Laura Altom - The SEAL's Baby

Finally, they made it. Heath tried corralling Libby onto the bench his grandfather made as a romantic gift decades earlier, but she wasn’t having it.

“Look at this view....” The awe he used to feel for the land rang through in her breathy tone. “It’s amazing. The sun looks like diamonds on the water. Don’t you feel like you can see all the way to Japan?”

“Don’t get too close to the edge.” She stood only a foot away from the two-hundred-foot drop.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “I’ve always had a great sense of—” In turning to face him, she wobbled.

Heath ran to her, tugging her into the safety of his arms. “Why can’t you listen?”

With her baby bump pressed against areas it had no business being, he set her a safe distance back while trying to figure out why just touching her produced such visceral results.

“I told you I was fine,” she snapped. “Stop being such a worrywart.”

Arms folded, he said, “My apologies for yet again charging to your rescue.”

She held her arms defensively crossed over her chest, as well. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t need saving? That I’m doing fine all on my own?”

“Which is why you’re living on charity until your car gets fixed? Even then, how are you planning to reimburse Hal?” The moment the acidic questions left Heath’s mouth, he regretted them. He especially regretted the telltale signs of tears shimmering in Libby’s sky-blue eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He approached her, held out his hands to maybe touch her, but then thought better and backed away.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said with a shrug. “What would an apology help when what you said is true?”

“Yeah, but...” She’d returned to the ledge, which made his pulse race uncomfortably. Why the hell couldn’t she just behave?

“Stop. I’m sorry your mom dragged me out here. After we eat, I’ll ask her to take me back to the motel, and with any luck, you’ll never see me again.”

“Libby...” He rammed his hands into his pockets. In an odd way, even saying her name felt uncomfortably intimate.

“No, really, just hush. You’re not the only one with troubles, you know? Maybe I didn’t lose a spouse, but—”

“Mom told you about Patricia?”

Hand over her mouth, she nodded.

Was nothing sacred?

“I’m sorry for your loss, but that doesn’t give you the right to take your pain out on others—especially your sweet mom.”

No longer in the mood for sightseeing, Heath turned his back on the pint-size pain in his ass by heading back down the trail.

“What?” she called after him. “You got your feelings hurt, so you’re just going to leave?”

Had she been a dude, he’d have flipped her a backhanded bird.

“Fine! Be that way!” she hollered after him. “Being sad won’t fix anything, you know! Just makes you more sad, and—”

When she punctuated her sentence with a yelp, despite his frustration, he turned and ran in her direction. What the hell kind of trouble had she gotten herself into this time?

Only once he reached her, he found her yards down the bluff, pointing to a limp ball of fur, far down on the rocks below. Heath’s mouth went dry, and his stomach roiled.

“I-is that your dog?”

Chapter Four

Caring little about his own personal safety, Heath sprinted a few hundred more yards down the bluff’s edge until he reached the only somewhat sane route to the crashing surf.

After losing Patricia, he’d sworn to never pray again, and he held that promise even now. The concrete hardening his emotions told him this mission was all about recovery rather than rescue. As much as he’d loved that dog, no way would Heath leave Sam’s body exposed to be pecked off bit by bit by scavengers.

The ground constantly gave way beneath him, as the rocks clattered in what had become a dangerous slide. Had he the slightest lick of good sense, he would have gone farther down the bluff to the established trail he usually used to access the beach, but in this case, urgency won over practicality.

Upon finally reaching the rocky shore, he ran until his lungs ached.

There was no hurry. No way even a tough guy like Sam could’ve possibly survived that fall, so why couldn’t Heath stop running to get to him? Why couldn’t he shake the feeling that just as it had on that sunny day when Patricia had slipped from him, his life was spinning out of control.

Sure, Sam was just a dog, but most days that mutt felt like the only thing keeping Heath sane. Sam gave him a reason to get up every morning. Beyond the necessities of keeping him fed and watered and letting him in and out, Heath had found solace in watching his dog’s tail wag the whole ride to their favorite fishing hole, or hearing him bark when the mutt chased after his ratty old tennis ball.

Twenty yards out, Heath hunched over, bracing his hands on his knees. He couldn’t bear going farther.

Eyes squeezed shut, all he saw was the hospice nurse dragging that damned yellow sheet over Patricia’s dear, faint smile. Ever since, he’d hated the color almost as much as he hated life.

“What’re you doing?” a faint, wind-tossed voice called from above. “Hurry, Heath! We need to get him to a vet.”

What was wrong with her?

Couldn’t she see he was in pain? Why was she even there, when all he wanted was to be left alone?

“Run!” she hollered.

In a mental fog, Heath raised his gaze to Libby, only to find her animated and waving toward poor Sam’s lifeless body. What was wrong with her that at a time like this, she refused to give him space?

“Heath, look at him! He’s trying to wag his tail! Don’t you know he’s alive?”

Alive?

She might as well have been speaking Latin for all the sense the word made in Heath’s grief-stricken mind. Hope had long since left his vocabulary.

But then a strange thing happened....

Seagulls rioted near Sam’s body, and Sam gave a short woof, sending the birds flying.

Charging to action, Heath made it to Sam’s side in well under a minute. He kneeled to scoop Sam into his arms, and instead of the cold, salt water–matted fur he’d expected, he was met with solid warmth, a whimper, a feeble tail wag.

Was he dreaming? Had he really been given this second chance?

A quick inspection of his dog showed why Sam hadn’t come home. His feet were covered in purple sea urchin spikes. The urchins weren’t poisonous, but clearly painful and if it hadn’t already, infection was likely to set in.

Shooting to action, uncaring of his own comfort, Heath knelt in the rising surf. Cold water soaked his legs, but he ignored any physical pain to gingerly pluck spike after spike from the swollen and clearly tender pads of Sam’s paws.

“Hang in there,” Heath soothed, 100 percent focused on the task at hand. “We’ll get all of these things out, then run you to the vet. In a few days, you’ll be good as new.”

Once again having purpose drove Heath to work even more efficiently. Guilt for not having thought to look for Sam on the beach much sooner caused acid to rise from his stomach and high into his throat until bile flavored his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” Heath said, stroking behind the dog’s silky ears.

Sam whined, lurching forward when Heath tugged at a particularly large and deep spike.

“Be gentle,” a soft voice said behind him. Libby had somehow waddled her way to the beach and lowered herself onto a sun-bleached driftwood log.

“You shouldn’t be down here.” Though he couldn’t have begun to explain why, Heath resented her presence. As a man who’d spent years in the business of saving others, it was a rush to once again be on the job. The purpose and drive felt damn good. The knowledge that for once in a very long time he was making a positive difference—if only to his dog—deeply mattered.