The Road To Echo Point

For now.

Ian eyed her suspiciously. Maybe she’d capitulated too fast.

Shrugging, she spread her hands wide. “Hey, you’ve got me over a barrel.”

The taut line of his shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’m a pretty mellow guy. Just be good to Daisy and we’ll get along fine.”

“Sure. Fine.” She flashed him a smile, an earnest, kid sister kind of smile. If she couldn’t beat him, she’d join him. Their goals were the same, after all. Get the dog back on its feet ASAP. “And since it looks like I’ll be here a while, why don’t I get dressed and you can tell me exactly what I can do to help Daisy and her four-legged friend.”

He still looked at her warily, but didn’t respond. Just frowned.

Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “We’ll meet in the den in, say, about half an hour? The den is down the hall, to the right.”

VI EASED INTO the battered old wingback chair. The torn leather armrest scratched the tender skin on the underside of her forearm. It reminded her of home. Only their furniture hadn’t started out as nice as this.

She suppressed a shudder. Someone needed to tape some holes, or better yet, scrap the chair entirely.

“Okay, shoot,” Vi prodded, notebook open, pen handy.

Ian sat behind his desk, in an equally worn leather executive chair, that one hunter green. The burgundy and green theme continued throughout the den. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, distressed wood of course. In the corner stood an adobe beehive fireplace, the inside smoke-blackened, but bare. Cozy.

Indian rugs, hand woven and old, judging by the muted colors and workmanship, were scattered on the floor, warming the brown ceramic tile. Here and there were a few knickknacks, something missing in the rest of the house. Hand-carved kachinas, outfitted in flamboyant turquoise and red, jockeyed for space between tan woven baskets and some sort of odd sculpture. Made out of a horseshoe and barbed wire, it looked like a cowboy twirling a lasso.

She cocked her head to the side, checking it out from another angle. Maybe it was a cowboy doing some sort of funky dance….

Her gaze slid to the wall behind Ian’s head. No more western stuff there. No, it was pure modern sports memorabilia. Photos of Randy Johnson and Jake “The Snake” Plummer and some guy in a hockey uniform. All were autographed, all personalized to Ian.

“You’ll watch Daisy from 10:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m.”

She waited for him to continue.

He didn’t.

“And…”

“That’s it. Watch Daisy. If she so much as steps out of bed, you follow her. Help her find the bathroom if she gets lost. Wait for her, make sure she goes back to her room.”

“You said she’d calm down. Now that she’s used to me.”

He didn’t quite meet her gaze. “Yeah. She’ll calm down.”

“Sounds simple enough if there’s no wrestling or windows involved.” Vi snapped closed the notebook. “That’s all the dog does?”

“Originally, Annabelle was trained to watch Daisy only at night, and come get me if she got out of bed. But she gradually extended her shift, so lately she’s spent most of her time with Daisy. There are only three other certified Alzheimer’s dogs in the world, so no one really knows what she can do.”

It was amazing. How they could train a dog to do stuff like that. How the dog seemed to understand almost on a human level.

Vi was intrigued, but didn’t want to give the guy any false hopes. So she suppressed all the questions whirling around in her head and attempted to look disinterested. “Cool,” she commented.

Ian raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll think it’s pretty damn cool, after about a week with Daisy. Last night was just a small sample. When I told you about the witching hour, it was to prepare you, not scare you. The technical term for it is ‘sundowning.’ A lot of people with Alzheimer’s get restless when the sun goes down. At night, their sleep patterns are disturbed and they frequently roam.”

“They childproof homes for kids. Can’t you do something like that for her? Special locks on the doors?”

“Daisy’s figured out every obstacle I can put in her way. The last time she roamed, she ended up two miles away, and it took Search and Rescue nearly six hours to find her. It was June—she was severely dehydrated and almost died.”

“I didn’t realize,” she murmured.

“Most people don’t.” He sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead. The bags under his eyes made him look like one of those sad old hound dogs that never moved from the porch. “Hell, I had no idea. Nobody does, until you’ve been there.”

She almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost. There was no way she intended to get drawn into his problems. She had enough of her own.

“So I’m off duty during the day?”

He nodded slowly. “If I were you, I’d sleep. You’re gonna need it.”

“I’m sure I can handle it. You a sports nut or something?” She gestured toward the pictures on the wall.

“I guess you could call me that. I was a sports writer.”

A writer. Interesting.

“Was?”

“Until two years ago. When Vince—I mean—Sheriff Moreno, called.” His gaze was focused on the wall behind her left ear. Like he was there, but wasn’t there.

“Asked if I’d noticed Daisy getting forgetful. He’d found her car, still idling, stuck in a desert wash ten miles outside of town. Said she’d seemed disoriented, didn’t know where she was or how she got there.”

Ian shifted, cleared his throat.

“I hadn’t seen her for a while. Been on the road. I should have figured it out sooner. Not Vince.”

A twinge of remorse nagged at her. She’d done this. She’d made this guy worry more than he already did. He didn’t deserve it, any more than she did.

But the touchy-feely confidences had to stop. Because if they didn’t, then she’d have to reciprocate, tell him something deep, dark, revealing. And if she started, where would she end? Her stomach rolled at the very thought.

“Okay, I get the gist. Prodigal son is racked with guilt, throws away a promising career to care for his mother. Very commendable. More than I’d do in the same situation.”

“I don’t want sympathy. You asked about the sports stuff and I told you.”

“Good. I’m not the sympathetic type.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his big leather chair. “No? That’s probably what makes you so damn successful, Ms. Davis. Personally, I’d hate to make a living off other people’s misfortune.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t create the system. I’m just damn good at what I do.”

“I’m sure you are.”