The Road To Echo Point

“So ruled. Community service, replacement of the dog.” The gavel echoed through the small courtroom. “I’ll give you a day to collect your things and move in.”

The judge glanced toward the front row. “You’ve got a spare room, don’t you Ian?”

“Uh-huh,” the big guy grunted.

“Move in?” Vi squeaked.

“Sure. You can’t watch over Daisy properly unless you stay the night.”

She choked back a laugh. “You mean I’m supposed to watch over a dog?”

“No, ma’am. You’ll replace the dog. Take her place.” Judge Tanner turned to the man. “Now, Ian, how long did Doc Woodworth say Annabelle’d be laid up?”

“A month. Six weeks if there’re complications.”

“Who is Annabelle and what does she have to do with this?” she demanded.

“Annabelle is the dog you practically killed. She’s an important member of my family and a certified service dog.”

The mountain of a man spoke to her directly for the first time since he’d come charging out of the brush.

“Wha…? There was no vest on that dog—”

“She was off duty. We weren’t out in public. Even a dog needs R&R, especially a service dog. Fetch is her stress-buster.”

“What about my job? I’ve got responsibilities, a good shot at District Claims Manager.”

The judge waved his hand as if to shoo a pesky fly, telling her exactly what he thought of her job. “You should’ve thought of that before you went speeding down a dirt road. You’ve got till four tomorrow afternoon to show up at Daisy’s place. Ian’ll give you directions.”

“But that’s not fair.” Vi stormed the bench, her heels clicking emphatically. “You can’t do that. I’ll get an attorney.”

“Attorney’d be a waste of time and money.” He gestured toward the man. “Ian, I’ll have Sheriff Moreno stop by for a report now and then. That’ll give old Joe a chance to chat with Daisy and make sure Ms. Lead Foot here keeps her end of the deal.”

“Thanks, Ralph. I’m about beat.”

“Think you can hold out till tomorrow?” His prune face relaxed into a sympathetic smile.

The man swiped a hand across his face. “I’ve done it before. I’ll do it now.”

Fumbling through a daily planner, he found a blank page and ripped it out. He scribbled furiously, then handed the sheet to her. “See you at four tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute. Who’s Daisy? And why the heck do you need me?”

“Daisy’s my mother. Annabelle’s her service dog. You’ll keep an eye on Mom at night while I sleep.”

Vi shook her head. She was having a hard time relating a service dog to a woman who needed to be watched while she was asleep. Seizures maybe? She’d read about dogs trained to sense the onset of human seizures.

“Oh, and bring some comfortable clothes.” He eyed her up and down. His lips curled into a smirk as he took in every detail of her gray silk suit. “You won’t be needing those.”

He gestured in her general direction. By those, she assumed he meant designer clothes, or maybe it was her three-inch heels.

“I need to know what I’m getting into. Why exactly does your mother need a service dog?”

“Alzheimer’s. She has Alzheimer’s.”

VI CAREFULLY NEGOTIATED the curve, keeping her speed down to a crawl. Impatience had got her into this mess, thinking on her feet would get her out.

Mentally reviewing her options, Vi figured her week’s vacation would keep the rumble of discontent at Transglobal Insurance down to a dull roar. After that, they’d start talking leave of absence, a death knell to her goals.

She patted the laptop next to her. A large box of files rested on the back seat. Black leather was hell on the thighs during the scorching summer, but it sure looked good. The Mustang was her pride and joy. New, sleek and powerful. Not bad for a girl from East L.A.

Peering ahead, she saw where the scrub brush parted for a bit and a rutted path jogged off to the right. That had to be it. It was the only private drive for miles. She followed the narrow dirt road for several hundred yards and parked on a circular drive.

Letting out a low whistle, she admired the view. It was an adobe—low, squat and brown. Perfectly framed by the backdrop of lush, undisturbed desert, the Superstition Mountains rising in the distance. It looked like a small piece of heaven.

Vi got out of the car and approached the veranda, her gaze lighting on new and wonderful discoveries. Wild flowers in big terra-cotta pots. Two antique branding irons, crossed like swords, anchored to the wall.

She laid a palm against the adobe, absorbing the warmth of reflected fall sunshine, admiring the coarse texture. The weathered mud brick looked like it had been there for years. And would probably last for many, many more. It was stable, unchanging, safe.

Patrick would have loved it. He had loved all things western. Probably because of the old cowboy movies he’d watched when they were kids. Where the good guys always won, and the bad guys were easily spotted in their black hats.

Vi swallowed hard. She would not cry. It didn’t accomplish anything. And it wasn’t what Patrick would have wanted.

Laughter and joy were what he had brought to her life. And at the first sign of trouble, he’d whisk her off to their special fort and tell her jokes until she’d forgotten her fear.

God, how she missed his smile. The mischievous twinkle in his eye. The absolute goodness in his heart. The bravery he shrugged off as brotherly duty.

Vi fingered the heavy wooden door. Splinters nipped at her, but the core was solid. The bulky expanse was attached to the hand-hewn door frame with cast iron fittings. It might be old, but it looked strong enough to hold off an army. Or one really pissed-off SOB.

Yes, Patrick would have loved it.

Someday, she’d have a place like this. If she worked harder and smarter than everyone else.

Vi slipped into her favorite daydream. The one where she possessed the security only money could buy.

What would she change if the adobe house were hers? Definitely not the massive mesquite tree shading the flat roof, its gnarled black branches stretching protectively toward the house. And not the prickly pear cacti that lined the gravel drive. The ocotillo would stay, too. It looked almost like an upside-down octopus as it reached for the sky, the long, skinny stems undulating with the slightest breeze. The blooms added just the right touch of orange, breaking up all the tans and sages of the desert.

It was quiet, hushed almost. Except for the occasional call of some sort of bird, a dove maybe. What did someone do with all this quiet? No sirens, no neighbors, just quiet.

Vi shook herself out of her reverie. She didn’t avoid challenges anymore, she took them head-on.

Her knuckles stung as she rapped on the striated surface of the door. Her efforts hardly made a sound. She pounded with her fist the second time and was rewarded with a dull thud.

She swore under her breath as she blew on her bruised hand.

The door swung open instantly, silently. Plenty of oil on those old fittings.

“You’re here. Good.”