Sasha’s Dad

Dutch looked into eyes as brown as Natalie’s had been. When did this little button of a girl turn into a young woman?

“No. You’re right about that.” Claire had been a part of Natalie’s life forever.

Dutch kissed Sasha’s forehead. “You can go to Claire’s farm with me next time, but promise me you won’t get your hopes up too much.”

“Dad, I’m not going to force you guys to be friends or anything. I get it.” Her posture of maturity almost fooled him.

He knew Sasha didn’t really get it. Sasha didn’t want him to think she was playing matchmaker, but he saw the warning signs. She had no idea that once upon a time, he and Claire hadn’t needed a matchmaker….

Claire and Dutch’s story is one I’ve wanted to write for a while. So many people talk about their high school sweethearts, whom they still remember, still think of. I wanted to explore this concept, but from a different angle—Claire and Dutch each allowed the other to get away all those years ago. But not before they inflicted emotional damage on themselves and those around them.

Atoning for past mistakes and hurts is one of the hardest things we ever have to do. First we need to admit that we messed up, then we have to mend fences with the people we’ve hurt. Claire thinks she only has to make amends to her deceased best friend, Natalie, via her relationship with Natalie’s daughter, Sasha. But Claire learns that the first person she needs to make amends to is herself.

I enjoyed digging through Claire and Dutch’s emotional history and bringing the love they share today to life. I hope you find their story as mesmerizing to read as I did to write.

I use whatever places our Navy lifestyle takes us as my settings. In this book I enjoyed writing about the fictional town of Dovetail, Maryland. Our time in nearby Annapolis was great and we left with new friends, not something that happens every tour.

Keep reading and remember to cherish your friends—today.

Peace,

Geri Krotow

She stood outside the modest barn she’d refurbished. Cell phone reception was better out here, away from under the thick oak beams. Although it was pitch-dark and cold for the middle of March, the full moon lit up the surrounding fields and rolling hills.

Claire stared numbly at the view and not for the first time wondered why she’d done it—not only moving back to Dovetail, but starting a llama farm. She’d been a political reporter, assigned to the White House press corps, for heaven’s sake. Her TV network had given her free rein and allowed her to follow the president wherever and whenever she wanted. And she’d been able to branch off if a story called for it, visiting some of the most far-flung places on earth. Today she had her pick of consulting jobs where she could name her own salary, which helped her fund the farm until it got on its financial feet—

“Dr. Flynn’s answering service. May I help you?”

“Oh, I was expecting Charlie.” She caught her breath and forced herself to
think.

“This is Claire Renquist at Llama Fiber Haven. Can you please tell him I need him immediately? I have a dam in distress with a breech birth.” A long mewl came from inside the barn. “Tell him to hurry.”

She snapped her phone shut and shoved it into her down vest pocket. Her nerves warred with her training, which allowed her to remain calm in most crises. Charlie was going to be annoyed with her. He’d been adamant that she call him as soon as she suspected Stormy was in labor. But she’d wanted to claim this first birth as her own. The llamas had become part of her life from the moment they’d arrived here in Dovetail. She’d nurtured them, rejoiced when Stormy became pregnant by artificial insemination and at times felt like one with her animals.

She’d been so sure she had everything under control.

Until labor began two weeks earlier than expected. She should have called Charlie as soon as she thought anything was amiss.

But she hadn’t.

Stupid. Selfish.

She ignored the critical voice. This wasn’t about
her.

Claire rounded the corner of the stall and looked at her prized female llama. Stormy’s pecan-colored coat shook as her ribs heaved from the effort of breathing through her labor pains. Pains that should’ve been over after Claire helped birth the baby llama who stood blinking up at her, his brown eyes globes of innocence and trust. He mewled at her, shivering. He’d walked away from the heater she’d left him next to.

“Come on, baby.” She led the cria closer to the warmth and rushed back to Stormy’s side. Llamas weren’t usually vocal, and if Stormy had been the one mewling… Claire distracted herself by keeping her focus on calming Stormy.

“You did a wonderful job, momma,” she crooned to the three-year-old llama.

But Stormy wasn’t done. Claire swallowed down her fear. There was another calf in Stormy’s womb; she’d felt the hooves after the first cria was born. Plus the dam’s apparent discomfort alarmed her. It wasn’t typical for llama’s to convey distress during birth.

Twins.
Claire groaned.

Twins weren’t a cause for joy, not in the llama world. They often meant death for the dam.

“Hang in there, Stormy.” Claire rested her hand on Stormy’s side, hoping to calm her. It was an impossible task as her own anxiety threatened to shatter her brittle composure.

Waking up from a deep sleep to go out and make a house call wasn’t unusual for a large-animal veterinarian. Especially in rural Maryland.

What
was
unusual was his reaction to this message from his service.

Emotions he never wanted to feel again. The one person on earth he never wanted to deal with again, not at such close proximity.

Claire Renquist.

“Damn it.” He yanked open his bathroom door and strode back into his bedroom. This was just another call.

Like hell it is.

Underneath the layers of indifference, resentment, anger and a sheer distaste some might even describe as hate, Dutch recognized the tickle of anticipation. And he despised the part of himself that enjoyed it.

It wasn’t anxiety over the difficult job to come—saving a cria twin and the dam. It was knowing that in a few short miles he’d come face-to-face with the woman he’d avoided so carefully for the past two years.

He grunted.
Two years, hell; try more than a decade.

Sure, they’d had unavoidable run-ins around town since Claire moved back to Dovetail, but they’d never spoken a word. The few times their eyes had met they’d looked away, each refusing to acknowledge the other. Like strangers, and that was how Dutch wanted it to stay.

If he’d been more mature when he’d chosen Claire’s closest friend, Natalie, over Claire all those years ago, he would never have encouraged Natalie to remain friends with Claire. He and Claire had drifted apart during their senior year in high school. After the horrific accident that had killed Dutch’s best friend, Tom, Dutch had gone to comfort Tom’s twin sister, Natalie, and, in a moment that changed the rest of all their lives, made love to her.

His relationship with Claire was irrevocably severed.

Never mind their childhood bond. Never mind that Claire had christened him with the name “Dutch” when, at age three, her pronunciation of Daniel Archer had become “Darch” and then “Dutch.” Dutch’s mother had loved it and so the name stuck.

He pulled on his work jeans and made a mental note to leave a note by his sister, Ginny’s, coffee mug. If not for Ginny he couldn’t keep making these late-night calls. Hopefully he’d be back before Sasha left for school.

He sighed and yanked a sweatshirt over his head.

This was the hardest part of his job—leaving Sasha in the middle of the night. But he needed a paycheck to clothe, feed and house himself and his eleven-year-old daughter. Natalie’s parents had been in their forties when she was born and elderly by the time Sasha came along. They’d passed away while Dutch and Natalie were in college, one year apart. Dutch had only himself and his family to lean on.

A squirming warm body squeezed between Dutch and his bureau, then sat.

Rascal thumped his tail and looked at Dutch with complete adoration—and expectation.

A low chuckle forced itself past Dutch’s tight throat.

“No, boy, I don’t need an Australian sheepdog yipping around the barn with me. Wait here and keep an eye on the ladies, okay, pal?”

Rascal’s fringed tail thumped twice before the dog lay down and rested his head on his front paws. His ears were still pricked, in case the tone of Dutch’s voice changed. In case his master decided to take him along, after all. But he’d stopped making eye contact with Dutch. Rascal knew the deal. Birthing was vet’s work, and Rascal wasn’t invited.