Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
“Y ou look like you found coal in your stocking.”
Caitlin jumped in surprise at the sound of Holt’s voice as he entered the office the next morning, coffee cup in hand. She inhaled the enticing aroma. “Is that for me? I beat Mrs. Smith to the kitchen this morning. The tea I brewed is hours cold.” She’d forgotten it. She’d been hard at work, putting more finishing touches on the catalog that would result in the sale of many of the treasures in the estate.
“Take this one. I can get another.” Holt set the cup on her worktable, his generosity an indication of the change in him since she’d first met him. Perhaps yesterday’s revelations, and the concrete step of doing the DNA tests, had a lot to do with it, but he’d been warming up to her and to this place since their discoveries in the attic.
He moved around the cluttered surface to look over her shoulder.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about the catalog anymore. True, she’d come here to do a job, and though she’d disagreed with Holt about the need for it, she’d done it well. But something in her couldn’t take pride in it. She hated to see the collection scattered to the four winds, the estate sold, and all of Holt’s family history, good and bad, out of his hands. “Thanks for the coffee.” After a sip that warmed her and chased away some of her dismay in pure, caffeinated pleasure, she added, “I don’t have a stocking,” in response to the first thing he’d said when he came in the door. “None of us do.”
He shifted and rested one hip on the desk. Then he quirked an eyebrow at her. “We need to fix that.”
“What? Celebrate Christmas? In this house? Who are you and what have you done with Holt Ridley?”
“It’s time, don’t you think? Christmas is two days away, and this old place needs some cheering up.” He glanced upward, as if staring through the ceiling. “We found several boxes of decorations in the attic. Let’s use them.”
Caitlin pushed up from her chair. Holt stood, too, and she threw herself into his arms. “That’s a brilliant idea. Let’s do.”
“In a moment,” Holt said and dipped his head.
His lips met hers, tasting of coffee and him. Caitlin tightened her hold on his shoulders, her knees too weak to support her weight as his lips moved over hers, teasing, coaxing, surprising her. The man could kiss! Better than she’d imagined that day on the beach. If this Holt was what she’d been missing, she regretted not acting on her impulse then. His arms wrapped her body like steel bands and held her against his solid strength. She could stay here forever, feeling the tip of his tongue grazing her mouth, his lips on her throat, his teeth nipping her earlobe before his mouth took hers, again.
She tunneled her fingers in his hair and kissed him back, heat sizzling through her veins and melting her core. When his tongue breached the barrier of her lips, she moaned and pulled him closer, sliding her hands down his back to his firm arse.
Holt growled and did the same, pressing her close and making his arousal unmistakable. By the time he broke the kiss, they were both panting and flushed, eyes dark with desire.
Caitlin rested her head on his shoulder for a moment, then pulled away, reminding herself she was leaving for Scotland in a few days and might never see this man again. A few hot kisses were one thing, but getting more involved than that? Regret made her tone bleak. “We shouldn’t.”
Holt brushed her hair back and nodded. “Not yet.” He gusted out a breath. “But soon. In the meantime, we have decorating to do.” He flashed her one of his rare grins.
Soon? She could have floated as she led Holt up the attic stairs, never touching a tread. Soon carried a lot of meanings, a lot of expectations, and possibly a lot of happiness. Though she knew better than to act on it, she could enjoy the daydream.
In the meantime, his eagerness to find the boxes of garlands, colored balls, wreaths, stockings, and all the other things his great-aunt had used to decorate the estate surprised and pleased her. She stopped halfway up the steps and twisted around. “Ach, nay. We don’t have a tree.”
“We can get one,” Holt assured her. “Or dispense with that this year and just use whatever strikes your fancy.”
This year , the man said. Did that mean next year— with her— was also on his mind? “So, you,” she teased, “draped across the mantle?”
“I can think of somewhere more comfortable than a mantle I’d rather be— but anywhere will do as long as you’re there with me.”
Caitlin laughed, hoping he meant what he said but afraid to take him too seriously. She wagged a finger at him, then bounded up the rest of the stairs. “First, we have to find those stockings!”
An hour later, boxes littered the front hallway, and both she and Holt were covered in dust. They’d found the stockings and hung them on the front room fireplace mantel. Scattered ribbons and bows and decorative balls were on the floor where Caitlin had dropped them while digging through the boxes. “Where is the garland these go on? And wreaths for the front door?”
“What are you two doing?” Mrs. Smith’s stunned voice echoed as she marched into the foyer from the long hallway leading from the kitchen, fists on hips.
Caitlin and Holt exchanged sheepish glances. “We wanted to find stockings to hang on the hearth,” she explained. “But there are no wreaths or swag in these boxes to decorate anything else.”
“That’s because every year, Farrell and I get them from the local farmers— fresh evergreens, mind you— and use all of those…things you’ve scattered about to make them festive. Given the circumstances and Mr. Ridley’s disinterest, we didn’t acquire any this year.”
“Mr. Ridley’s disinterest has taken a hike,” Holt replied with a grin. He brushed back his hair and left a smear of gray dust on his forehead.
“Are fresh evergreens still available?” Caitlin asked.
“Here and there,” Mrs. Smith answered, crossing her arms. “Though we might need to take a ride up to the north fork. There are more farm stands up there.”
“We’ll go,” Caitlin volunteered.
“No, dear. You won’t know where to go. Farrell and I are old hands at this. We’ll go and be back before you could even find the north fork.”
Holt grinned at Caitlin. “I think we’ve been insulted. Or was that a challenge?”
Mrs. Smith shook her head. “If you want to do something to create some holiday cheer,” she said and gestured at the mess they’d made of the front foyer, “it’ll be easier to find what we want to decorate with if you’ll pick up all that and box like things with like.” She turned to go, then turned back. “Oh, and there are sandwiches on the kitchen table when you get hungry.” She left them to do as she asked.
Holt watched her go, an odd half-smile on his face.
Caitlin couldn’t resist the urge to find out what caused it. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“I thought I was the boss here.”
“Nay, laddie, nay. Not when Mrs. Smith is around.”
Holt laughed, and they bent to clear away the mess they’d made, Caitlin’s mind on Mrs. Smith. What if she was his grandmother? She didn’t think he would mind. Would Mrs. Smith? If the DNA results with Doc Coates were disappointing, she’d ask her.
* * *
A fter cleaning up the mess they’d made and eating the lunch Mrs. Smith had left them, Caitlin went back to work on her catalog. Holt left for an appointment in town, one he was looking forward to for a change. He had in mind a contingency— one he hadn’t discussed with Caitlin. It was something that, if it came to pass, he thought she’d approve. But he needed to discuss it with Mr. Thornton. That, and the holiday bonuses for Mrs. Smith and Farrell. He planned to make their Christmas very, very merry.
After the lawyer confirmed that what Holt wanted to do would take some paperwork, but it could be done, Holt decided he’d put off long enough the most difficult visit of all. If he hurried, he could accomplish it and return to the estate before dark.
Still, he couldn’t make himself go directly there. Instead of taking the main route toward the village, he took side roads, cruising through neighborhoods and eventually, through Sag Harbor on the road to the bridge to Shelter Island and beyond it, the north fork. Farrell and Mrs. Smith had gone up there after holiday greenery. The wine the estate served for dinner, which had been unfailingly good, also came from there. But going in search of the winery would take hours. A distraction, nothing more. Instead of continuing, he turned off onto the Long Beach Road and followed it until he saw sand and water.
He pulled off in a parking lot and lowered the car’s windows to breathe in the scent of water, trees, and sunshine. For a few minutes, he watched children in rolled-up pants chase each other as ducks glided out of their reach in the cold shallows, and parents sitting on beach towels keeping their gazes on every move their offspring made. It struck him that those kids were enjoying life more fully and easily than he had at that age. In this place. But how much of what he thought he remembered was real, and how much was colored by his family history?
He started the car and followed the road until he could turn east, then south. Before he knew it, he recognized the turnoff to the cemetery. He pulled up to the entrance and stopped, still reluctant. But it was time. Past time. He pulled forward. Inside the gates, much had changed over the years, but he found his mother’s marker easily, nonetheless. He’d insisted she be laid to rest on a knoll under a tree, giving her the view of forest, sky, and, if he squinted, a sliver of ocean. The kind of view she’d missed after her aunt threw her out like common trash. He’d made enough money to give her the view in a high-end condo during her last year of life— though the thing she’d wanted most, him nearby, had been impossible by then. His company took all his time and energy. If he’d known he’d lose her so soon, would he have done anything differently? Come east more often? Flown her out to see him? He hoped so.
“Hello, Mama. I’m here.” He knelt and laid a hand on the headstone. Jennifer Cooper Ridley , it read. Beloved Mother as she’d requested. Her final shot at her aunt— as if that woman would have ever visited this grave and seen the inscription. But perhaps someone told the old witch about the epitaph. That would have been enough.
“You won’t believe why I’m here.” He paused and looked around him, feeling foolish, yet needing to say what he now realized he’d come here to say. To ask. “I’m sure you haven’t seen your Aunt Amelia where you are, so she hasn’t had a chance to torment you.” He paused to clear his suddenly tight throat. “But you need to know, she left me everything she denied you. You know I don’t want it. I’m going to get rid of all of it as fast as I can, one way or another. But I need to know, does everything include the curse you told me about? I never really believed in it, but whether it’s real or not is starting to matter to me. A lot.”
She didn’t answer. Of course not. Holt was crazy to be talking to her headstone, much less to be talking to her headstone about a nearly three-hundred-year-old curse. Even crazier to expect an answer.
But if something as crazy as a family curse could be real, perhaps so could this sudden sense of disquiet piercing his grief. Was that her answer?
After another moment of silence, he stood and turned to squint at the horizon, looking for that sliver of sea. He missed it, lost in a low bank of sea fog that had yet to make it onto shore. He missed her . She’d done the best she could, raising a gifted son alone. He hadn’t been able to repay a fraction of what he owed her. He never would. Guilt filled him. There was so much more he could have done, if only he’d known how limited their time together would be. So much more he should have done. But he could get on with his life and make it better than hers had been. She would want that. Not the money necessarily, but the family, friends, and loved ones. Children chasing ducks in the cold water at the shore.
If Caitlin was right, he could have all of that. When he’d threatened to send her home, she’d said she had only wanted to help, to bring him some happiness. She’d thought she’d ruined everything. She was wrong. She’d helped. She’d made him feel…something. Happiness? He wasn’t sure, but he was sure she’d given him hope. “There’s a woman, Mama. Her name is Caitlin Paterson, and I know you’d love her. I want to take care of her. I’m going to do everything in my power to have a long, happy life with her. I hope you’ll give us your blessing.”
* * *
“T hank you, dear, for sorting the holiday ornaments,” Mrs. Smith said, surveying the neat array of boxes lining the entry foyer’s walls.
Caitlin stepped away from the office door and followed the older woman down the hall. She was surprised at how long it had taken Mrs. Smith and Farrell to return from their errand to the north fork. She’d heard their voices in the kitchen and left her worktable to go see what they’d brought. But Mrs. Smith’s hands were empty, and Caitlin didn’t smell any fresh pine or greenery. “Were the stands you went to visit closed?”
“Oh, no. Farrell is bringing in what we found, with Mr. Ridley’s help.”
“Holt is back? He’s been gone nearly as long as you were.”
“Well, everyone is here now, so we can begin to decorate, but perhaps,” she said, glancing at her watch, “after I make us a light supper. We’ll enjoy it more on a full stomach, don’t you think?”
“That’s a great idea,” Holt said, coming down the hall from the kitchen, a large wreath in each hand. “I’m hungry. Judging by what I see Farrell unloading outside, I suspect you and he are, too. Caitlin?”
“I can sign up for that. In the meantime, Holt and I will finish bringing in everything else.”
“Farrell can get it,” Mrs. Smith objected.
“Not if he wants supper any time soon,” Holt said. “It’s more than a one-person job. We’ll help.”
Mrs. Smith gave him a grateful smile and took a step toward the kitchen. “Supper will be ready in thirty minutes.”
Holt turned his attention to Caitlin, making her face warm at the way his gaze raked her body.
“You’d better put on something else,” he told her, shattering the illusion of his interest, “unless you want those clothes covered in sap and pine needles.”
She nodded. “I’ll go change and meet you outside.”
By the time Caitlin joined the men at the back door, they’d stacked more pine wreathes and roping nearby and were discussing the best way to bring the large fir tree tied atop the estate’s oversized truck into the house.
“I’ve got stands in the workroom at the end of the garages,” Farrell was saying, “but we need to trim the base and get it in water right after.”
“You know where they are. Why don’t you get the tools you need,” Holt told him. “Caitlin and I will pull the tree trunk far enough out of the tailgate for you to do the trimming.”
Farrell nodded and headed across the car park between the house and the set of garages.
Holt turned to her and grinned. “Ready for some tug-o-war?”
“Tugging on that?” She walked around the truck’s bed, sizing up the future Yule tree. With its limbs bound up for transport, it looked massive as well as tall, tied up over the truck’s cab. “How did you get it up there in the first place?”
“With help,” Holt admitted. “Mrs. Smith wanted a tree tall enough for the entryway, and a shorter one for the front room.”
“There are two trees in there?”
Holt grimaced and nodded. “The smaller one is underneath.” He studied their handiwork for a moment, then swore. “We can’t move anything until those lines are cut. It was tied down tight for the drive back.”
“Let’s take the truck around to the front entrance,” Farrell said, approaching them, a toolbox in one strong hand, a smaller tree stand under one arm and the larger one in his other hand.
“While you lads work on that, I’ll start moving the greenery indoors,” Caitlin offered.
Farrell shook his head. “It’ll be better off out here. The cold will keep it fresher, and it’ll be damp tonight as well. In the house, it would dry out before Mrs. Smith could decide how to use it.”
As soon as the taller tree’s trunk was trimmed and they’d placed it in its stand in the foyer, Mrs. Smith called them for dinner. “Ah, that looks grand,” she exclaimed, a twinkle in her eye. “Now, eat first, then you can bring in the smaller one.”
After the meal and the smaller tree was set up, she set Caitlin and Holt to work decorating the trees while she worked on the wreaths Holt brought in earlier— and she directed them.
Caitlin had to admit she was having fun. Holt looked relaxed and happy, too. Especially when she had to climb the ladder to reach the upper part of the tree. He helped her up and steadied it, then helped her back down again, touching her more than he ever had at one time. She quite liked it. From the way his gaze darkened, he did, too. Out of sight of Mrs. Smith, behind the tree, he even snuck a few quick kisses.
Caitlin decided she rather much liked an American Christmas.
By the time the trees were done, Caitlin was elated— and exhausted. Holt looked drawn, and both Mrs. Smith and Farrell had left them alone thirty minutes earlier to go to their own beds. Caitlin settled on the foyer steps and patted the space beside her for Holt.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” The tree glowed with multicolored lights and glints of shiny glass ornaments among the boughs. Beyond it, in the front room, the smaller tree took pride of place in front of the window. Both trees would be visible to anyone approaching the house. A signal that things were improving in the estate, or so Caitlin hoped.
Holt nodded, his gaze on the trees, then he turned to her and took her hand. “Thank you for this.”
“Me? You were the one who agreed we should get the boxes of decorations down from the attic.”
“I did, didn’t I?” He looked satisfied with himself.
Caitlin stifled a laugh.
“And do you know what the best part of that decision is?” At her quizzical look, he raised their joined hands. “Spending time with you, doing something fun. Not working, not digging through history. Just…being. A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thought I was capable of that. Of enjoying that. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She met his serious gaze with one of her own. “It was always in you. You just needed time away from everything in your past, your work, that lawsuit. Even though your past here wasn’t happy?—”
“It wasn’t always unhappy. And you have added a fresh layer of good memories.”
“Then my work here is done,” Caitlin joked and immediately regretted it. Done meant free to return to Scotland. To leave Holt. The thought hollowed her insides.
Holt used his free hand to cup her cheek. “I’m a work in progress, don’t you think? I need you. I don’t want you to go.” He leaned in slowly, his gaze never leaving her eyes, until his breath warmed her face, and his lips caressed hers.
Caitlin let her eyes drift closed and simply enjoyed Holt’s kiss. Hiding quick pecks from Mrs. Smith had been fun, but this was something else entirely. She could feel the intensity of Holt’s focus on her in the way his lips moved over hers, then trailed across her cheek. He needed her. What a change from the arrogant, distant man she’d first met to the one now gently nibbling her earlobe. Caitlin let her head fall back on a sigh, giving him access to her skin, and to her racing pulse. He pulled her against his chest as he kissed his way down her throat. She needed him, too. More than he kenned.
* * *
C aitlin welcomed Christmas Eve’s calm and cold. Last week’s storms had mirrored the conflict between her and Holt. But they’d made peace in time for and in the spirit of the holiday.
Holt drove them into the village in silence. Caitlin knew he had to be nervous, but so was she. They’d heard from the lab Holt had chosen and planned to meet Doc Coates at the village square Christmas celebration to open and share the report Holt received. The vet had mentioned that he would be there, along with most of the rest of the village.
On the outskirts, Holt broke his silence and told her, “I had a thought.”
“I hope you didn’t strain anything.”
He cut her a side-eyed glance. “Again, not funny. Are there any funny people in Scotland? I’d like to meet one.”
“Sorry, you’re out of luck. You’re stuck with me. So, what thought?”
“About what to do if this report doesn’t confirm a match.”
Caitlin’s chest tightened with sympathy for what he must be going through. “I might have had the same thought,” she told him. “You first.”
Holt slowed, then stopped to let some people cross the street. “Mrs. Smith’s son is also dead. He lived in the same house. He and my mother were friends. Sometimes proximity and teenage hormones…”
“We’re in sync. But let’s see what the report you received says. If we’re wrong, we can approach Mrs. Smith about testing her.”
Holt accelerated smoothly once the street cleared. “She might like having me as a grandson.”
“Of course she would. You’re adorable. And that would give her an excuse to shop for toys.”
“ So not funny.” But he grinned at her.
Relieved that her attempt at humor had eased his worries, she settled back to enjoy the town lights and the glimpses of Christmas trees in cottage front windows.
They parked a few blocks away from the square and walked back, drawn by even more lights, colorful and white, the holiday music, and the sound of laughter. Scents both savory and sweet filled their nostrils as soon as they reached it.
“It’s lovely,” Caitlin remarked as they circled the huge central fir tree, fully decked out in lights, garlands, and ornaments— many handmade by local school children. “Though not as special as the trees we decorated at the house,” she told him, the memory of that evening still fresh and happy in her mind. The smile Holt gave her told her he felt the same way.
Singing drew them to one side of the square, where carolers in Elizabethan garb entertained the crowd. They listened for a while, then wandered on, admiring the holiday displays set up by local businesses in their front windows. Holt bought them hot chocolate to keep them warm. It didn’t compare to Mrs. Smith’s, but it took the edge off the chill in Caitlin’s fingers.
Finally, they found an empty bench in a quiet corner of the square and sat down. They hadn’t seen Doc Coates yet, but Caitlin was confident he would show up soon.
“Caitlin,” Holt said, startling her out of her thoughts. “I owe you an apology.”
“For what?” She was genuinely puzzled. He hadn’t done anything worthy of begging her forgiveness— at least not today.
“For— everything. For not believing you. Not trusting you. I should have seen that everything you’ve said and done since I met you was meant to help me.”
“It took you long enough,” Caitlin muttered, injecting as much irony in her tone as she could manage and hoping he’d take it as a jest. She understood his pensive mood and wanted to cheer him. It was Christmas, after all.
Instead, he ignored her response. “You’ve been nothing but truthful with me, and you’ve stood your ground when I…when I gave you a bunch of crap you didn’t deserve. No matter what happens with the paternity test, I want you to know I appreciate everything you’ve done. I think you’re an amazing woman.”
She set aside her drink. It had gone cold. But the sudden chill in her chest was colder. What was Holt leading up to? It almost sounded like he was getting ready to say goodbye. The bulk of her work was done, and the rest she could finish at home. He knew that. Was he circling around to sending her away, as he had planned to before the storms gave them time to remember they liked each other? A lot? “Aye. I know that,” she replied, still going for humor, though it now felt out of place after his heartfelt words.
“Humble, too,” he added on a sudden grin.
Caitlin smirked back, relieved. She hadn’t misjudged what he needed from her, and his grin reassured her that she hadn’t jumped to the wrong conclusion. “What are you trying to tell me, Holt?”
He put his cup on the ground and faced her. “That we’re running out of time, and I’m in love with you.” He paused and studied her.
Caitlin held her breath, torn between the joy filling her and the impossibility of that love leading to a future with this man.
“I want you to know that,” Holt continued before she could gather her wits to form a reply. “I never expected…I guess you never know when it’s going to happen. When you find love. I know I have.” He brushed a bit of windblown hair off of her cheek. “I hope you feel the same way.”
Caitlin’s heart stopped, then beat a frantic pace in her chest, sending her blood pulsing to her extremities. Heat and cold washed through her, one after the other, over and over. She did feel the same, but she’d never expected to hear those words from the very guarded Holt Ridley. And not at a time like this, when he was about to discover if his life would include a father he’d never known.
“Caitlin? Say something.” He reached for her, but when she didn’t answer immediately, he drew back.
“I do,” she choked out around the lump in her throat. “Feel the same way, I mean.” Caitlin coughed and waved a hand in front of her face when Holt reached for her. “I’m in love with ye, too. I just didn’t expect?—”
“That I could let you inside my walls? I’m surprised about that, too.”
“And that ye could ever say the words.” She took a steadying breath, swallowed, and touched his arm. “You’re right. You don’t get to choose when you find love. But you do get to choose what to do about it. So, what shall we do? I live in Scotland, and you in California. Or here. I?—”
“Not here,” he replied just as a fireworks display lit the night sky in the direction of the harbor. “But we can work something out. As long as we choose each other. Six months in each?”
Caitlin’s gaze was drawn to the bright display. It was impossible to ignore the booms as each burst showered colored lights down onto the village. “That would be horribly expen?—”
“I can handle it.”
“Ach, aye. I guess I don’t know how to imagine living with that kind of wealth.”
“But you’ll enjoy learning.”
Caitlin twisted on the bench to face him. “I don’t care about that. I care about you.”
“I know, and I’m grateful. I want?—”
A hoarse shout rose above the background noise of Christmas music and the happy rumble of many voices in the square reacting to the display above them. Then a scream sounded and shocked silence followed for a moment before voices resumed, tense and urgent.
“What’s happening?” Caitlin asked, jumping to her feet and trying to see where the commotion was coming from. The colorful lights on the central tree took on a surreal haze as smoke from the fireworks drifted past.
Holt stood beside her as more shouts filled the night, then he grabbed her hand and tugged her in that direction. They passed frantic mothers rushing children out of the square. Others, mostly men and teenagers paralleled their path toward the disturbance. Something had happened to destroy the joyful celebration, and the lights and faltering music suddenly seemed out of place. Caitlin dreaded what they might see. “Did the fireworks set something ablaze?” Had someone been hurt? Or killed?
In moments, they spotted a tattered-looking man waving a butcher knife and sobbing in front of the huge, central Christmas tree. Medals and military insignia covered the faded fabric of his ragged jacket.
“What the hell?” Holt had barely uttered the words when a town constable appeared, waving people back from the vicinity of the tree. He must have ordered the fireworks paused because they sputtered to a stop and the square got quiet except for the sound of voices raised in fear. Mutterings reached her, something about a homeless vet, but that was all she understood. How sad.
The constable approached the man, speaking to him in a voice too low to understand from where she and Holt stood. But when the man waved his knife in an arc in front of him, then brought it up to his own throat, the constable stopped several meters away.
“No!” Caitlin breathed. “He can’t do that. My God, there are children everywhere.”
What had driven this man to such a desperate act? And why here? And now? If he had fought for his country, surely he would want to protect the children who flocked to an event such as this. Had the fireworks triggered something within him that he couldn’t control?
She spotted Doc Coates approach on the constable’s other side and give them a nod of recognition. She clutched Holt’s arm, but in this situation, all thoughts of their purpose in coming to meet him to reveal the results of the paternity tests fled.
Doc Coates spoke urgently to the constable for several moments, low enough that she couldn’t hear what he was saying. But he must have convinced the constable of something. The man nodded and Doc Coates turned and made a quick gesture behind him.
A medium-sized mixed-breed dog approached the distraught man, long floppy ears bouncing as it trotted forward. The dog stopped a pace away in front of him and sat, looked up with sad eyes and whined.
Caitlin held her breath. What would the man do? Was the dog in danger? Would Doc Coates have sent it forward if he thought it could be harmed? She felt Holt shift his stance beside her, tension apparent in the stiffness of the arm brushing hers, but she couldn’t look away from the tableau in front of the tree to check on Holt.
Surprised or distracted by the dog’s approach and friendly demeanor, the distraught man lowered the knife from his throat. He made no other threatening move. He simply held the blade against his chest, his gaze on the dog.
Caitlin feared the constable would rush the man while the dog distracted him, but he didn’t. The dog stood and stepped forward, never taking its gaze from the man. When the man didn’t move, the dog licked the empty hand by his side and pushed against his leg, nuzzling him, then licked his hand again. Time seemed to freeze as the dog gazed up into the man’s tortured face.
The man tossed the knife aside and fell to his knees. He wrapped his arms around the dog, smothering sobs in its soft fur.
Caitlin let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
The dog squirmed in delight, yipped, and licked tears from the man’s face as fast as it could. It tried so hard to snuggle with the man that it pushed him onto his side, then relaxed and rested, wrapped in his arms.
The constable approached then, but he only picked up the knife. He gave the man a few minutes with the dog, then spoke softly to him. The man sat up, took the dog’s head in his hands and rested his forehead on the dog’s, then let the constable help him to his feet and take charge of him.
Doc Coates called the dog back to his side where Holt and Caitlin joined him.
“You did that,” Caitlin said, marveling. “How did you know the dog would calm him down?”
Doc Coates’ gaze was on the constable and his charge. “It’s what I do. In addition to the rescue work you know about, I’m training some of the dogs for just this sort of crisis. To help vets, homeless or not, who are suffering with PTSD.”
“How did you know?” Holt repeated Caitlin’s earlier question.
Doc Coates clearly understood his intent. “The fireworks.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Holt said. “You saved that man’s life. He looked ready to cut his own throat.”
Doc Coates reached down and rubbed the dog’s head. “Not me. The constable gave him the space he needed for Chauncey to save him. We just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”