Texas K-9 Unit Christmas: Holiday Hero

“He asked for money, Lucas. Clear as could be. So I’m pretty sure he didn’t see my photograph, fall into some mad frenzy of longing and decide to kidnap me.”

The front door swung open and Bea walked in, her little white dog prancing at her feet. “Emma! What’s going on, dear? Why are you two in here while I’m waiting out in the car?”

“We were just coming to get you, Bea.” Emma nearly ran to her aunt’s side.

Lucas crossed the room more slowly.

In the years since Sarah’s death, he hadn’t dated much. A dinner here or there, a movie or two. Nothing that mattered. Nothing he cared much about. He’d loved Sarah. He hadn’t thought he’d ever find that kind of love again.

He’d forgotten about Emma, though. Forgotten how good it felt to be in a room with her, to talk to her, to look into her eyes. Forgotten how right it felt to spend time with her.

Now that he’d remembered, he wasn’t sure he wanted to walk away again, wasn’t sure he wanted to say goodbye and forget all the moments they’d shared.

He frowned.

There’d be time to think about that after he found the guy who’d attacked Emma. And he would find him. It was just a matter of time. Unfortunately, Lucas had no idea how much of that he’d have before the guy struck again.

SEVEN

Fourteen hours stuck in Bea’s house when there was work to be done at the diner was thirteen hours too long!

Emma pulled eggs from the fridge and did her best to ignore her aunt’s questioning gaze.

She knew what was coming.

The same question she’d been asked a dozen times in the past few hours.

Patience, she thought. She needed God to give her a bucket-load of it.

“Aren’t you going to get ready for church?” Bea asked.

“It’s not Sunday, Bea,” Emma responded with the same answer she’d given a dozen other times.

“Are you sure?” Bea walked over to the wall calendar and squinted at the numbers.

“Yes.”

“It’s not Sunday?”

“It’s Saturday. We’ll go to church tomorrow.”

“Are you making something for the potluck?”

“The potluck isn’t for another week, Bea. I’m making scones.” Because cooking is the only way to maintain my sanity.

“Lovely! You should invite that nice young man over and give him one.”

“What young man?” Emma asked, making sure that there wasn’t a bit of impatience in her voice. It wasn’t Bea’s fault she was going stir-crazy. Working as a sous-chef meant long and active days. It meant dealing with stress and chaos in a calm and efficient way. It did not mean sitting in a quiet old house for hours on end, nursing aching muscles and ugly bruises.

“The one you used to hang out with all the time. What was his name?” Bea frowned. “I should know it. He was here almost every day.”

“Lucas?” Just saying his name made a hundred butterflies dance in Emma’s stomach.

“That’s right. Lucas. Call him up and tell him to come for scones.”

“I don’t think so, Bea.”

“Why not?”

“He’s busy.”

“How do you know that he’s busy if you haven’t called him?”

“I—”

The doorbell rang, interrupting the argument. Thank goodness.

“I’ll get it.” She ran to the front door, pressing her eye to the peephole. The police hadn’t found the guy who’d attacked her. She didn’t expect to see him on the other side of the door, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

A man stood at the far corner of the porch, his face hidden by a Stetson, what looked like a very big dog at his feet.

“Who is it?” she called, but she knew. She recognized the breadth of the shoulders, the easy way he held himself. She even recognized the fuzzy outline of the dog at his side. Lucas.

“It’s me.” He stepped in front of the door, and her heart leaped. He looked good. Better than good. He looked like everything any woman could ever want in a man.

She fumbled with the lock, her fingers tripping all over themselves. It seemed to take forever, but she finally managed to open the door.

“Lucas! What are you doing here?”

“I’m working your case, remember?” He smiled, taking off his Stetson. “Do you have a couple of minutes?”

“Sure. Come on in.”

“Do you mind if Henry comes, too?”

“As long as he doesn’t eat my aunt’s dog, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Henry only takes chunks out of bad guys who refuse to cooperate.” He patted the big dog’s head and stepped into the house.

She closed the door, catching a whiff of spicy cologne and chilly winter air.

Bea shuffled out of the kitchen, her walker tapping on the floor. “Lucas Harwood!” she exclaimed. “Is that you? And you brought a dog! Fluffy! Come quick. You have a visitor.”

Bea’s little white puffball of a dog had probably seen her “visitor,” because she refused to make an appearance.

“How are you, Mrs. Daphne?” Lucas grinned at Bea, his dark hair ruffled. He had grown into his height, his shoulders filling out and his face losing the almost-too-pretty look of his youth. Now he had an edge of hardness and strength that Emma had to admit was appealing.

“It’s been too many years, young man,” Bea chastised, even though it had been less than twenty-four hours since they’d seen each other.