Stay for Christmas (Sunrise Bay Prequel)

Chapter One

Cullen

“Only five days until Christmas!” My landlady winks at me. “Have you done all your Christmas shopping?”

I tighten the last screw holding up the shelf that had been sagging, then stand back to admire my handiwork. “Nope.”

“What a shock.” She’s teasing me. “I’ve yet to meet a guy who buys any of his presents before Christmas Eve. Now, have you decided whether you’d like to spend Christmas Day with us?”

Elaine and her husband have told me I’m welcome to spend Christmas with them and their family. It’s a generous offer, but they’re nice people, and the last thing I want to do is curse them with my melancholy presence on the big day.

I slot the screwdriver into my back pocket. “Thanks for the offer, but I still plan on leaving before then. I’ll probably stay in the camper van somewhere on the coast.”

“Cullen,” she scolds. “You can’t spend Christmas Day on your own.”

“I won’t be on my own. A bottle of Glenlivet will be coming with me.”

She lifts a brow. “And what about Christmas dinner?”

I just look at her. It’s likely to consist of a microwaved tin of beans on toast, but I’m afraid if I tell her that she might cry.

“Well, it’s up to you,” she says. I expect her expression to be heavy with disapproval, but her smile is gentle as she comes to stand beside me and studies the shelf. “You’ve done a great job there.”

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thank you. You want a cup of coffee?”

“No, ma’am, I’d better get going, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Ma’am,” she teases. “You’ve been here for six months now. When are you going to start calling me Elaine?”

“Soon, ma’am, I promise.”

She smiles. “Once a police officer, always a police officer?”

“Something like that.” I click my fingers at the German Shepherd who’s currently lying under the dining table. “Come on, Ghost.” Obediently, he rises and trots over to me.

Elaine bends to stroke him. He doesn’t move away from her hand, which is an improvement on when he first came here, but he still looks wary. She straightens and sighs. “Hopefully he’ll give me at least one kiss before you go.”

I soften the dog’s rejection with a smile. “If he ever lets anyone else near him, it’ll be you, I’m sure.”

“That’s sweet. He’s a good boy. Have a great day, Cullen.”

“You too.” I pick up my keys and wallet, go out the front door, and close it behind me.

I pause on the doorstep, fumble in my pocket for my sunglasses, and slide them on.

It’s Saturday the twentieth of December, and a dazzling early summer morning in Sunrise Bay, New Zealand.

The small village and the bay it was named after are part of the Bay of Islands enclave that encompasses 144 islands and several larger towns.

I’ve heard many people refer to it as Paradise, and it’s hard to disagree with that on mornings like this.

After crossing the road, I take the path to the right that follows the beach, Ghost padding at my side on the grassy verge.

The Pacific Ocean gleams a rich blue on my left, a shade darker than the cloudless sky.

The crescent of golden sand is currently empty of holidaymakers.

Later, a few families might find their way here, drawn by the shop that’s famous in the Northland for its magnificent ice cream, but there are more popular beaches nearby, and it’s unusual to find it packed.

I’ve been here six months? I’d lost track.

I hadn’t planned on staying so long. I shove my hands in the pockets of my shorts, looking down at Ghost, who’s trotting quietly at my side.

He’s come on a long way since we first arrived here, but he still doesn’t trust people.

I’d hoped that spending some time at Noah’s Ark animal sanctuary up the road might help him, but his trauma obviously goes so deep that it’s possible he might never recover.

What is it they say about dogs being like their owners?

We come to the end of the beach and begin the walk up to the animal sanctuary. I could go by car, but the twenty-minute walk is good exercise for us both, especially while the weather is good.

Ghost stops to do his business on the grass, and I produce a bag from my pocket and lean on the nearby fence while I wait for him to finish.

In front of me, a large farmhouse sits surrounded by an acre of land.

The For Sale sign outside has been there since I arrived.

Elaine told me the previous owner was an old guy who’d let the place go over the five years before he died, and sure enough the farmhouse and its accompanying buildings look run down, in good need of a paint and some repair.

The paddocks are overgrown. The whole place is in need of a little TLC and some serious money.

But it’s a good size, in a great location within walking distance of both the village and the Ark, and with gorgeous views.

I clean up after Ghost, then continue with him up the hill toward the sanctuary.

For the first six months after I left the police force, I toured New Zealand in an old combi van.

Ghost and I spent our days walking along beaches or trekking through the mountains, and our nights either lying outside looking up at the stars or in the van listening to the rain pattering on the windows, both lost in our own private misery.

It was when I was traveling up to Cape Reinga—the northernmost point of the country—that I first heard about Noah’s Ark.

Close to Waitangi, where the Treaty was signed between Māori and Europeans in 1840, it overlooks the Bay of Islands, and it’s now apparently the biggest animal sanctuary in the North Island.

On the way back from the cape, I decided to call in and check it out.

It was purely by chance that Noah King was sitting out the front, painting a new sign for it.

He greeted me, and we chatted for a while, and he offered to give me a tour of the place, which I accepted.

He’s in his forties, quiet, kind, and friendly.

It was quite a bit later that I realized the sanctuary is named after him because he founded it.

Noah showed me around, and it soon became clear that the place is more than a sanctuary and veterinary clinic, although it’s both of those things too.

Noah explained that in a study done on families under investigation for child physical abuse, animals were also abused in a shocking eighty-eight percent of the homes, and animal abusers are five times more likely to also harm humans.

Because of this, they opened the Petting Zoo with the intention of teaching young children how to care for animals, and they also do a lot of work with domestic violence shelters.

Noah asked what job I did, and I admitted that I used to work for the Pacific Detector Dog Team.

He suggested we go for a walk around the paddock, and when we paused beneath a large oak tree and leaned on the fence to stroke a horse that came up to greet us, in the peace and the quiet, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, Noah asked why I’d left the force.

I explained that our task was to combat transnational and serious and organized crime syndicates that target Pacific countries.

I told him about our transfer to Fiji, and how our team was given the task of clearing a warehouse where smugglers were rumored to be storing firearms. Haltingly, I described how I patted down a guy, looking for firearms, and missed a detonation device he’d hidden in his clothing.

How, when it was triggered, it killed my partner and his dog outright, damaged my shoulder, and also injured Ghost. In a voice hoarse with emotion, I told him how I couldn’t bring myself to go to my partner’s funeral, and, ever since, I’ve been traveling.

I don’t know why. Escaping what happened?

Looking for something? I still have no idea.

While I struggled to maintain my composure, Noah talked for a while about Animal-Assisted Therapy, and how important he thought dogs especially could be to recovery from trauma.

He explained how he’d suffered from agoraphobia after his first wife died in childbirth, and how his dogs had been crucial in his recovery.

And then he said he needed someone to help run the rehoming facility at the Ark, training the dogs who are brought in by the Animal Welfare Team, and he asked me if I’d like to join them.

I was doubtful at first. Saying yes meant staying in one place, and for some reason the thought terrified me. But Noah suggested I stay for one week, which became one month, and now it’s six months later, and I think he’s hoping I’ll settle down here.

But a shadow falls over me as I crest the hill. I like the people, and I enjoy the work. I’m bordering on happy, I realize with some surprise. And that worries me.

I’ve grown too comfortable. It’s time to move on. Maybe even before Christmas. Spending the festive season here will only make it harder to go.

The sanctuary appears before me—a cluster of buildings surrounded by paddocks, overlooking the Bay of Islands.

I go through the gate and head along the drive, passing the Petting Zoo, toward the big sign that I saw Noah painting six months ago.

It says Noah’s Ark No-Kill Animal Sanctuary, and the picture of the ark above the words contains paintings of domestic animals like dogs and cats, and farm animals like horses and sheep.

I pass the children’s playground that’s recently been built opposite the sign with a large sunshade to protect the kids, and the jacaranda tree next to it that’s been draped with solar lights, and head across the tiled Quad toward the main reception.

I’ll check my cubby hole for any post, then head over to the Forever Home—the rehoming facility.

We had two abused dogs brought in yesterday.

They’ve been cleaned up and treated, and today I’m going to spend some time with them and see if they know any basic commands.