by potentially hindering police matters.
Constable Jack’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Whether from irritation or some other emotion, she could only surmise.
“It’s my job to keep you safe!” he insisted, the words tumbling out. “To keep the preserve safe,” he quickly amended.
With sudden self-consciousness, she wriggled free from his hold, yet confused by his obvious reticence to end their standoff as his arms dropped to his sides.
Briefly closing her eyes, she repeated a familiar mantra. It’s not my job to fix him.
She also didn’t need him to assume the role of hero.
Straightening her spine, she gathered her resolve. “What happened out there, anyway?” She waved toward the darkness untouched by the security lights.
Jack adopted her example, regrouping. “I must’ve scared off whoever—or whatever—was out there.”
Bowing his head, he sighed. “But now a little girl needs her daddy to read her a bedtime story.”
She was caught off guard by Jack’s pronouncement—the most he’d spoken in one sentence since his surprise arrival. Serving to remind her she knew nothing about him or his circumstances. And it was in her best interest to keep it that way.
Rubbing her hands over the length of her arms, the nippiness infiltrated the space between them and her weary shoulders sagged against the weight of her long day.
“Go home to your wee one,” she whispered, light and heat spilling out as she pulled open the screen door.
“But you need help...”
From where she stood, she watched Jack’s mental struggle that shifted between staying, and leaving. She knew that fight all too well. But her recent travels, and days—correction, months and years—of emotional turmoil came crashing down on her. She stifled a yawn.
“It sounds like you need it more than I do.” Her words were infused with a meaning that extended beyond his policing duties.
Jack’s broad shoulders dipped a couple of inches, the lines around his eyes diminishing. “I’ll check back in the morning.”
“I don’t need babysitting, Constable.” The timbre in her tone came off harsher than she’d intended. Yet she couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion that she’d just walked headfirst—literally—into a situation far more serious than her initial expectations. And not simply due to the vandalism at the preserve.
But because her oath to care for the wounded had proven it was not always a blessing. It could also be trouble.
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