Wonders Never Cease (Harlequin Super Romance)
The little red sports car sped into the parking lot…
Its tires coughed up a cloud of dust as the driver slammed on the brakes. A woman leapt from the car as though the seat cushion was on fire and ran over to where Ben and Czar stood. Ben held his breath. Didn’t she know how dangerous it was to rush up to a canine officer when his dog was standing beside him, ready to defend him to the death?
“Hi. You must be Officer Jacobs.” Her words tumbled over Ben like kernels of candy corn at Halloween, sweet and yummy. “I’m Jill Martin.” When he didn’t shake the outstretched hand she offered, she dropped to both knees on the grass—throat level for Czar—and held out the same hand. “And you must be Czar.”
Finally Ben got back some control. He reached for Czar’s leash at the same moment Czar went for the slim, pale hand offered up so innocently. Ben was about to throw a body block when he saw that hand pet his dog’s head. Czar’s tail swished back and forth.
“Never run up to a police dog,” Ben ordered in his best I-am-the-law voice.
“Why? Will he lick me to death?”
Ben couldn’t see her eyes—they were hidden by dark glasses—but he had no trouble interpreting her grin. The sun glinted off her hair, creating a halo effect, and Ben sighed at the incongruent symbol.
Czar would watch for demons at Ben’s back. But who would protect him from angels in his face?
Dear Reader,
Although Wonders Never Cease is my fifth published book, it is actually the first book I wrote after I did what everyone tells you not to do. I quit my day job. Actually, my job as a feature writer for a newspaper fell victim to corporate downsizing. Although still employed, I wasn’t doing what I loved—writing. As I sank into a glum pit of despair, my white knight—my husband—rescued me. He offered to “pay” me to stay home and write a novel. In return, I had to take over the bookkeeping for his construction company—and smile more.
The smiling part was easy because I stumbled across a wild and crazy idea that made me laugh the whole time I was writing it. What if a person was given an opportunity to look at life from a completely different point of view? Think about it. What would you learn if you were suddenly privy to the kinds of thoughts a person normally told only his dog?
Jill, the heroine of this book, learns more than she bargained for when she meets Ben and Czar. I hope you’ll sit back and take a small leap of faith as Jill sees the world from a new angle. And if you have a dog or cat, you might take a minute to look into your pet’s eyes and ask yourself, What does this animal really think about me?
From the beginning, my family has referred to this as my “dog” book. I prefer to think of it as my leap-of-faith book. I didn’t write it with a market in mind, and I was hesitant to mention it to my editor. But wonders never cease when you have a little faith. My editor started smiling the moment I described it to her. I hope you’ll smile, too.
I love hearing from readers. Please write me at P.O. Box 322, Cathey’s Valley, CA 95306. Or e-mail me at either www.superauthors.com or the authors’ alcove at www.eHarlequin.com.
Happy reading,
Debra Salonen
Wonders Never Cease
Debra Salonen
To Paula—thank you for taking the leap.
And in memory of Chelsey—my very own Czar.
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
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
“PERMISSION TO ENTER with dog, sir.”
The formal request was accompanied by a discreet knock on the jamb of the door. Amos didn’t need to look up to know who was standing in his doorway. The vast majority of officers in his department didn’t know the meaning of the word polite unless they were on the witness stand, and even that was questionable.
Sergeant Amos Simms had headed the detective division of the Bullion, California, police department for twelve of his twenty-five years on the force. It was enough. He was ready to stay home and write his novel, but his dream was to establish a canine unit before he retired.
He’d lobbied the city council for six years for permission and funds. The politicians had come up with an abundance of creative excuses, but Amos had finally worn them down and had gone hunting for the right dog and handler. Two months ago, he’d found the perfect combination: Ben Jacobs and Czar.
Now Amos just had to sell the public on the newest members of the Bullion P.D.
“Come in, Jacobs. We’re not terribly formal here. Although I must say, it’s a welcome change.” Amos was fifty-six but most days felt eighty-six. He rubbed at the perpetual kink in his neck. “Have a seat. And try not to get too much hair on the carpet.” He was joking, but the serious young man didn’t smile. Amos had yet to see him smile.
Ben Jacobs was thirty-six, unmarried, a twelve-year veteran with the Santa Ignacio Police Force. Before that—according to his file—he’d served in the Navy and had been discharged with honors. At their first interview, Amos had discerned a strength of character and inherent intelligence that clearly made him the right choice.
Amos had liked Ben instantly, but he wasn’t sure whether or not Jacobs liked him—or anyone else for that matter, except his dog.
“We’re staging a demonstration today at two,” Amos said, getting straight to the heart of the matter. Jacobs wasn’t going to like this news.
The man nodded—a scant lowering of the chin. His serious brown eyes never left Amos.
A quick glance downward showed a second pair of serious brown eyes watching him as well. Amos repressed a shiver. He liked animals and had the greatest respect for police dogs, but he knew they were an extension of the person training them. And there was something shadowy, unapproachable, about Ben Jacobs. Something that kept him apart from the others in the department.
“The mayor will be there. And the Sentinel’s sending a reporter and a photographer. We’ll meet at Founder’s Park at two o’clock.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jacobs rose. He was a big man, but not bulky. At six foot one, he weighed a lean one hundred ninety pounds, but his fitness reports proved it was all muscle. His uniform differed from the ones the rest of Amos’s officers wore. His black pants had extra pockets to carry dog-related gear, and he wore a black baseball cap with a canine patch framed by the words Bullion Police.
Amos couldn’t look at the man standing before him without some sense of pride. His years of political wrangling had finally paid off. So far, Bullion P.D. had one handler, one dog and a slick new squad car, a four-wheel-drive Chevrolet Blazer with the back compartment fitted with a sliding window to keep the dog in touch with his handler. Amos hoped this would be the first of four units.
While Bullion itself boasted a modest population of just over 25,000 residents, the county was poised for growth. A new university being built in the Central Valley town of Merced, just forty-five miles away, would surely send home buyers Bullion’s way. And Amos believed that in law enforcement, it paid to plan ahead. Ben and Czar were part of that plan but first they would have to prove themselves. This was the part Jacobs wasn’t going to like.
“And bring along the bite suit.”
Jacobs’s movements were slow and deliberate. He didn’t look at Amos when he asked softly, “Who will be wearing the suit, sir?”
“The reporter.”
Jacobs inhaled sharply. Czar, who had risen to stand at his master’s knee, pricked up his big, sharply pointed ears. He looked at Amos accusingly, as if knowing the chief was to blame for his master’s disquiet; his unblinking stare seemed to pin Amos to his chair.
Amos didn’t like being put on the spot by a dog, so he piled on the rest of the bad news. “The reporter’s name is Jill Martin.”
“A woman?” Jacobs took one step closer; so did the dog. Both were staring at Amos with dark, unreadable looks. “I strongly protest, sir. Did you explain to her that this is not a game? She could get hurt.”
“She’s got a reputation of being…spunky.”
“Spunky?” Jacobs repeated. “This sounds like P.R.B.S. to me.”
“Like what?”
“Public relations bullshit, sir.”
Amos snorted, which made Czar cock his head. His brown eyes watched Amos as though he expected him to explode.
Amos knew that Czar, a ten-year-old German shepherd, was the only reason he’d gotten someone of Ben Jacobs’s caliber to move to a Podunk town in the central Sierras. In most departments, mandatory retirement age for a canine is ten, but Jacobs felt Czar had at least two more good years left. Amos knew from talking to other canine handlers, retirement for a police dog meant imminent death. Most dogs went home with their handlers to live out the rest of their days, but those days usually amounted to only a few weeks once the dog realized he wasn’t going back to the job he loved. Jacobs wasn’t ready to let Czar go, and Amos felt lucky to have a couple of years with a dog of Czar’s quality and experience. Within the next two years, Amos hoped to have his other canine units in place. Unless some “spunky” wild-card reporter screwed things up.
“P.R.B.S. I like that. And I agree. But this is at the mayor’s request and there’s no getting out of it.” Amos glanced at the pile of papers weighing down one corner of his desk. “I’ll meet you out there. Just suit her up, give her all the standard warnings and let the chips fall where they may. Maybe, just this once, we’ll get lucky.”
“DORRY FISHBANK, you’re amazing,” Jill Martin exclaimed, her gaze feasting on the two-inch-thick sheaf of papers clasped in the clerk’s ink-stained fingers. “If you weren’t a woman, I’d kiss you.”
Dorry took a step back, whether from Jill’s ebullience or to protect her bundle, Jill wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter. Here finally, within arm’s reach, was pay dirt. Proof positive that Land Barons—the huge corporation her ex-husband worked for—was poised to exploit the citizens and environment of Bullion, California, with a new housing development called Excelsior Estates. Which, if Jill’s investigation proved true, would break ground next week upon the contaminated tailings from the old Excelsior mine.
“This is it, Dorry,” Jill said, trying to rein in her excitement. “We’re talking jugular. If the documentation in those files is as solid as it looks, there’s no way the planning commission could have approved that development without turning a blind eye to the pollution problem. I bet half the commissioners will be up on charges before this is over.”
“Shh,” Dorry hissed, the sound blending with the overhead racket of water pipes and muffled foot traffic. Jill hadn’t known a basement level existed in the Bullion County Courthouse until Dorry showed her the vanguard of dusty file cabinets tucked in one remote corner. With surprisingly little effort, Dorry had managed to produce half a dozen legal-size folders stuffed with the documentation of land sales and property transfers dating back a hundred years. Folders she now held—white-knuckled—in her hand.
Jill tried to stifle her exuberance. Her mother always warned Jill about coming on too strong, “That kind of intensity is most unattractive, Jillian.” Mathilda “Mattie” Jensen had a rule for every social situation and wasn’t shy about imposing them on Jill.
“Don’t worry, Dorry,” Jill said, heeding Mattie’s criticism. “Nobody knows about this but you and me. And I’m a reporter. You’re my source. You’re protected, like a lawyer-client kind of thing.”
Behind the teal rims of her oversize bifocals, Dorry’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“I’d never give up my source. I’d fry first.” Jill crossed a big X from shoulder to waist. “But don’t worry, it won’t come to that. Where’s the copier?” Jill squinted into the gloom; she supposed it was too much to hope the county kept a copy machine in the basement.
“A what?”
“Copier. I don’t want to take the originals.”
“Oh my gosh, no,” Dorry peeped. “These are official documents. You can’t have them, and I can’t make copies without permission.”
Jill swallowed hard to hide her impatience. “It’s just a copy. Who’s gonna care?”
“My boss for one,” Dorry said stubbornly.
Up to this point, Dorry had been as docile as a puppy and eager to help Jill on her quest—especially when Jill hinted that her boss, Will Ogden, the Bullion Sentinel’s rather hunky city editor, might be interested in their discoveries. Apparently unrequited love had its limits.
“I’m not about to lose my job over this, Jill. I went looking for these because I was curious. I wouldn’t have even thought to look here if you hadn’t asked. I don’t think anyone remembers about that old law.”
When Betty Jean Fenway, the current Republican Woman of the Year and former loan officer of the Bullion County Savings and Loan, mentioned that at one time all loans in the county had been required to have a well test before escrow could close, Jill had kissed her God of Serendipity. Or rather, the small onyx carving of a smiling male figure her mother had sent from Bali.
“Dorry,” Jill said soberly, trying to impart the gravity of this development, “think how important this could be. We didn’t read all the reports just now, but you could see a pattern developing, couldn’t you?”
Dorry half shrugged one shoulder; the strap of her navy jumper slid over the polyester print blouse as far as her thickened biceps.
“Think about it, Dorry,” Jill pleaded. “Some of the wells on those parcels near the mine were showing contaminants thirty years back. I’m no chemist and I didn’t understand exactly what kind of stuff is in them or how bad it is, but I saw the word arsenic. You did, too. Didn’t you?”
Dorry’s sigh sent a halo of dust motes mushrooming upward into the light.
“We can’t just let that slide and hope it all went away in the course of the last few years, can we?”
Dorry wavered visibly. Jill held her breath.
The dim light of the overhead fluorescent bulbs made Dorry appear sad and uncertain…and a lot older than thirty-three or thirty-four. Jill didn’t know Dorry’s exact age, but she remembered seeing her around school. Jill had moved to Bullion in her sophomore year of high school, and she recalled that kids had called Dorry “dumb Dorry.” No one—not even the teachers, it seemed—thought Dorry would amount to much. But she’d gone to work for the County Recorder the day after graduation and hadn’t missed a day in seventeen years. Jill knew that for a fact; she’d even written a feature story on Dorry Fishbank.
“I need to think about this, Jill.”
“What’s to think about?” Jill felt her patience slipping. “If there’s pollution, the public deserves to know. If Land Barons knew about it and tried to cover it up or worse, paid someone in Planning to hush it up, they deserve to face the music. What else is there?”
“My job for one thing,” Dorry said in a tight voice.
Having grown up with a bossy mother as a role model, Jill had vowed to work on her people skills when she was an adult. She tried for a plucky smile.
“Dorry, please,” Jill wheedled. “Just gimme one. The oldest. Or the newest. I don’t care. Just the hint of ground-water pollution might be enough to invoke public scrutiny and get someone to put the brakes on this project. I’ll never mention your name. I swear to the God of Truth and Light. I’ll even give you the God of Truth and Light in exchange for one of those r
eports.”
“No,” Dorry said firmly. She wrapped her pudgy arms around the manila files like a mother protecting her first-born. “If—” she emphasized the word with a stern, old-maid schoolteacher finality “—I decide to give you anything, it will be a copy, and I will pick which one and when. I have to think about this. I can’t put my job on the line, Jill. I’ve got a family to support.” Her eyes narrowed and her lips formed a hard line. “My brothers wouldn’t much appreciate you getting me in trouble and them having to go to work for a living.”
The threat was subtle but understood. Jill had been away from Bullion for nearly nine years—four years of college then a stint as a corporate vagabond following Peter around the country but one never forgot people like the Fishbank brothers. Surly. Ugly. And Mean. Jill couldn’t remember their real names but those nicknames pretty well summed up their dispositions.
“Here,” Jill said, fishing in the hip pocket of her jeans for a business card. “Call me anytime. I know you’re worried, but this is vital, Dorry. You can’t let them get away with this. Bullion’s future may rest on your shoulders.”
A little thick, Jill thought, but then she’d never shied away from hyperbole—even in her obits.
A sudden buzzing sound made Dorry flinch as though she’d taken a bullet; the color drained from her rounded cheeks, making the artificial swatches of rose below each eye stand out like war paint. Jill clawed at the vibration tickling her waist. “My beeper,” she choked out, trying to maintain her cool. Today was her first day with her new toy, and she hadn’t experienced its “call” before.
She held the small violet device to the light and squinted at the numerical message. “Is there a phone around here?”
Dorry pointed to an old black model attached to a block wall near the stairs. “I have to put these back,” she said, slinking away like a sinner who’d been given a reprieve at hell’s less-than-pearly gates.