From The Ashes

“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.