Hero in Her Heart. Marta Perry

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      “I’m sure you’ve heard of Gabriel Flanagan, our city’s firefighter hero.”

      Nolie looked. Well over six feet of glowering firefighter glared back at her. Gabriel Flanagan didn’t seem to be any more enthusiastic about this than she was.

      “We have to set a deadline. Suppose we say one month from today. You can report back to us, and we’ll make a final decision about the grant.” The director beamed. “I’m sure we’ll all be pleased with the results.”

      The expensive office shimmered in front of her eyes. One month. One month to successfully pair a service dog with a man who looked as if he’d rather do just about anything than come anywhere near her and her program.

      MARTA PERRY

      has written everything from Sunday school curriculum to travel articles to magazine stories in twenty years of writing, but she feels she’s found her writing home in the stories she writes for Love Inspired.

      Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she’s probably visiting her children and her beautiful grandchildren, traveling or relaxing with a good book.

      Marta loves hearing from readers and she’ll write back with a signed bookplate or bookmark. Write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279, e-mail her at [email protected] or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.

      Hero in Her Heart

      Marta Perry

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in times of need.

      —Hebrews 4:16

      This story is dedicated to my dear brother, William Perry, his wife, Molly, and their loving family, with much love.

      Dear Reader,

      I’m so glad you decided to pick up this book, and I hope my story touched your heart. Helping Nolie and Gabe surmount the obstacles that separated them was a wonderful writing experience for me.

      It was also exciting to learn more about the wonderful work done by service animals and those devoted individuals who train them, and to remind myself again of the heroism and self-sacrifice of firefighters.

      I hope you’ll write and let me know how you liked this story. Address your letter to me at Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279, and I’ll be happy to send you a signed bookplate or bookmark. You can visit me on the Web at www.martaperry.com or e-mail me at [email protected].

      Blessings,

      Contents

      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 One

      Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in times of need.

      Hebrews 4:16

      Nolie Lang stared at the elderly philanthropist who’d just offered her her heart’s desire with some unexpected conditions attached.

      “I’m sorry.” She probably sounded like an idiot, but that was how she’d felt since the moment she’d stepped into the plush offices of the Henley Foundation. “What did you say?”

      Samuel Henley, beaming all over his rosy, wrinkled face, looked like one of Santa’s elves. Unfortunately, he didn’t sound like one. “I said we have the perfect test case to determine if your project is worth our foundation’s funding.” He gestured toward one of the two men sitting opposite her. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Gabriel Flanagan, our city’s firefighter hero.”

      Nolie looked. Well over six feet of glowering firefighter glared back at her. Gabriel Flanagan didn’t seem to be any more enthusiastic about this than she was.

      “Yes, of course I have.” Flanagan’s picture had been in all the newspapers a month or two ago, when he’d been injured while rescuing several people from a burning warehouse. “But I didn’t realize Mr. Flanagan’s injuries required the services of a seizure dog.”

      She couldn’t miss Flanagan’s reaction to that comment, even though she was usually better at reading animals than people. Without saying a word, he rejected what she’d said completely.

      He resembled nothing so much as a dog with its hackles raised. Flanagan was an Irish name, but Gabriel wasn’t remotely like an Irish setter. He was more of a bull mastiff—big, guarded, wary and vaguely threatening.

      The silence was stretching too long. She, Henley and the man who’d been introduced as Suffolk’s fire chief all seemed to wait for a response from Flanagan. It didn’t come.

      The fire chief planted beefy hands on equally beefy knees and leaned forward. “Gabe got a head injury in the accident.” He slid a sideways glance toward the man. “We’re sure he’ll recover and be back on the job in no time, but he has had a couple of—” He hesitated, searching for the word. “—episodes.”

      “Seizures.” Flanagan’s voice was a ferocious bass rumble, like a threatening growl. “Call it what it is. I had three seizures.”

      Seizures weren’t that unusual after a head injury. “When was the most recent one?” She ventured the question and was rewarded with a flash of barely controlled fury in eyes so deep a blue that they were almost black.

      “Two weeks ago.” He spat the words out. “That doesn’t mean anything. I’m getting better all the time. I don’t need some kind of a guide dog to help me.”

      “Seizure alert dog. Or service dog.” She made the correction automatically and then wished she hadn’t. Flanagan looked as if it would give him great pleasure to rip her head off.

      She couldn’t really blame the man. He was obviously in complete denial, which hardly made him a good candidate to convince the Henley Foundation that they should sink a ton of money into saving her service-animal program.

      She planted her feet more firmly in plush carpeting that seemed to reach to her ankles. The navy blazer and white shirt that had seemed appropriate when she’d left the farm now felt like rummage-sale leftovers. She inhaled. The office even smelled like money.

      I don’t belong here, Father, but you know I’ll do whatever it takes to help Your little ones.

      You can’t. Aunt Mariah’s voice had rarely echoed in her head in recent years, and now was certainly not a good time for it to start. You’re worthless. Always were, always will be.

      She’d found her own way of dealing with that bitter voice over the years. I am a child of God, valuable in His sight.

      The words gave her the assurance to face anyone, including eccentric millionaires