Page 9 of The Cowboy Comes Home

She’d made it until it was time to go to bed. She had her police academy classes the next day, and she needed to rest. But sleep was the furthest thing from her mind, which meant her body wasn’t getting any cooperation. So finally she gave in and grabbed her phone off the nightstand. She began to search, working out in her head as the first site loaded where she would go next, and then next if she had to. She didn’t have to. It was everywhere.

He was alive. Barely.

The list of injuries was stomach-churning—they called it a “flail chest injury” which she’d later found out meant three or more ribs broken in at least two places—and those ribs had punctured a lung and pierced his liver, yet he wasn’t dead. The hospital spokeswoman sounded a little amazed herself, as if she was thinking that with that list, he should be dead.

But he wasn’t. Yet.

Emily remembered that night of horrors all too well, dozing off and having it replay in her head, fighting for more rest but knowing if she slept again she’d likely dream about it again. And sitting upright in bed at three in the morning, telling herself this was ridiculous, she didn’t even know the guy, didn’t seem to help at all. There was something about having seen it herself that made it different than just hearing about it secondhand.

And during that long night it struck her that, considering the way she was handling—or not handling—this, maybe she hadn’t made the best career choice given what a police officer could encounter on the job. But she was finally started on that long-awaited trail, and she wasn’t going to quit now. She would just have to, as Sergeant Cowell said during their physical training, toughen up.

Tucker had made it. So had she. But she had no doubt as to which of them had had the tougher battle. And the fact that he looked so…normal now, was amazing.

Normal, hah! He’s as good-looking now as he was then. More so, even.

Lobo’s head came up and a warning but not threatening sound rumbled out of him. That and the sharp, rapid knock on her door startled her out of her meandering thoughts, just as she’d filled the mug. She set it on the counter, then crossed to the door for a look through the peephole. She recognized Mr. Keppler from two doors down. The man was hardly a threat, and appeared to be alone, so she didn’t go for her weapon in the lockbox next to the door. She gave Lobo the command to stand down, that this wasn’t a threat, and the dog relaxed. Chance Rafferty had done one heck of a job with a dog who had been so tightly wired the military had given up on him.

When she opened the door Mr. Keppler didn’t bother with a hello. “I’m so glad you’re home, Emily. I don’t know what to do.”

He sounded beyond worried. She knew that most of the residents in the short cul-de-sac were happy to have a police officer living there, and this wasn’t the first occasion her time off had been broken up by a neighbor knocking on her door with a problem. She gestured him inside and closed the door. Lobo watched the visitor alertly but calmly.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Keppler?” She kept it formal out of respect for the considerably older man.

“It’s Angela,” he said.

Emily nodded at the reference to his wife, whom she often encountered out for a walk when she went out for her morning run. “What’s wrong? Is she all right?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. She had a meeting tonight, you know, the Daughters of Last Stand, and she should be home by now, but she’s not answering her phone. And I don’t have the phone numbers of the others who would be there.” He shook his head, a pained expression on his face. “So stupid,” he muttered.

He was so visibly upset Emily walked over to the kitchen and picked up the mug of hot chocolate and handed it to him. “Here. Drink this. It’s good, I promise. And we’ll get this sorted out.”

She’d been a cop long enough now to recognize the relief in his demeanor. This was why she did what she did, to give people that feeling that they weren’t alone, that they had help.

She picked up her phone from the counter near where the mug had been, and called the dispatcher at the PD. She knew Jessica would have info on the officers of the organization who so often helped out when the town needed it. Jessica gave her the first three names and numbers, but Emily started with the first person she knew and had dealt with. Last Stand powerhouse Maggie Rafferty had been at the meeting and spoken with Mrs. Keppler, in fact they had left at the same time. More than enough time for her to be home by now.

At this information Mr. Keppler’s tension grew palpably, and she tried to calm him. “Do you know what route she usually takes?” She knew they held their meetings in the multipurpose room at the back of the library.

“It depends on whether she’s going to stop somewhere on the way, like if it’s her turn to bring snacks. It was tonight, but I don’t know where she planned on stopping.”

She called up some patience for the approaching frantic gentleman, and asked more specifically, “After the meeting, what route does she take to come home?”

“Oh. Oh of course. She’d probably head south on Hickory then east on Honeysuckle at the park. She likes the park.”

“All right. Does she ever stop anywhere on the way home?”

“No, she’s usually tired and in a hurry to get here.” He gave a shake of his head, wearing a rather disgusted expression. “I’d be out there looking for her, but we sold my old car when I retired, because we thought we’d only need the one.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I have a car,” she said with the widest smile she could manage. “Let’s go.”

“Bless you, Emily.”

And so she found herself heading back into town in her personal vehicle, with her neighbor as passenger and Lobo in his favored spot in the way back, where he could see out both sides and the back. She didn’t want to call in a missing person to the PD just yet—she’d check the route first. And not mention the idea of making this official to Mr. Keppler, because she had the feeling it would scare him to death.

But that possibility began to loom as they covered the route he’d mentioned with no sign of his wife. She drove through the library parking lot to be sure, but the car was not there. She pulled back out onto Hickory, pondering stopping at the station, which was at the south end of the block from the library. But then something caught her eye.

A pair of flashing yellow lights, from the far driveway of the community park the next block down. She hadn’t seen them before because they were on the other side of the park and facing this way. She made the turn on Bluebonnet Lane and headed toward the lights, and soon was close enough to see the vehicle was the right size and shape. She pulled into the lot, and the moment he saw where she was headed, Mr. Keppler let out a relieved breath.

“It’s her,” he said, and jumped out of the car the moment she came to a halt, and moved more quickly than she would have thought he could toward his wife, who gave a startled jump when he rapped on the driver’s window. She got out and they hugged each other rather fiercely.

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