The Road To Echo Point. Carrie Weaver

      “Two years ago Sheriff Moreno called.”

      Ian’s gaze was fixed on the wall behind her left ear. As if he was there, but wasn’t there. He continued, “Asked if I’d noticed Daisy was getting forgetful. He’d found her car, still idling, stuck in a desert wash ten miles outside of town.” He shifted, cleared his throat. “I hadn’t seen her for a while. I should have figured it out, 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?

      “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 what happened—I told you.”

      “Good. I’m not the sympathetic type.”

      He crossed his arms. “That’s probably what makes you so successful, Ms. Davis. Personally, I’d hate to make a living off other people’s misfortunes.”

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

      Dear Reader,

      The imagination is a weird and wonderful thing. Ian and Vi’s story began with a small article I read in a newsmagazine about Alzheimer’s service dogs. Soon my daydreams produced Annabelle, a dedicated, loving service dog. My mind wouldn’t rest until I gave Annabelle a challenging assignment and a family to go with it.

      Annabelle’s people aren’t perfect. Ian, Vi and Daisy struggle and make mistakes. They laugh, they cry, they love. They are the family of my nightmares or my fondest dreams, depending on the day.

      I feel very fortunate to share their story with you, especially as my first Harlequin Superromance novel. The Road to Echo Point will always have a special place in my heart. I hope it touches your heart, as well.

      Yours truly,

      Carrie Weaver

      P.S. Echo Point exists only in my mind. Please excuse any liberties I took with the geography of Arizona and the Superstition Mountains.

      The Road to Echo Point

      Carrie Weaver

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      ACKNOWLEDGMENT:

      I would like to thank Pat Putnam of Okada Specialty Guide Dogs for speaking with me about Alzheimer’s service dogs. Pat was gracious in sharing her extensive knowledge and enthusiasm with me.

      For more information on Alzheimer’s service dogs:

      Okada Specialty Guide Dogs

      7509 E. Saviors Path

      Floral City, FL 34436

      www.okadadogs.com

      DEDICATION:

      For Luke and Michael, who have always believed

       in my dreams. I love you bunches.

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      IT WAS A SHOCK, the effect of gravel on rubber. One minute tires gripped the road, bouncing over raised ribs of clay, the next they slid sideways.

      Dust billowed, Vi’s pulse pounded, short puffs of air kept her going. It was like a scene investigation gone bad. The result of excessive speed on a dirt road. What a laugh. Except it was anything but funny.

      She made it around the corner, somehow keeping the car on the road.

      No trees. Thank God.

      Her pulse rate dropped, her breathing eased. The company car wouldn’t end up a twisted wreck, along with her career.

      “Good going, Davis,” she muttered under her breath. Instinct had her foot pumping the brake. The car started to obey.

      A brown blur appeared near her right front fender.

      The sound was sickening. It was dense and dull, the thud of live flesh meeting unforgiving metal.

      Her ankle ached as she jammed on the brake. The car listed to a stop.

      More dust. Everywhere tan plumes of the stuff rose around the car, like a dirty version of dry ice.

      That was when the shaking started, from the throb in her ankle, snaking its way up her thighs. In seconds, her hands contracted on the steering wheel.

      What had she done?

      She had to get out. Had to go look.

      Somehow Vi managed to make her hands cooperate and grasp the door handle. Her knees buckled as she got out.

      This wasn’t like her. Not anymore. She was strong and in charge. But she had never been on the wrong side of a loaded shotgun, until today.

      She hadn’t believed old Mr. Johnson would really shoot her. But one niggling doubt was enough to make her relive another place and time. A time when the threat was more real, though fists were the weapon of choice. A time when safety was a gift to be treasured. And survival was the name of the game.

      Mr. Johnson and his rusty old shotgun had been enough to rattle her, big time. Enough to send her speeding down a dirt road, trying to outrun her past.

      And now this.

      Grasping the door for support, she squinted to block out the late afternoon rays. She didn’t see anything unusual past the expanse of white hood. Nothing.

      Her chest stung as she sucked in more air. She willed the trembling to stop.

      One step at a time. That’s all it would take. Like one day at a time.

      How ironic that the twelve-step mantra came back to haunt her now. Wouldn’t her dad be proud? The way he was still able to control her life, so many years and miles away.

      Anger stiffened her spine. She’d use it, just like so many times before. Just like when she’d left home and never looked back.

      Placing one foot in front of the other, Vi refused to lean on the car. She didn’t need to lean on anything or anyone.

      She rounded the fender and stared at the lump. It was bad. Brown eyes glazed in pain, begging her, blaming her.

      But it wasn’t as bad